Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 2 ❯ CHAPTER 63: THE TRUTH ( Chapter 32 )

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

That evening, with fresh coins and credits in their pockets, the mercenaries went into the city to see a play. Soren didn’t want to go, but Ike forced him to by smiling and asking nicely. He hated how weak he had become that he couldn’t even fend off a slight wheedle from Ike’s lips. It wasn’t Ike’s fault either—surely he had no idea the power his requests had over Soren’s increasingly pathetic constitution.

The play was a drama, and it told the story of the forbidden love of a brave-but-poor soldier and a senator’s beautiful-but-forbidden daughter during the reign of the fourteenth apostle. Neither Crimea nor Daein had yet ceded from the empire, but it was a period of much infighting among the beorc territories. The play had action, political intrigue, romance, betrayal, and a dollop of mystery—and yet it bored Soren to tears. It wasn’t historically accurate, the characters’ decisions didn’t make sense, and each scene dragged on far too long. The playwright was apparently one of Sienne’s up-and-comers, and the audience was packed with nobles even though the venue wasn’t as grand as most of the city’s theaters. (That being said, it was still quite opulent, and the tickets had cost fifteen gold each.)

Even though they hadn’t reached intermission, Soren stood and decided he would rather see what kind of fancy holes noblemen defecated in around here rather than continuing to watch this play. 

“Oh, Soren,” Oscar whispered, “Are you going to the lavatory?”

Not wanting to extend an invitation, he just twitched his head noncommittally.

Oscar, however, interpreted this as affirmation and also stood. “I’ll go with you.”

The pair scuttled out of the cramped stands and found a corridor. The air was clearer here, without the overwhelming scent of the nobles’ perfumes, and the doors muffled the sound of the actors’ exaggerated voices.

“Which way?” Oscar asked, looking down the corridor in either direction.

“I don’t know,” Soren answered in annoyance and picked one at random. Oscar fell in step beside him. Of all the unwanted tag-alongs, Soren supposed Oscar was not the worst; at least he was quiet.

The hall encircled the audience section of the theater, ending with a stairwell and a corridor that surely led backstage. But no one was guarding it, so Soren kept going. He figured he should try to find a lavatory for Oscar, even if he didn’t have urgent need of one himself.

The sound of the play was louder down here, and there were a lot more people rushing from one door to the next—some in elaborate wigs and dresses. These people ignored the two mercenaries.

At the end of the hall, Soren located his quarry and waited outside while Oscar took care of his business. Then they switched. The lavatory was not gilded in gold, but the seat was made of stone, and water could be pumped in to wash away the waste. The marble toilets in Temple Mainal and Melior Castle had been fancier (and some actually gilded), but it was still humorous to see how the supposedly ‘Sainted’ nobles coped with the needs of their human bodies.

Reuniting with Oscar, the pair proceeded back around the stage, and it was here—with his mind sluggishly thinking about toilets of all things—that Soren was bombarded with a familiar sensation. He froze in place, and an instant later, he heard his name being whisper-called. “Soren!” the voice laughed, “What are you doing here?”

Koure jogged over, and Oscar stopped, clearly confused. He glanced at Soren for an explanation, but his slightly raised eyebrow wasn’t demanding.

When she reached them, Koure grabbed Soren’s hand in both of hers like they were old friends (which, he supposed, they were). Her eyes raced over his face, and she squeezed his fingers before releasing them, saying, “You look good. A lot better.”

Soren’s mind was still reeling to accept her presence here and the fact that she’d approached him in front of one of the other mercenaries (which, of course, he couldn’t blame her for, since she couldn’t have known she was a secret from them). He tried to make sense of what she was saying and realized (to his embarrassment) that the last time she’d seen him was on the eve of battle, when he’d been sleep-deprived, half-starved, and barely overcoming his bout of post-Gritnea depression. He must have looked like a corpse, but she hadn’t said anything at the time.

Perhaps noticing his reaction, her smile faltered. She took a step back, and setting the smile again, she offered her hand to Oscar. “You must be one of the mercenaries.”

“I’m Oscar,” he introduced himself calmly.

“Koure,” she said, but now she paused to give Soren an opening to introduce her.

Forcing himself out of his own head, Soren wasted no time explaining Koure’s identity to Oscar: “Koure is from Crimea,” he said, keeping an objective tone. “She was one of the civilians who assisted with preparations at Fort Pinell before the final assault. She was a smith’s apprentice, but clearly she has found a different line of work in Begnion.” He eyed her new look and hoped she would understand their conversation had to be guarded with Oscar around. That being said, he could still ask the questions he wanted to as long as he was careful. And right now, he wanted to know why her freckles were caked over with white powder and her eyes rimmed in black ink. She didn’t look like she could be one of the actresses, however, because she was also wearing a simple dress with an apron full of pockets.

“Sure, smithing was a great skill to learn back in Crimea when there was a war going on,” she addressed both Soren and Oscar in an easygoing tone, as if this were a perfectly normal time and place to make conversation, “but here in Begnion, I’ve learned the much easier work of helping thespians put on their makeup and costumes. I’ll be honest—it’s more fun too.”

“A sound career change then,” Oscar said, playing along. Soft-spoken and polite, he never gossiped or spread rumors. He minded his own business, and Soren had never appreciated this fact more than he did now. “But what brings you to Begnion?” he asked kindly.

Koure waited a second before answering, possibly seeing if Soren would jump in and stop her, but he didn’t. He trusted Koure not to spill their secrets, and trying to speak on her behalf would only make him look suspicious. “After the war, I went to Daein,” she explained, “looking for my family. The truth is, I’ve never known my mother.” (Oscar looked appropriately sympathetic). “But it was hard to stay there as a Crimean, so I’ve been in Begnion over three years now.” She finished just as cheerily as she’d started. Soren marveled once again at the fact that Koure seemed to be in such good spirits every time they met, no matter what difficulty she was currently facing.

“That is a long journey to make alone,” Oscar replied, “Especially for one so young.”

The words were like a smack to the face, and Soren suddenly realized just how Oscar must see Koure: not as the twenty-three-year-old Branded woman he knew her to be, but a pubescent beorc girl. It was a cruel reminder of how Soren was seen as well.

However, Koure didn’t seem the least surprised by this assessment. She laughed into her hand, smudging some of the dye on her lips. “Thanks, but I am older than I look, I swear. Does the makeup not help?”

Oscar seemed politely embarrassed. “Oh, I am sorry. I should not have assumed.”

The conversation was dangerously close to implicating Soren, so he decided to change the subject. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but Koure beat him to it.

“Anyway, I don’t really mind being alone. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I enjoy meeting new people wherever I go.” There is was again: that smile. Koure honestly looked happy with her lot in life. But thinking about her travelling from place to place, working odd jobs, and teaching herself new skills all of these years completely alone while Soren had had Ike and the mercenaries at his side—he suddenly wondered if it was a façade. No one could be that well-adjusted. 

By the time Soren reclaimed himself, Oscar was inviting Koure to visit the mercenaries after the play. “We do not often meet fellow Crimeans abroad,” he said kindly, “And any friend of Soren’s is a friend of ours.”

Soren’s skin itched at the word, and he glared back at Oscar.

Fortunately Koure shook her head in refusal. “Sorry, I can’t. I have to clean all the costumes after the show. But thank you.”

Oscar nodded his acceptance. “Please, let us know if there anything we can do for you.”

“Thank you.” Koure smiled to the side. “But I’m doing fine.”

With that, Oscar excused himself and took a couple steps away. “Are you coming back now, or do you need a few moments?” he asked Soren, his voice as uncoercive as ever.

Soren did want to speak freely with Koure, but admitting that fact would prove that they were friends. Such a thing was not in itself a danger, but it would expose him to interrogation by his fellow mercenaries. After ten years with the company, the others had learned long ago not to ask about his past or his personal life. But Koure’s appearance could reawaken their curiosity.

While Soren hesitated to respond, Koure saved him again: “If you’ll leave him here a moment,” she addressed Oscar. “I’d like to pick his brain about something.” She then turned to Soren. “It won’t be long. I have to get back to work before intermission.”

Soren nodded, and Oscar waved farewell.

When he was out of earshot, Koure squealed happily and pushed him into one of the adjoining rooms, which was crowded with chests and racks of clothes. The only people here were faceless mannequins, so Soren deemed it safe. “You wanted to ask me something?”

“Nothing in particular,” Koure shrugged, still smiling, “but you’re a tactician, right? I thought it sounded professional—a completely legitimate consultation. Ashera forbid that nice fellow think we were actually friends.” She tapped her nose conspiratorially.

Soren grimaced at her words. “And what strategy would a tactician and beautician be colluding over?”

“I’m afraid that will be for you to explain later,” she replied flippantly. Her smile still hadn’t faded at all.

“How can you be happy?” he asked, not believing what he was seeing.

Koure’s eyebrows came together, and her lips twisted into a peculiar expression. “It’s good to see you too,” she replied sarcastically.

Soren shook his head. “You only befriended me because you were lonely; I understand that now. But we have not seen each other in years, and I have done nothing for you in all the time we’ve known each other. There is no reason for you to be glad our paths have crossed again. Why are your pretending?”

The smile stayed, and she punched him gently in the arm. “You haven’t changed at all,” she sighed contentedly.

Soren glared at her now. “I have,” he declared. He tried to keep his voice as steady and clear as possible although it still came out quiet. “That is why I know you’re pretending.”

“Well, ‘pretending’ is a strong word for it…” Koure twisted a lock escaping her curls. “Am I putting my best self forward? Yes, I am. But am I honestly glad to see a familiar face? Yes, I am that too.”

Soren look a long breath as he considered these claims.

Koure’s smile finally began to disappear, but her eyes were still earnest. “I do consider you a friend—a true friend. And you are wrong if you think you need to have done something to earn that title.”   

“Fine,” he gave in. “So be it.”

A flicker of victory crossed her face. “So what are you doing in Sienne? You haven’t told me.”

“A job brought us here, but we will be leaving shortly,” Soren explained. “My commander forced everyone to come to the theater on our last night.”

“Then I’m lucky to catch you…” For the first time, Koure didn’t look entirely happy.

Soren didn’t know what to say, so after a few silent seconds, he changed the subject. “I got your letter in the desert.”

Her eyes lit up in surprise. “You visited the colony?”

“Not exactly. The Greil Mercenaries stayed in the city of Zunanma; one of the hermits found me there to convey the letter.”

“Wow—” she tilted her head in disbelief. “—I’m surprised they actually held onto it. They didn’t seem to like the fact I refused to stay.”

Soren recalled what the Branded woman had said about Koure being destined to break as long as she continued to trust and live among beorc. At the time, he’d agreed and believed it to be true. But now he wasn’t so sure.

“Why didn’t you stay?” he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

“I still haven’t found out the truth,” Koure said as if it were obvious, “about where I came from.” She crossed her arms to show her determination. “I can’t settle down until I find out if that man who brought me to the Crimean border was truly my father, and if so, what happened to my mother. She might still be in Daein somewhere.” She brought her eyebrows together as if in concentration. “As soon as Daein wins this war, I’ll go back to keep searching.” 

The story of Palmeni Temple clawed at Soren’s throat, but he swallowed to keep it down. He decided to change the subject again. “You think Daein will win?”

Koure grinned. “I hope so. I think it would make my search easier.”

Soren nearly smiled at the simplicity of that answer, and his suspicion of her heritage became even harder to keep to himself. If discovering the identity of her parents was the only thing she really cared about—and if he really was her friend—how could he not tell her what he knew? Ike didn’t need to know about Gawain and Elena because he had Mist. Soren didn’t need to know about the woman the cobbler saw because he had Ike. But Koure hadn’t had anyone since her adopted father had died.

“You could come with us instead,” he suddenly offered, not quite sure why he wasn’t terrified of the implications. “Ike likes to help people. He would find a place for you among the mercenaries. You would not have to fight if you don’t want to.”

Koure blinked, obviously taken off guard. “What are you talking about? A minute ago you didn’t want your comrade to even know we were friends. I could see it all over your face—you don’t want me interfering with your life with the mercenaries. I respect that; I do.”

She was right, but Soren pushed ahead anyway. “I can change…,” he said, “I can change my mind.”

Koure just shook her head. “Thanks, but I still need to get back to Daein. I have to find the truth.”

“What if I could tell you?”

This clearly confused her. “…What are you saying?”

Soren knew it was unfair of him to suddenly thrust this upon her, but it felt even worse to keep it from her. “I have a theory.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

Soren took a steadying breath. “In the ancient language, your name is the word for an unborn child. I believe your father mistook the word for a name when he heard it on your mother’s lips.”

Koure said nothing, but her face was drawn in eagerness to hear more.

“He could not understand her because some laguz of the heron clan grow up never speaking the common tongue.”

“A heron?” she repeated incredulously. “But they’re extinct…”

“Not quite,” Soren countered. “A refugee colony survives in Phoenicis, and three members of the royal family remain. A fourth survived the Serenes Massacre only to die in Daein custody.”

“In Daein…”

“I saw the heron’s cell with my own eyes, during the war,” Soren explained, “I also read her journal—the little I could understand. Her name was Lillia, and she died almost twenty-four years ago, possibly in childbirth.”

Koure still didn’t seem to believe it.

“And…you look like your aunt,” Soren added, although he thought it might be overkill. “Ever since I first met Princess Leanne in the Serenes Forest, I thought she looked like you.”

To Soren’s surprise, Koure’s legs seem to give out and she awkwardly lowered herself to the floor. She sat with one leg curled under her, staring into the middle distance. “Can all that be true…”

Soren crouched at her level. “I have no evidence,” he reminded. “This is just my theory, but it all make sense.”

“Then…who was my father?”

Soren hesitated before answering. “One of her guards, I assume. Possibly the soldier who brought you to the border and passed you off to a Crimean knight instead of killing you. But it would be impossible to determine. According to her journal…she was accosted by several guards during her time in the temple.”

“Temple?” Koure repeated, seizing the word like she was drowning.

“The cell was in the basement of Palmeni Temple,” Soren reported, “two hours’ ride northwest from Nevassa.”

“I have to go there!” She was on her feet in an instant, and Soren actually grabbed her arm out of fear she would leave the room and try to run all the way to Daein this instant.

When it was clear she wasn’t that insane, he released her. “Sorry.”

She pushed her fingers through her hair and stared at the floor. “It all makes sense… It could be possible. But I have to find proof. I have to see for myself. If I can find someone who was there, maybe someone who knew him…”

Soren realized his plan had backfired. “If you believe it is true, then let it be the truth,” he advised. “It may not be a happy story, but…it does mean you don’t have to search anymore.”

Her head shot up, and she pinned him with an accusing glare. “If you knew this at Pinell, why didn’t you say anything?”

Soren didn’t have a good excuse, so he shook his head. “I thought it better if you had hope. I didn’t want you to find out the answer if it was only going to upset you.”

“Do I look upset?” she demanded.

“…Yes,” Soren answered honestly. Her eyes were moist and her skin sweaty under the makeup.

“Well I’m not,” she assured him, despite her shaking voice. “I’m happy. I have an actual lead for the first time! I’m excited. I’m going to Daein as soon as possible.”

Soren didn’t doubt she would, but he didn’t believe she was happy. “It is not a lead,” he countered, “It’s a complete explanation. What more do you hope to find?”

“I don’t know,” she returned quickly. “But I’ll know when I find it.”

Soren suddenly felt very tired, and he knew it was no use arguing. “Fine,” he conceded. “Do what you must.”

Silence stretched between them, and Koure seem to catch her breath. “Thank you, Soren,” she finally said, “for telling me what you found out.”

He just shrugged because offering an apology felt as useless as arguing.

“Now,” she glanced at the door. “I really should get back. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

Soren nodded once.

Grasping the door handle, Koure paused a moment. “Soren,” she said as if just thinking of something, “What about your own parents? You said you were from Daein too, right? …Did they have other laguz locked up in their temples?”

Soren was surprised by the question and the fact that she would still be thinking about him. “Not that I know of,” he answered honestly. “And I may never find out.”

“Are you really okay with that?”

Soren didn’t reply immediately, because he wanted to be certain he was telling the truth. “I am trying to be,” he finally answered. “I am trying to be content with Ike and the other mercenaries.”

Koure swallowed and nodded. “In that case—” her hand was still on the door “—make the most of it. I don’t know if you already have what I’m looking for, but if you do, then… Just…don’t live a lie if you can help it. I don’t want that for you.” She offered a small but encouraging smile, and with that she was gone.

Soren was left alone in a tiny wardrobe room in a Siennese theater. For a few moments he just stood there, replaying the stolen conversation in his head and filing it away for the future. At Koure’s parting words, he couldn’t help but think of all the careful lies that bound his life.

Finally he had to leave, because the sudden roar of sound outside signaled that intermission had begun. People could enter this room at any moment, so he left and joined the crowd growing outside. While he made his way back to the mercenaries, he considered the fact that Oscar must have already conveyed the reason he hadn’t returned, which meant he would have to make an excuse to explain away Koure’s familiarity with him and why he’d given her his time. The process of conjuring yet more lies left a sour taste in his mouth, but he didn’t know what else to do.

 

“I am not quite sure who she is,” he said when the others inevitably asked. “Perhaps she is some spy of Bastian’s acquiring information abroad. I assure you, I told her nothing of value.”

Ike knitted his eyebrows together. “A spy? Do you think she was looking for us?”

“Could something be wrong in Crimea?” Titania speculated.

Soren shook his head. “I have no evidence to support my theory, and I believe it was a coincidence that our paths crossed.”

Ike nodded as if satisfied with this explanation (or lack thereof).

“What did she want to ask you?” Titania asked next.

“Daein,” Soren answered firmly yet vaguely. “But I had no information to share, even if I wanted to, and she betrayed nothing herself. Ultimately it was a fruitless meeting for both sides.” No one pushed for more details, and Koure seemed to pass from their minds. The mercenaries finished watching the play, and the next morning, they left the inn on the outskirts of Sienne for the last time.

 

The Greil Mercenaries headed north, intending to cross back into Crimea via the protected trade road through Daein. Ike wanted to take the chance despite their previous deportation, and Soren wondered if he hoped to meet the Black Knight just by setting foot back in Daein.

They’d just crossed the Ribahn River when they received news that the rebellion was entering its final stages. Jarod and the remnants of his ‘pacification’ army were cornered in Nevassa Castle, with the Silver-Haired Maiden and Black Knight bearing down on him. The occupation forces throughout the country had either been isolated, decimated, or forced to retreat. Defeat seemed inevitable, and Begnion civilians were fleeing en masse. Rebel soldiers and even ordinary peasants plundered and harassed them as they fled.

The pegasus-mounted criers who brought this news were calling on volunteers to raise arms and help bring the refugees home. Others asked that people here in the northern territories prepare their homes and business to accept the influx of travelers in the coming weeks.

“Change of plans!” Ike declared when he heard the news, “We can’t go back to Crimea yet if there’s work for us in Daein. We’ll head north as fast as we can and hire ourselves out to people trying to reach the border.”

“Yes!” Shinon roared excitedly, surprising everyone, “Some of those Begnion merchants have damn deep pockets!”

“We’ll help anyone willing to hire us, no matter if they can match our going rate,” Ike reprimanded. “We can’t be picky about our clients when so many lives are at stake.”

Shinon pursed his lips in annoyance.

Titania furrowed her brow. “We will have to move quickly if we are to help as many people as possible.”

“Procure as many contracts as possible,” Soren corrected her. “This is still business after all.” He took a moment to think and brought his hands together. “However, I agree there is money to be made here. I recommend we invest in horses again. They will get us to Daein faster and allow us more mobility once we get there.”

“Horses ain’t cheap,” Gatrie observed with an uneasy expression. (He’d never been an avid rider.)

“I agree with Soren’s plan,” Ike declared. “We’ll use the company’s reserves. If all goes well, we can make up the loss with the profits from the evacuation.” No one argued with his decision.

“Oscar and I will make the purchases,” Titania offered. “We should be ready to leave by tomorrow at the latest.”

“We leave tonight,” Ike decided. “Even flying, pegasus messengers can only travel so fast. Nevassa may have already fallen. Word will spread and panic will follow. Every day matters.”

“Yes, sir!” Titania crowed. Oscar and a couple others threw obedient salutes.

“Soren, chart us the quickest route to the border,” Ike ordered next. “We don’t have to head for Tor Holvar anymore.”

“Of course, Ike.”

“Mist, Rhys, see to it that you have fresh staves and buy more vulneraries too. The people we escort could already be injured,” Ike said next. “Shinon, Rolf, go to the fletcher. Boyd, Mia, the bladesmith. I want everyone’s steel sharp before we reach Daein. Gatrie, get our chainmail repaired at the armorer. Pay extra if you have to.” Everyone saluted or nodded at his instructions. “We won’t be the only people—or even the only mercenaries—heading north. But we’re lucky that we’re already so close. If we act fast, we can control which roads are safe. Let’s not waste any time!”

Soren couldn’t help but feel proud as he watched Ike take charge of the situation. He had the ambition of a mercenary commander and the poise of a seasoned general. As a tactician, Soren agreed with everything Ike was saying and the investments he was making to capitalize on Begnion’s imminent defeat. And yet, he also felt uneasy about the spark he saw in Ike’s eyes. He was too eager to race into Daein and antagonize the victorious rebels, but Soren couldn’t pretend he didn’t know why. The Black Knight’s resurrection was no hoax, and Ike wanted to fight him.

 

For two months, the Greil Mercenaries had steady work and a healthy flow of profits as they escorted Begnion merchants, families, traders, carpenters, bricklayers, artisans, smiths, landowners, and even retreating soldiers to the safety of the border mountains and the Great Wall of Ivelt (which, fortunately, was still under Begnion control).

In the weeks following their siege of Nevassa, Prince Pelleas and the Silver-Haired Maiden—who everyone now referred to as ‘General Micaiah’—decreed that the Begnion occupants would be allowed to depart in peace as long as they made haste. But not all of their subjects obeyed the order, and the mercenaries had plenty of errant soldiers, greedy brigands, and enterprising civilians to fend off almost every day. The Begnion refugees were grateful for the protection and paid Ike from whatever funds they managed to take with them as they fled—which was often no small amount. They may have been running for their lives, but these people were clearly making out like bandits.

This type of work meant Soren spent a portion of every day on horseback, which was a far cry from what he was used to. But after the first few weeks, his aching back and legs became accustomed to the saddle, and his control over the stout but reliable steed improved. The mercenaries often guarded long trains of people at a time, so they needed to be able to move quickly from one end to the other while on patrol. The same was true when scouting ahead or visiting nearby villages to collect yet more refugees (many of whom tended to hide out until help arrived).

When it was time to fight, however, most of the mercenaries were quick to ditch their mounts. Only Titania, Oscar, and Mist were well-trained in horsemanship, and Soren was certainly not. The first time he tried to wield magic from the horse’s back, he spooked the creature so badly he fell off. The second time he tried, he found he was poor at avoiding enemy fire and ended up with two arrows in his arm, one in his back, and another in the horse’s flank. After that, he was sure to leap from the saddle at the first sign of an ambush.

When allowed to fight on their own terms, the mercenaries were a force to be reckoned with. Most of their opponents weren’t trained soldiers, which made them relatively easy to kill, maim, or frighten off. Although General Micaiah had freed thousands of imprisoned soldiers from Begnion’s workcamps, most were still stationed with the main army up north. After the conquest of Nevassa, Micaiah had been slowly and steadily spreading her sphere of influence. The bulk of the army had not yet come this far south, but when they did, the Greil Mercenaries would make themselves scarce.

 

After three months, that time (and the Daein Army) was finally approaching. But the number of refugees they escorted each week was decreasing anyway. Soren wondered if Ike would be able to leave Daein satisfied at a job well done or if he would regret not having encountered the Black Knight.

Although Ike asked about him often enough, neither their clients nor their attackers had seen him—or heard of anyone seeing him—since the war ended. Rumor was that he’d simply disappeared after the conquest of Nevassa, and many speculated that he’d been nothing but a ghost after all. Such superstitious nonsense clearly infuriated Ike, and Soren was frustrated as well. Losing track of such a strong adversary was dangerous. There was too much they still didn’t know about the enigmatic knight, and Soren couldn’t help but imagine him appearing at their campfire every night and challenging Ike to a duel he couldn’t win.

  

One day (when two had already passed without encountering anyone needing an escort), a horse and rider found the mercenaries instead. The man came galloping down the road behind them, and Ike gestured for the company to pull off to let him pass. But as soon as he did, he pulled his steed to a halt and rounded on them.

Soren’s hand flew to his tome, although it seemed overcautious to fear a single rider. He expanded his senses, trying to detect a sound or scent indicating an ambush, but he was no laguz and sensed nothing out of the ordinary.

“Commander Ike of the Greil Mercenaries!” the rider addressed him while reining in his frothing steed. “I’ve been looking for you.” 

Ike urged his own steed forward to confront the man. “Well, you’ve found me.”

“I carry a message from Lord Bastian, Count of Fayre,” the man continued, less loudly this time. He pulled a letter from his saddle bag and held it out. “Crimea has need of your strength again.”