Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 33: DAEIN ( Chapter 2 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

“The scouts have located the Raven King’s position,” Soren reported at the morning briefing. “He leads a strong force of laguz and beorc alongside a Daein commander in Mondrega Pass. The pass is our only way out of the high mountains, and they know it. They will try to stop us there for good. They’ll be ready. However, with true winter only a couple weeks away, we have no choice. If we wait, the pass will close with snow and ice. I recommend we march on Mondrega immediately,” Soren finished.

Ike, Titania, Nasir, Tanith, and the Begnion lieutenants debated this course of action for some time. Everyone wanted a better solution. But there wasn’t one, and Soren knew it. They were wasting time, allowing snow to accumulate by the hour. By the end of the meeting, it was decided—they would march tomorrow at dawn.

 

The army came into view of the wide pass, onto which sunlight beamed through the dense clouds scattering lazy snow clusters. Visibility was decent, and the breeze was mild. This was as much in the Daeins’ and ravens’ favor as the Liberation Army’s.

Everyone marched with the same grim expression. This would be the hardest fight they’d yet known. If they were defeated, it would be the end of the war and the end of any hope for Crimea. And if the rumors of King Kilvas’s ruthlessness were true, it would be the end of every life currently marching.

To punctuate his somber thoughts, a series of low horn blows began echoing in the distance. “It appears the enemy has spotted us,” Nasir observed.  

“Well, a group this large is hard to miss,” Ike replied grimly.

“How will you proceed?”

“No tricks. Nothing fancy,” Ike declared. “We’ll hit them hard from the front— hard and fast.”

“I’m sure you’re already aware of this, but if you don’t do something about Kilvas, you’re at a disadvantage.” Nasir was oddly tense, perhaps scared. Soren had noticed it yesterday too. No matter his hidden goals, this was clearly a pivotal battle to him as well.

Ike shook his head. “Even so, it’s not as if we can turn tail and run away.”

“Now that I think on it, King Kilvas and Prince Reyson used to be close friends. Did you ask him to speak to the king?” Nasir suggested, sounding slightly desperate.

“He was most empathetic in his refusal. It seems Naesala was responsible for Reyson’s capture at the hands of Duke Tanas. I can’t really blame him.” Ike shrugged.

“And the hawks? They too are of the bird tribes. Surely some connection can be found there.” Nasir was grasping at straws, and Soren found it interesting. He was genuinely afraid they would lose. He had high stakes in this game, and they were apparently on the side of the Liberation Army. It didn’t make sense that he would be leaking information to Daein.

“They...weren’t very excited about the suggestion.”

“You could command them to do it,” Nasir reminded softly.

Ike finally seemed to notice the change in the dragon. He raised an eyebrow. “There’s an antagonism between the tribes that we don’t understand. I’d rather not force the issue. Trying to coerce them into it would be...unfair,” he explained, “I will let them do as they please.”

“That is so very like you,” Nasir said with a forced smile. “However, giving orders that are unpopular is often necessary when one is in command, and-”

“Maybe so,” Ike cut him off. “But I can only do things best I know how. My own way.” He turned away from Nasir and waved to his lieutenants. Their phalanxes were already prepared for battle. “Come, it’s time to go!” he called to them.

Soren caught Nasir’s eye and offered a smirk at his expense. Nasir glared back. Despite the fact that they were charging to what seemed like certain death, he enjoyed the fact that the dragon was off kilter for once.  

 

The battle was hard. It lasted all day, through the night, and into the following morning. The sundown hours were long this time of year, and although the fighting was more subdued in the dark, neither army retreated permanently. That being said, the Liberation Army was repeatedly forced back—twice by the Daein and Kilvan forces, and once by a sudden squall.

Mist, Rhys, and a couple clerics ran from one regiment to the next, mending wounds and frostbite. The rest of the army’s healers had set up a frantic triage camp in a sheltered glade between a sheer cliff and solid, ice-encrusted trees. Casualties were high, but Ike seemed relieved every time Soren reported that none of the mercenaries had died. “As long as our friends are still with us.... As long as we fight together…” he murmured distractedly as he and Soren planned new assaults.

Finally, on the second day, they penetrated farther into the pass than they had yet: about halfway. It was here the ground began to slope down again, and it was here they encountered Naesala the Raven King and the bulk of the Kilvan Armada.

Naesala was a tall man, slender yet imposing, with enormous black wings that shone glossy green and purple in the morning light. He was dressed all in black, and his hair was dark blue. His pale face was sharp, his eyes fierce and calculating. He didn’t have the mass of King Gallia or the intimidating stature of King Phoenicis, but there was something dark and cunning in his expression that chilled his opponents to the bone. “I know,” his expression said, causing his enemies to hesitate, doubt themselves, and make fatal mistakes.

Soren knew all too well that King Kilvas would be a formidable opponent. The man’s gaze was no less penetrating to Soren’s eyes. But he was the most capable wind mage in the Liberation Army and wind magic was most effective against feathered creatures, so he had no choice but to engage him. He swallowed his fear for the sake of Ike and the company and fought his way toward Naesala. Lethe was already there, springing off a rocky outcropping to swipe at him. A couple of brave (or foolish) Begnion archers were firing arrows. Soren turned the pages of his wind tome to his more advanced wind spells. He would attempt Tornado to finish things more quickly, even though he hadn’t successfully conjured it since that day in Gallia.

Now in his shifted form, Naesala easily dodged the archers’ arrows and Lethe’s attack, batting her out of the sky. When she pulled herself on to all four paws again, she left a stain of blood in the snow. “Betrayer of laguz! I’ll tear those black wings off your back!” she yowled.

His response came evenly from his black beak: “You Gallians are with Crimea, we with Daein. We’re both helping one side. I’d like you to tell me how that makes us betrayers.” He swept over her, just grazing her with his rear talons.

Soren was surprised by the proud cat’s response: “Crimea and Daein are not the same!”

“Oh, but they are.” Naesala rounded on her for a second attack. This time Lethe tried to grab onto him, but he had too much momentum and she was too weak. He threw her into the rock face she’d climbed a moment ago. “They’re both home to laguz-hunting, laguz-hating humans. Granted, Daein’s anti-laguz sentiment is more obvious, but—” he cawed in laughter “—surely you realize there’s no great difference between it, Crimea, or Begnion for that matter.”

Lethe struggled to her paws, but one foreleg looked bent, perhaps broken. “B-but…”

“You may think yourself a warrior, but the humans have tamed you. Allow me to open your eyes!” Naesala swept at her again, his talons heading straight for her face. Seeming to summon her last reserves of strength, she leapt to meet him. Her claws scrambled against his talons, but he quickly gained the upper hand, tipping her over and gouging at her underbelly.

“Ah!” she gasped before reverting her form and passing out. She was bleeding freely, and Soren heard Mist hiss nearby. Her pony was prancing nervously as she waited for an opening to charge in with her staff.

Soren knew he had to act now and give her that opening or Lethe would die. “Enjoying the show?” he asked the Begnion archers who’d ceased firing. The spattering of arrows began again. “Try not to hit me,” he warned as he passed them.

The Raven King’s glittering eyes appraised Soren as he circled overhead. He twisted to avoid the soldiers’ arrows as easily as a fish could change direction in water. It would have been mesmerizing if it wasn’t terrifying. “Black wings—among humans these are considered bad omens, are they not? Then take these omens as a fact, and let them herald you to the afterlife,” Naesala called, seeming to accept his new challenger.

Soren didn’t reply. He’d already begun chanting under his breath: “*Spirits of wind, rip apart these skies, lay waste to my enemy!*” To his relief, a large cyclone started swirling overhead. It swept up the snow around it and grew faster and faster. Naesala flew awkwardly, managing to master gales that would have bested any other bird. But the storm’s sharp blades hadn’t hit him yet. Feeling the spell reach its climax, feeling it pull against the limits of his own ability, Soren gestured sharply at the king with his free hand, and sent the storm in from all directions.

Naesala dodged the first few blades, but the spell was too overwhelming. He couldn’t fly above or below it. The winds hit his wings with angry, slashing gales. Black feathers and blood swirled around and around in a torrent. Soren kept the spell going as long as he could, but he felt himself weakening with every second and eventually had to release the gales. When he did, Naesala’s body hit the ground hard.

Soren hesitated, his thumb already holding open a full page of unused Elwind spells. He wondered if he should—or even could—maintain a barrage. His hesitation was long enough. The laguz king stretched out his wings and beat them against the ground. One thrust was enough to launch him straight at Soren.

There was nothing he could do. He’d managed to bloody Naesala, but that was all. In retaliation, the crow’s razor-sharp talons dug deep into Soren’s abdomen—two rear talons straight into his gut, six front talons wedged between his ribs and wrapped around his sides. His feet left the ground, and he was flying backward. The pain in his stomach and chest was excruciating as he felt Naesala’s toes flex in his body. The wounds widened until he yanked them out, dropping Soren into a snowbank. He clamped his arms over the open wounds, curling into a fetal position, trying to keep the blood and pain inside. His breaths were labored hisses.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Raven King circling. He gritted his teeth, not knowing where his tome had fallen and too weak to move anyway. Naesala finally dove in for the kill, and Soren was disappointed to think that this was how he would die. He’d hoped to make it much longer than this, but there was no accounting for the unexpected presence of laguz kings in beorc wars. It felt unfair.

“Begone, crow!” rang Tanith’s clear voice. The austere Holy Guard flew overhead so closely that Soren was buffeted by her wingbeats. Her charge intercepted the Raven King, and he flapped in place, momentarily faltering.

Tanith didn’t hesitate. She held aloft a strange weapon infused with wind magic: a sonic sword. The enchanted blade was potent against winged beasts, and her mastery of the technique was remarkable. If Soren had known she possessed such skill with the arcane blade, he would have left the Raven King to her in the first place.

While her steed kept her just out of range of Naesala’s beak and talons, Tanith attacked from all angles with deadly wind blasts. Finally she got in close, jumped from her pegasus, and planted the sword just above Naesala’s heart. The King instantly reverted to his human form, twisting in place and spiraling downward. He ripped out the sword and threw Tanith from him.

Her pegasus caught her, and the sword landed in the snow. Naesala’s wings billowed out, slowing his decent. He hit the ground tumbling but had slowed himself enough not to die on impact. Extracting himself from ice and shale, he stood. His wings were shuddering and his back bent. With a hand tightly pressed against his wound, he muttered something inaudible. Then he rose into the sky once more and shouted over the battle: “To me, my brethren! We leave at once!” Word spread quickly among the ravens, and they all flew to their king. A moment later, they fled south.

Soren dared hope this meant Kilvas was abandoning Daein for good. The blood draining from his chest and stomach had soaked his arms, his clothes, and the snow, and all sensation had left his extremities. As he’d watched Naesala’s defeat, black spots had multiplied in his vision, and now they spread across it entirely. He was surprised he’d managed to stay awake this long, but he couldn’t any longer.

 

Soren especially hated abdominal wounds because of the mess. He was dimly aware being moved and stripped down, and then of someone’s hand submerged in his viscera to make sure everything was in the right place before healing could begin. He was jerked in and out of consciousness by the pain, but once the familiar green light filled his vision, he felt a little better. Then the vomiting, shitting, and shaking began, and he felt worse. This was not the first time he’d been stabbed in the stomach, but it was definitely the worst.

The healing took a long time, but once his system had been purged, the process was much more comfortable and easier to withstand. As he slipped into unconsciousness again, the pain was gone, and he was aware of nothing but unbearable thirst and cold.

 

When he next woke, he found he’d been moved from the triage tent to the recovery tent. His first thought was that it smelled better and was quieter here. He raised his head looking for water, and his surroundings settled in dizzying waves. Finding no immediate beverage, he raised a heavy arm and ran numb, clumsy fingers across his stomach and sides. Someone had dressed him in a smock, but underneath the skin was smooth and uninjured. His broken ribs were whole once more, and there was no sign of the eight puncture wounds other than stiff, itchy skin and a distinctly empty feeling.

“Soren, you’re awake!” Mist knelt at his bedside. “How are you feeling?” She felt his forehead for his temperature and took his pulse at his wrist.

“…Fine,” he answered, finding his tongue slow to respond. “Did you heal me?”

“Sure did!” She grinned proudly. “We brought you back here right away, and I fixed you up. How is it? Do you feel any pain anywhere?”

“No,” Soren answered. He had to admit the young girl was an exceptional healer. She looped a canteen off her shoulder and handed it to him, and now he was even more grateful. He drank until he had to breathe and then asked: “What of the battle?”

“It’s over. Brother is chasing off the remaining troops as we speak!”

Soren laid his head down in relief. “We won then.”

Mist nodded. “You should rest now. Watch out for a fever or any sign of infection in the next day or so. If you experience any pain, tell me right away.”

“I know the protocol,” Soren replied dismissively.

Mist smiled, unoffended. “Just doing my job!” she chirruped, and with that, she moved to another cot, where she helped a Begnion cleric force Lethe back into bed.

In addition to the cat-woman, Soren could see Zihark, Sothe, Makalov, Devdan, and numerous Begnion soldiers resting in here. This was the recovery tent, where everyone was alive, but he wondered how many people might be lying with cloaks or bloody sheets covering their faces outside. He knew today’s victory could only have been purchased with many lives, and yet he found himself hoping none of the mercenaries had died. He didn’t want Ike to be sad.

 

After sleeping for a couple hours, Soren left the infirmary camp and made his way to the vestiges of basecamp. Half of the wagons and supplies had already been moved to the village on the other side of Mondrega Pass, but fortunately his tent and possessions were still where he’d left them. Even better, it appeared someone had retrieved his wind tome and known to leave it on his cot. Finding it only slightly damp from the snow, Soren tucked it safely away. Then he changed into fresh robes and packed his bags. His winter cloak was ripped and blood-stained, but there was nothing he could do about it right now. So he merely pulled it on and tried to ignore the smell and the way the breeze pushed through the holes.

His next task was to report to Ike. This meant walking a considerable distance, because the commander was already leading efforts to take over the Daein base at the other end of the pass. As he walked slowly across the battlefield, Soren passed soldiers collecting dead bodies and lost weapons as well as those driving horses and carts to the new camp. He asked for news, and the soldiers reported that the village had been pacified, that Ike was negotiating for supplies and information, and that the Daein and Kilvan forces had left some useful things behind.

Some grumbled about being unable to simply take what they wanted from the villagers. Others expressed a desire to crawl into their nice warm beds instead of spending another night half-frozen in a tent. They moaned and chuckled to one another, talking about dragging soft Daein girls and boys into those beds with them, but Soren was fairly certain no one would act on their fantasies. After three months on the campaign, the soldiers respected Ike as their commander and knew which behaviors were strictly forbidden in his army.

 

When he finally arrived at the new campsite, Soren was pleased to see wagonloads of fresh food and blankets being distributed to the soldiers. He soon found Ike, who looked about as good as Soren felt—which was to say, corpse-like. There were dark rings under his eyes, which were bloodshot and twitchy. His skin was ashen, except for the tips of his ears, nose, and the tops of his cheeks which were red with cold. His lips were dry and cracked, and he was covered in scrapes and bruises he clearly hadn’t bothered to have healed. He hadn’t changed his clothes or removed his armor, which was torn and pitted. He was blood-stained and smelled like death.

“We won…somehow,” was his somber greeting when he finally saw Soren assessing him.

“Somehow,” Soren agreed.

Before he could ask for an update or offer to make himself useful so Ike could take a break, Elincia trotted up to them. Her heavy leather boots were incongruous with her gown and white fur coat, making her appear ungainly and childish. “My lord Ike!” she beamed. “I’m so pleased to see you well. You haven’t been injured, have you?” She didn’t show the slightest disgust at the sight or smell of human offal covering him from head to toe. In fact, her eyes raced over Ike’s body in a way that made Soren’s skin crawl.

“I’m fine,” Ike replied, clearly flattered by her gaze. His cheeks reddened, and Soren supposed it was at least a good sign he wasn’t completely anemic after the battle. 

“Oh, that’s good…” The princess seemed suddenly lost for words and blushed herself. The pair stared at each other for several moments, and Soren felt forgotten. The relationship between princess and mercenary had hardly developed since their first meeting, and these bouts of mutual staring were becoming quite intolerable. Luckily Titania’s arrival interrupted them.

“Ike, Soren, may I have a word? And if you don’t mind, Princess Elincia, would you come as well? Please join me in that building.” Titania wore an odd expression as she pointed to the simple, windowless shed at the corner of the camp.

When they arrived, they found the shed filled with crates, bags, boxes, stacks, and sheer piles of gold. Ike and Elincia were both dumbstruck.

“Incredible, no?” Titania breathed in awe. “It’s gold. All of it.”

“Daein must be filthy rich!” Ike finally exclaimed. “There’s so much, it doesn’t even seem real. What do we do with it?”

Soren decided he’d better speak up before any of them could propose something ridiculous, such as giving it away or leaving it here because stealing was ‘wrong’. “It’s the spoils of war,” he said, “So naturally, it’s ours to spend as we see fit.”

An idea seemed to suddenly occur to Ike. “In that case, I’d like to borrow fifty-thousand. Would that be all right?”

“That is a lot of money. What are you planning to do?” Titania asked curiously, but Soren already knew. As the company’s accountant, he remembered that amount distinctly: the fee for Volke’s alleged intelligence. Now they finally had the resources to hear Greil’s mysterious report.

“It’s, uh, a private matter…” Ike hedged, and Soren was surprised to realize his friend wanted to meet with Volke alone.

If the intelligence is valuable to the company, Ike will come to me about it, he assured himself, and yet he wasn’t entirely reassured.

“I apologize, Commander. You’re not a child. There’s no reason for me to pry,” Titania seemed embarrassed, although she’d said nothing wrong.

“My Lord Ike, please use this gold for the mercenary company,” Elincia declared, successfully changing the subject. “Until now, I haven’t had the resources to adequately pay them. So please…”

“No, if I may borrow the fifty-thousand that will be more than-” Ike tried to refuse.

Soren was about to intervene, but Titania beat him to it: “You won’t borrow it, you’ll accept it!” she said pointedly. “And in good faith. The remainder we’ll give to Soren for company maintenance. Would that be all right, Princess Elincia?” Soren was relieved that at least someone understood the necessity of money to their little army.

“Yes, of course,” Elincia replied gracefully. She glanced at Soren with a smile. Soren didn’t return the expression.

After helping him adjust some boxes to create a narrow work station, Titania was the first to leave. There was still much to do moving the troops through the pass. Taking one last look at the gold, Ike left too. “Good luck,” he wished Soren, before bowing politely to Elincia.

To Soren’s annoyance, the princess lingered. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asked, pulling a leather folio onto the crate serving as his desk. He poured out the contents: papers, brushes, inkstones, and a small abacus. He began sorting through the documents, hoping to find a single manifest that would help with the process. But several of the papers were blank, and the rest were a mess. This would take a while.

Elincia hadn’t responded, but neither had she left. Soren glanced at the hem of her dress beyond the crate. It was worn but not particularly dirty after months on the road. He considered the fact that she must take care of her appearance, even out here in the middle of nowhere, and wondered if it was for Ike’s sake. He then berated himself for such irrelevant thoughts and returned his attention to the papers.

“You don’t like me, do you?” she eventually said. Her voice sounded more resigned than accusing, but neither did she sound sorry for herself.

Surprised, Soren slid his gaze back to her, now looking at the inside of her left elbow. “I don’t like anyone,” he replied, “Now I have work to do.” He was being even ruder than usual, and he knew it. But he was exhausted from the battle, and having his stomach ripped open by a giant bird hadn’t put him in the most patient mood.

“I could help you,” Elincia suggested, adding more quietly: “I’m not completely useless.”

Soren’s gaze moved to her chin. It wasn’t quivering and didn’t look uncertain, but neither was it prideful. “I work better on my own.” He screwed up his eyes to read the mostly smudged, crossed-out-and-written-over document more closely. But he was distracted by the fact that Elincia had yet to leave. He’d read the same cluster of words three times in a row when a sudden scraping sound seized his attention. Elincia was pulling a box to the other side of the table, and Soren had to admit she was stronger than she looked—that box was likely packed full of gold. He looked at her arm again, which was tight against the sleeve of her dress. He wondered if she’d been training on her own, or had life on the road been enough to harden her.

Soren ignored her, because he was not one to repeat himself.

“I was educated by the best tutors in Melior,” she declared suddenly. “Please, allow me to assist you.” She didn’t sound hesitant anymore, and this didn’t sound like a request.

Soren sighed and pushed half the papers across the table. He didn’t have to look at her to catch her smile “We’re looking for a manifest, if there is one, or any clue to the organization of this storehouse.”

“Understood.”

The shed descended into silence and stillness, which was only broken by the rusting of paper and the flickering of the candles illuminating their work. The candelabra had been part of the trove, and the light glanced off all the gold, making the room glow the color of honey.

“It appears these funds and artifacts were acquired from all over Daein,” Elincia said after a while. Her voice was solemn. “They were procured for the war effort. Do you think it was meant to be a payment for Kilvas’s aid?”

“That is possible.” Soren set down his papers. “Well, there is nothing to do now but count it.”

She nodded resolutely. “Shall I start on the north side, and you the south?”

“Is that an order?”

Elincia seemed suddenly embarrassed. “Do you resent my authority?”

In truth, it didn’t bother him; she was doing her part in this war—no more, no less. He was just tired and easily annoyed. Sighing, he shook his head. “North and south it is.” He stood and stretched before moving to the back of the shed. Choosing a box arbitrarily, he unlatched the cover.

Elincia moved to her other side, but she didn’t open any of the crates. After settling herself down, she spoke again. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, “where were you educated?”

Soren bristled and said nothing—as he often did when asked a personal question. It happened so rarely he’d almost forgotten the intrusive feeling. These days, everyone he associated with either didn’t care about his past or knew it was pointless to ask about it. (Apparently after spending over a year with the mercenaries, Elincia had somehow missed the memo.)

Noticing his lack of a response, the princess added, “I mean, you are quite young to be the accountant of a mercenary company, let alone chief strategist. Surely you were trained by someone.”

“Ike is young to be a general. You are young to be queen of Crimea,” Soren returned, wanting to end the discussion quickly.

“But General Ike was trained by Sir Greil, wasn’t he?” She didn’t say anything about herself, but Soren already knew she’d spent her entire life being molded into a future regent. “Did Greil train you as well?”

Frustrated, Soren glared at the box in front of him, wishing he could begin the mindless task of counting rather than having this pointless conversation with the princess. He considered ignoring her, but she was the mercenaries’ employer and had a right to know their credentials. “For a time, I was apprenticed to a retired sage in the Crimean Army, and I studied some years at a temple. After that, I joined the Greil Mercenaries. I learned on the job. If you have a problem with my qualifications, you can bring it up with Ike.”

“Oh I didn’t mean that at all!” she replied quickly, embarrassed again.

“We should probably get to work,” he said before she could ask any more questions.

“Yes, of course.” Silence descended, and all was still save for the shuffling of their hands, the clinking of coins, the scurrying of quills across parchment.

 

Soren expected the princess to give up after the first hour. Every time he heard her yawn (and inevitably yawned himself) he thought she would turn in for the night. But the hours stretched on, and she remained. The guard changed outside. New candles and fresh rolls of paper were brought in. Elincia called for food and drink, and when it arrived, Soren was surprised to see she consumed the same swill as the rest of the army.

When they needed to spread out, Soren ordered one of the convoy wagons emptied, and they filled it with the boxes they’d already counted. This created more space, and it was a necessary step anyway. They would have to send almost the entire trove to Begnion so it could be exchanged for paper credits. They simply couldn’t carry so much gold with them.

 

 When all of this was done, Soren staved off sleep to search for Ike. But unable to find him anywhere, he eventually sought Titania instead. “He turned in for the night shortly after meeting with Volke,” she explained, and Soren had to admit his tent was the last place he would have checked.

“It’s good that he is finally getting some rest.”

“You should too,” encouraged Titania, but Soren wasn’t ready to retire yet.

“Did Ike say anything?” he asked, “Was Volke’s intelligence worth the investment?”

“No, but he seemed…” Titania shook her head.

“How did he seem?”

“I don’t know what Volke could have said,” she explained somberly, “but Ike, he was…in pain.”

Soren’s gaze fell on Ike’s tent in the distance, and he resisted the urge to run over there right now. Whatever it was, he had to be patient. “Ike is strong,” he finally said. “Whatever news or insight Volke offered, I am sure he will come to terms with it.” 

“I feel the same,” Titania offered simply, but she was clearly worried too.

 

The company took the following day to recover from the grueling battle. This meant healing, resting, scouting, and continuing to soothe the scared villagers whom they now neighbored. Ike said he wanted to see the company moving again by the day after next, but the decree didn’t have his heart in it. All day he’d seemed distracted, pensive, and even lost.

His condition didn’t improve as the afternoon wore on, and Soren was becoming increasingly frustrated. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore and brought his concerns to Ike directly. (It may have been rude, but Ike had once said he wanted him to speak his mind.) “Do you plan on sharing Volke’s report with the rest of us?” he demanded. “That money was to be used for the good of the company. Was his intelligence useful or not?”

Ike look of shock eventually faded into resignation. “You’re right,” he conceded. “I should at least tell you and Titania.” They were alone in the strategy tent, and the nearest guard was stationed out of earshot. He waited for more. “…Soren, my father…killed my mother.”

He didn’t have to pretend to be surprised. Although he’d witnessed the horror firsthand, he’d never expected this to be the information Volke was carrying. As the surprise passed, Soren felt a growing excitement. Ever since that day, he’d desperately wanted an explanation for the impossible things he’d seen. Perhaps those answers were finally within reach. He didn’t say anything, and eventually Ike collected his thoughts enough to continue.

He spoke as if in a trance: “Volke wasn’t hired to investigate anything. He lied about that. He was hired as an assassin. He was supposed to kill my father if he ever went berserk again. That’s what he was being paid for…”

“You say ‘berserk’,” Soren replied carefully. “I assume he did not intend to kill her?” The memories of that day returned sharp and clear to his mind, and he struggled to keep his old fear under control. His hands were slick with sweat, and he couldn’t help but think it felt like blood.

Ike shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Did Volke offer an explanation as to what could cause a man like Commander Greil to lose his mind?”

Ike nodded. “You might not believe it.”

“I will believe it if you do,” he returned. After seeing the speed, strength, and bloodlust the otherwise reasonable mortal man had displayed, there was not much Soren would reject as a potential explanation. But he couldn’t tell Ike this.

“Lehran’s Medallion,” he finally answered.

Soren recalled the pendant that had fallen from Elena’s hand that day. At the time, he’d wondered how a piece of jewelry could have been connected to the horrific episode. And since rejoining the mercenaries, he’d never quite gotten used to seeing the simple bronze circle hanging from Mist’s neck. “Your sister’s medallion…”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“A lucky guess,” he lied. Even if Ike knew the truth now, he didn’t need to know Soren had been keeping it from him for years.

“Volke said it is an evil object. Most people would go mad just by touching it. But not Mist…or my mom. Volke said it was an accident when Father…”

“How can such an enchanted object exist?” Soren asked, hoping for a better explanation.

“It’s what’s inside the medallion that’s the problem,” Ike answered. “It’s a prison. For a dark god.”

“A dark god?” Soren repeated.

Ike shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it.”

Soren recalled the massacre, specifically the strange haze that had surrounded Greil, making him almost unrecognizable. Could that have been the aura of some sort of god? “I believe it,” he finally said. “I suppose now the question is: why would your parents hold onto such a dangerous artifact?”

Ike seemed relieved that Soren was willing to believe him. “Volke had an explanation for that too,” he answered. “I guess they were trying to stop it from getting into the wrong hands—Daein’s hands.” Ike scuffed the ground at his feet. “This is where they lived before I was born… I never knew.”

Soren remembered Elena’s suspicion the first night they’d met, not because he was Branded, but because he’d said he was from Daein. He recalled Caineghis’s suspicion that Greil and Elena had been fugitives. The pieces were finally fitting into place.

But what Ike said next was still a surprise: “’Greil’ wasn’t even my father’s real name. It was Gawain. He was called ‘Sir Gawain’…of the Four Riders.”

“He served King Ashnard?” Soren repeated.

Ike shrugged. “Not for long. He and my mom ran away with the medallion. Ashnard has been after it ever since. He sent assassins, and they finally found them. We were living in this little Crimean village at the time.”

I remember, Soren wanted to say, but he bit his tongue.

“That’s when it happened. That’s when he accidentally touched it. He killed the assassins, and half the town was caught in the crossfire, and my mom…”

Soren wished he could tell Ike how bravely Elena had died. She had thrown herself on Greil’s blade to reach the medallion, to break the spell. Soren could see that now. He wondered if Volke had known to include that part of the story.

“He slashed the tendons in his right hand,” Ike said after a few moments, drawing Soren’s attention back to the present, “so he could never wield a blade properly again. At least, not in his style. Not in real combat.”

“That sounds prudent of him.”

“It’s why he died.” Ike’s voice was low. “That day in Gallia, the Black Knight was looking for the medallion. He gave Father a sword to fight with, but he wouldn’t wield it. Maybe if he’d been able to… If he’d been able to, I know he would have defeated the Black Knight.”

“It is a waste of energy to ponder what could have been,” Soren said, hoping that would console him. “Furthermore, Greil did not die of an old wound to his hand, but because the Black Knight came looking for the medallion. It is that vile bit of bronze that caused this.”

“You’re right,” Ike sighed. “Lehran’s Medallion stole both my parents’ lives. But I can’t destroy it. I’m sure my father would have found a way if that were possible… So I will protect it in their stead. I won’t let it fall into the wrong hands, and I won’t let anyone touch it. I won’t let what happened to me and Mist happened to anyone else,” he finished resolutely.

“A sound course of action,” Soren agreed. “I suggest you keep the medallion’s existence a secret. Tell Titania, and the three of us will include the protection of the artifact in our duties. However, I suggest you not mention it to anyone else—not Princess Elincia, Captain Nasir, nor any of your friends.”

“I know.” Ike nodded.

Soren hesitated a moment, adding in a quieter voice: “And promise me you will never touch it yourself.”

Ike winced as if remembering an old wound. “Father always told me I wasn’t to touch it. Now I know why.”

“Ike, promise me. You must be careful.”

“Of course,” he finally answered: “I promise. Like I said, I never want that happening to anyone else.”

And I never want to see you in as much pain as I saw Greil that day, Soren thought. The violence, the rage, the chaos, and then the blanketing grief—it was a wonder Greil had survived. Soren would die before he let Ike go through the same thing.

“Thanks for listening, Soren,” Ike finally said.

“I suppose knowing we have a dark god in our possession is worth fifty-thousand gold,” was all he said in reply.