Heavy snowfall and wind blew violently into the small lecture hall's lone window, threatening to tear the fragile pane from the wall. A lone candle illuminated the room, undisturbed by the howling gale outside, and casted an ominous glow onto its surroundings.

From the hallway outside, an older man and a younger woman clambered into the dim room, the man slamming the bar latch into position, sealing the two inside. While the two regained their composure, frightening shouts echoed down the corridor.

"…that way…!"

"…can't let them escape…!"

"…there is nowhere for you to run any longer…"

The red-cloaked girl panted in exhaustion, while the black-robed mage held his tall, dark mage hat low to conceal his eyes.

"Are you alright, Esthara?"

After her panting began to taper down, she met her mentor's gaze.

"I-I'm fine, professor."

"Are you certain you're okay, my dear? Because if my eyes did not fail me during our encounter…"

The professor gently moved Esthara's scarlet cloak to the side, revealing a bloody gash in her oblique. Blood still flowed idly, staining the fabric of her simple white underblouse.

"It is as I expected. You must let me treat your wound," the professor said, concernedly.

"We don't have time!" Esthara exclaimed, "They're still coming…"

"We have plenty of time to not ignore basic medical procedure," he responded, removing a roll of bandages from a drawer in his desk.

"Best to not allow the risk for death on two fronts. In a perilous situation such as this, it is wise to—"

"—minimize the risk of fatality as much as possible." the wounded girl finished. "From your lecture, three days ago."

"Ah, I knew there was a reason you are my top student, Esthara."

The graying professor smiled warmly, his blue eyes appearing a dull gray in the dim candlelight, a similar shade to that of Esthara's natural eye color.

"Now, let me take care of that injury of yours…"

The professor tightly wound the bandage fabric around Esthara's still bleeding wound, halting the gash's flow of blood. She winced as the pressure from the bandage disturbed her injury.

"Much better. Now we can deal with the more threatening situation at hand," the professor observed, placing his gray bearded chin in his hand, assuming a standard thinking position.

"I trust you already know exactly who our adversaries were this dreadful night."

Esthara nodded.

"Yes… but I don't understand why, Professor. Those people were our friends just yesterday!"

The professor responded with a knowingly sad tone.

"I agree, it is quite concerning that the local guard has turned against us in such a short period of time. But this sudden incursion reveals quite a large amount of information."

He approached the blackboard at the end of the room, and erased his previously drawn images of battle coordination from the lecture earlier in the day.

"It… reveals something?" Esthara pondered.

"Quite right. And I believe you've already deduced what it is. But you probably are not fond of the result."

"I have, but I don't want to believe it is true, professor. It can't be true. It can't possibly!"

"Unfortunately, we must make this assumption. The evidence pointing towards it is insurmountable. I am not enamored with this situation myself either, but we must recognize it before we can figure out exactly what to do about it."

"Ylisse has fallen," Esthara uttered in monotone.

"Indeed."

The professor's expression became grave as he turned away from his student. He began sketching an image of a person onto the freshly erased surface. His old hand danced across the surface with vigor, creating an astoundingly realistic representation in quite a short amount of time.

"This man, Esthara," the professor began, calmly, "Can you remember this man's face?"

"I haven't seen it before, if that's what you're asking."

"No, no. I need you to memorize it for me."

"I… I think I can do that. Why are you asking me to do this, professor?"

"Because it is imperative that you find this man, Esthara."

The professor swiveled agilely around on one foot, surprising from his old age, gazing intently at his student.

"This man's name is Lester, Knight of Blackwood. You should be able to find him at Arena Ferox in several days' time."

"But—"

The professor interrupted, "Please, let me finish before you ask questions. Time is of the essence at the moment."

"I apologize. Please continue."

The professor cleared his throat before continuing.

"You must travel to Arena Ferox. If the details do not escape me, he should be traveling with two other humans and a taguel, en route to Ferox. Find him and ask him for his help. If you mention my name, he should understand the situation.

"If Ylisse has indeed fallen, as we have deduced, you must remember this phrase if you are to blend in: 'I live to serve her divinity.'"

"Isn't that—"

"Indeed. You understand which group this phrase belongs to, as I expected. Tell that to the wagon driver early tomorrow morning whilst slipping him the fare. He should bring you directly to Arena Ferox, if you ask. Just remember to keep the hood on you cloak low, just in case."

The professor paused as he ended his instructions.

"Have you any questions?"

A look of concern grew on Esthara's face.

"Just one, sir. Why are you telling me all of this? Aren't you coming with me?"

The professor shook his head, frowning.

"Alas, I cannot, my dear girl. Someone must stay behind to deal with these gentlemen."

"Gentle? Hardly…" Esthara muttered quietly under her breath before exclaiming, "But I don't know how I can make it out there on my own! Why can't you come with?"

"They know my identity, Esthara. But the only five that know who you are are in this very building."

"We can take them on together, then! I need you!"

The professor approached his student, kneeling down in front of her. His usual towering height disappeared, becoming just barely shorter than Esthara's smaller figure. He took her hands in his own.

"You are nineteen years old now, Esthara, more than old enough to travel on your own. Unfortunately, this must be done if you are to be safe from the perils that await out there."

"But—"

"Remember this for me. What is the very first lesson that I taught? The first phrase I said before beginning your education?"

Esthara pondered momentarily, the answer coming to her quickly. She closed her eyes as she recalled the exact situation.

"A good tactician has nothing to fear."

The professor grinned.

"That's my girl. My grandfather learned from the greatest to have ever lived, and I have learned from him. I've passed nearly everything down to you, and it is time to put that knowledge to work, my dear. I have utmost faith in you."

Tears welled up in Esthara's eyes as she received the praise from her mentor, who was not one to idly compliment his students.

"Thank you, professor. That means a lot to me."

"I mean every word of it. Now, have you Mercurius?"

Esthara grasped the red fabric adorning the ancient blade's hilt, and nodded.

"I do."

"Excellent. That blade will be an important ally in your travels to come. You may have not been able to comprehend magic, but your swordplay is second to none."

"Thank you, sir. Anything else I need to know?"

The professor thought for a brief moment before adding, "It is a strategist's duty to preserve the lives of their allies. This I have done for you, and you must also do this for those you befriend in the future. You mustn't worry yourself. Everything is going to be alright, on my word."

As the professor spoke, the murmurs from the hallway finally converged onto the haven the two had taken from the assault.

"…they're in here, Malik! On your orders…!"

"Are they? Stand back…"

The head of a wicked red axe cut widly through the flimsy wooden barrier, wooden shards splintering and clattering against the floor. The door inexplicably managed to hold from the first assault, yet it still threatened to splinter under the force of the next blow. The axeman attempted to pull the handle out, yet experienced some difficulty removing the blade.

"It seems that they have found found us. Quickly, to the window!"

The aged mage quickly drew an Arcthunder from his spell tome, and summoned two massive bolts of lightning in front of the glass pane. The sturdy brick wall and more fragile glass shattered under the power of the spell, sending brick and glass splinters in every direction.

"I promise you, I will be fine! Go, now!"

The student nodded, sprinting to the exit as her simple brown boots became punctured by the debris. Before approaching the threshold, she turned to take one last look at her mentor.

The wild gales of wind blew in from outside, causing her cloak to billow out around her. Her two long braids of blonde hair, normally resting in front of her shoulders, were picked up by the storm and blown violently in all directions.

She put one hand to her chest, closing it into a fist. She turned from the professor, trudging as quickly as she could through the snow banks into the wintery unknown as shots of powerful magic rang out from the building behind her.

Nila reentered his library home, the Justice Brigade tailing behind him. He brushed the sand from his hair, surprisingly more than he had anticipated, dusting the red carpet of the entrance hall with a thin layer of yellow. He placed his purple-highlighted gray blade on its wall hanger before turning towards his new companions.

"I need a few minutes to prepare. Make yourselves at home."

"As if we hadn't done that already," Marius snickered, charging into the foyer. He leaped headfirst into the embrace of the sole couch set up near the staircase.

"Don't break anything, Marius," Nila laughed, "The furniture is very expensive."

"I'll say," the Dread Fighter spoke into the fabric of the couch, "It's very comfortable."

Shaking her head in disbelief, Valkus opened the door to the kitchen in search of her missing armor.

"Not too long," she called, an audible clanging emanating from the room. She had obviously found what she was looking for.

"We'll need to get moving quickly if we're to catch up with the ranger."

"Right. I'll only need a minute or two," responded Nila, ascending the spiral staircase into his chamber. At the top of the steps, the coated man twisted the knob and entered the small room.

The room was the same as he had left it before dawn; the white bedsheets had been strewn across the mattress after the events of his nightmare. However, the candlestick's flame had since dwindled to tiny embers. Next to the bed was a large pile of books resting upon the red carpet that had been neglected and remained unshelved for several nights. The midday sun shone through a crack, illuminating a sole book on an otherwise empty bookshelf adjacent to a full body mirror.

The coated man picked up the candlestick's golden base before blowing the dying flame out and setting it back down. Turning his attention to the pile of books, he dug in through the tomes, eventually placing three of them on the mattress.

Robin's Basic Guide to Battle Strategy and Advanced Tactics lay upright upon the surface. Another, Subterfuge in Strategy, was placed near them as well. It written millennia upon millennia ago by Marth's tactician, Katarina, yet was still quite relevant in modern tactics. Making a mental note to bring A Treatise on Tactics and Advanced Military Coordination with him too, Nila strode across the room and collected a small pack from the room's corner, placing the three tomes inside among a quill and sealed inkwell as well as travel necessities.

Hoisting the pack upon his back, Nila slowly walked to the door. He reached out to turn the knob again to exit the room, yet paused. Placing the pack upon the floor, he stepped across the floor, stopping in front of the near empty bookshelf. He brushed his fingers on the lone blue book upon the shelf, clearing a thin layer of dust away from the tome. The text on the white label on the book's surface had since faded, but Nila knew the contents all too well.

"My old poetry book," Nila thought, turning the brittle pages to the last entry. The ink had faded almost completely since he last wrote in between the pages, but what he wrote was still fresh in his mind. Out of frustration, Nila slammed the covers shut and tossed the brittle tome onto his unmade bed, remembering exactly why he had stopped writing poetry in the first place. He fell to his knees.

"Marisa… I'm—"

"It's alright, brother," a voice responded to him. He turned towards the mirror out of disbelief, but a figure that was not his own replaced his reflection.

His sister, standing upright, appeared in the glass. She smiled sadly at him, her still-scarred amber eyes welled up with tears. She was similar to Nila, with similar eye color, dark brown hair, and height. Even the blouse she wore was similar in color to Nila's coat, the very same one she wore before she was killed. Yet, she seemed mature beyond her days, a trait Nila did not remember her possessing.

Nila blinked, and stuttered, "S-sister? But I thought—"

He broke off. Marisa's visage was gone. Nila spoke only to the sad, crumpled reflection of his own keeling over on the floor. The coated man righted himself before giving another suspicious glance at the mirror. His sister still did not appear, only his saddened and confused face stared back at him.

Nila sighed. He knew exactly what that hallucination meant for him. Just like the return of the voices in his dream, he was starting to hallucinate again. After being healthy for so long…

Banishing his eventual fate from his thoughts, Nila stepped towards the sheets he threw his book upon. The tome was open to pages not yet written in: blank, pristine, waiting to be filled with words. Lifting the book into his hands, he turned the pages back towards the faded verse he had written for his passed sister and make a note to rewrite the verse he had written so long ago. He thought over it again, tears threatening to spill onto the delicate, brittle pages.

Shutting the tome gently, he carried it to the pack he had abandoned near the door, dropping it in among the other three he had collected. He turned towards the door, but hesitated once again.

He approached his nightstand, a small lacquer box placed at the very back behind the now extinguished candlestick, shoved away like a forgotten bad memory.

He opened the purple ornamented box, and gently grasped a small golden pendant with the ancient Mark of Grima etched in the center with purple amethyst, lifting it up towards the ceiling. It had been his sister's, the very same one she wore into every battle. The tiny jade pendant was the only effect he recovered from the forest they had fought in. Nila tentatively clasped the chain in place before tucking the memento underneath his white undershirt.

Exhaling deeply, as if steeling himself for what lay ahead of him, Nila reopened the door and descended the spiraled steps towards the library parlor once again.

"Remind me how exactly you managed to get this covered wagon, Brooks."

Samuel pulled up a chair to the desk that Brooks was working at under the soft glow of candlelight. The mage was writing in a book of sorts, with the Brand of the Exalt emblazoned on its striking green cover.

The wagon clattered along the roadside quite smoothly, the increasing wind speed not seeming to slow the journey air had grown quite cold since the four arrived at Homely Hearth, the high wind speeds contributing to the frigid chill. A light snowfall began as well after the sun had began its leisurely descent below the horizon, dusting the freshly-cleared footpath. Clouds began to gather on the horizon, promising a devastating snowstorm further into the night.

"Ah, not just a covered wagon, my friend," Brooks replied, smiling smugly. "Conestoga. Faster, smoother, and more room to work. Not sure with I agree with the shape of it, mind."

"I… see. And as to how you got it…?"

The dark-robed maged clapped his priest friend on the shoulder, grinning widely.

"See, it helps to have connections and pending favors everywhere. I may not have traveled to this specific bit of Ferox before, but a lot of my friends have. Just one simple letter landed us this beauty!"

Brooks raised both of his hands into the air, in gesture to the entirety of the peculiarly shaped vehicle.

"And hey, we got an extra horse out of it, too," Brooks snickered before adding, "Maybe Desmond will finally have someone to talk to besides poor Lester up there."

Samuel quickly glanced at the taguel, riding up front with Lester. Desmond's new horse was noticeably more pathetic than the majestic steed Lester was mounted upon.

"Can Desmond really…?"

"Eh, probably. I haven't bothered to question him about it. But it makes sense, since they're both animals and all."

"Part animal!" Desmond's voice rang out angrily from the front of the wagon, where he was perched upon a tawny, unarmored steed. It looked pathetic compared to Lester's muscular, golden-armored white steed.

Brooks burst into laughter.

"Sorry, Des! Didn't think you could hear me all the way back here!"

The taguel turned his head back to meet the mage's gaze. He narrowed his eyes.

"I've got bunny ears. Biggest in my family. Don't mess with me, pal."

Brooks cackled even harder before sticking his tongue out to Desmond. The taguel rolled his eyes and turned away from the mage, rummaging through his pack.

Samuel shook his head, confused.

"I cannot believe what I've just heard. Gods save us all."

Brooks finally controlling his outburst, responded quietly, "You know it's true."

"I think not, Brooks. Desmond's more human than taguel. By a large margin, in fact."

"Well, I still believe he can talk to horses!" Brooks crossed his arms, pouting mockingly.

The priest pinched his brow, sighing.

"Anyway, that isn't why I came over here. What exactly are you doing?"

"Me?" the mage responded, quizzically. "Not much. Just inking my spellbook. Damned ink fades so quickly…"

"Inking? I thought mages bought their tomes, like anyone else bought their weapons."

Brooks tisked, shaking his head in disappointment.

"Oh, Samuel, you're living so, so far in the past. A couple hundred, actually. But at any rate, I suppose there's a good story involved with what exactly I'm doing here!"

"Oh gods, here we go again," the priest muttered under his breath.

"'Tell me more,' you say? Happy to oblige, friend of mine!"

The dark-robed mage beamed widely, pulling a newly-bound book from his pack. He cracked the pages open, and cleared his throat.

"I can't remember the exact date, but it happened at some point soon after the famous Grima War of the past," the mage said, skimming the book's pages. He soon stopped, pointing at a word obscured from Samuel's gaze.

"Ah, here it is," the mage announced proudly, slamming the two covers shut before tossing the tome carelessly behind his shoulder. It landed behind the desk built into the side of the wagon, falling to the floor in a soft thump. He pointed directly at Samuel's face, causing the white-robed priest to back his head up several inches.

"So, here's the thing. For millennia, mages have always used the same type of spell tome," Brooks regaled, wagging his finger in front of the priest's discontented face. "Only holding one spell, comically bursting into flames or fading to a pile of dust after a certain number of spell usages… that sort of thing. Though, sometimes the ink just faded away and left the user with only an empty book."

"Anyway, this one genius mage—Laurent, his name was—researched the problem for most of his life. And, get this, a few months before he died, he discovered the problem."

Brooks turned back to his desk, and picked up the green spellbook he had been working on earlier. He put his thumb to the pages end, flipping the pages quickly.

"It's in the paper."

As the paper reached the last few pages, Brooks closed the book and laid it gently on the desktop.

"Turns out that using regular old paper isn't a reliable way of documenting spells. What Laurent did is he used paper made from a specific type of plant that grows at the roots of the Mila tree."

The mage glanced around, looking for the book he had thrown earlier, and retrieved it from behind the desk. He turned to a page near the front, showing it to the priest. It displayed a drawing of a plant, with a thin green stem and a massive, light blue flower at its tip. It looked quite magically potent even by looking at it.

"This plant is called Milathistle. After seeing how well it conducts magic, it blooming near the Mila Tree of all places, he made some of it into paper. After writing the runes for the spell on only a single page of this stuff, he could cast even the most powerful of spells no matter how much he wanted."

"The Bolganone tome, with the spell marked on hundreds of pages in a traditional spellbook, only yields twenty-five uses before it catches fire and burns away for good. On one sheet of Milathistle? Infinite!"

Brooks beamed as he clapped Samuel's shoulder once again.

"And with that, dear friend, is how these spellbooks came to be. Any amount of spells—dark, anima, or otherwise—can be written in a single book and are available to cast at any time. However, you still have to turn to the correct page in order to access the spell you want to use. Laurent never did figure out how to fix that problem."

Samuel stared with disbelief.

"So, you're telling me the quintessential problem mages faced for tens of thousands of years… was paper."

Brooks deadpanned.

"Yup. That about sums it up."

"You know, for some reason I'm not entirely surprised," Samuel remarked, directing his eyes upward for a moment before returning to Brooks' gaze. "But you'd think that at some point at least someone might wonder why their weapons were liable to explode after a few casts."

"I know, right?" Brooks responded. "To think that all the greatest mages from the past had to fight with the traditional tomes. Ellerean, Celica, all of them. What if they forgot how many casts they put into their book? They'd just have a pile of ash to fight with!"

"I think that they kept good track of that certain aspect. That'd be like Lester forgetting to bring his sword into battle."

Brooks laughed heartily.

"Hold on… I'm trying to imagine that… but I just can't!"

Samuel began to chuckle as well, joining his friend in laughter.

"It's quite the farce, isn't it? Either way, I'm sure that the likes of Miriel and Merric were able to deal with that drawback quite easily. They probably carried an extra tome or two when they were getting low on usage."

"But where did they manage to find the space? I have space for only one book on my belt."

Samuel facepalmed, sighing heavily at the mage's remark.

"…Did I say something wrong?" the mage asked in response.

"No. No, you didn't. Either way, why don't you finish your inking? We'll need that magic of yours if we're to get in a fight with some Feroxians down this road. You know how well the brutes love their fighting up here."

Brooks thought for a moment, resting his head atop his closed fist.

"That I do. That I do. Good talking, Samuel."

"And to you as well, friend," the priest replied, grinning softly.

The mage turned back to his work. However, he quickly turned back to his friend, eyes lit up.

"How would you like to learn magic?"

"So, what was that all about, Desmond?"

Lester turned to the taguel, mounted atop his divine steed. Desmond glanced at the paladin from the horse adjacent to Lester's briefly before turning away and rummaging through the pack hanging from his right shoulder.

"Don't mind him. Just Brooks being Brooks, as usual."

Lester shook his head, grinning slightly.

"No, no. Not that. The whole 'talking to animals' bit," the paladin said, laughing heartily. Desmond was shocked by Lester's sudden outburst, as it was quite uncharacteristic of him.

"What baseless conjecture!"

"No, he's right," the taguel responded monotonically.

"I mean, Brooks says quite a few strange things—" Lester paused, taken aback at Desmond's remark. "Wait, beg pardon?"

"It's true. Of course I can. Have you not noticed my ears?" Desmond lifted his ears up and shook them for emphasis.

"I know about your ears, Desmond, but that hardly explains—"

"Well, it's more of a 'mutual understanding,'" Desmond interrupted. "But I know what they are saying and they understand me as well. In fact, I've carried a few conversations with Ranofer since we've set out on this journey."

Lester's eyes widened in shock.

"You mean to say that you know what my horse is thinking? Simply remarkable! Tell me, what has she said to you? I must know!"

Desmond shook his finger at the newly-enthusiastic paladin mockingly.

"Uh-uh. What we have talked about is between the two of us."

Noticing the paladin's disappointment, Desmond continued, "But I will say that you have a very loyal companion. She's brave, following you around like this."

"Do you mean every word of this?"

"Of course I do," Desmond replied with a smile.

"I thank you, then," Lester replied with a grin of his own. "Ranofer's been a good friend of mine ever since she was born. She was the steed I was raised to ride, and the one that I will die on."

"I remember her telling me the same of you. I don't have any words to describe the bond you two have."

"Really? Has she?" The paladin patted the top of Ranofer's head comfortingly. "Thank you for staying with me this long, friend."

The horse whinnied in appreciation, causing Lester to beam brightly.

Recollecting his composure, he turned once again to Desmond.

"Tell me, what is it like being a taguel? I suppose it's quite unlike being a human."

Desmond's expression became downcast as he tilted his head towards the tawny horse's mane.

"You'd be right, Lester. But it isn't really the happiest existence around."

"Oh?" Lester replied, tilting his head to the side questioningly. "Why might that be? I'm afraid my knowledge on taguel lifestyle is rather… limited."

Desmond nodded in understanding before interlocking his fingers and closing his eyes.

"I can understand that. The outside world doesn't know much about us or our culture. I suppose I should start from the beginning, then."

"There are only two places for taguel to live these days. The first is in a traditional warren setting. They're quite few and far between, and you have to be born into them. For starters, there's a massive complex of caverns underneath the Ylisstol Fields, another underneath these Feroxian forests, and a third up in the far northern reaches of the Feroxian Mountains."

"These warrens," Lester interjected, "Just how large are they, exactly?"

"From what I've heard, they're absolutely massive. The Ylissean one, especially. If a human got lost in there, they'd probably never be able to return to the surface alive. But that's all word of mouth, mostly."

"The second place, though, is a human-taguel settlement up in the very northern expanses of Regna Ferox. So far isolated that very few of the East Feroxians even know about the place." That's where I grew up."

"A human and taguel joint settlement? Remarkable."

"It really was a great place to grow up, to be sure. Except for one thing…"

"What would that be?"

"Remember the far northern taguel warren I told you about earlier? That was the home of the Gray Claw."

"The Gray Claw?" Lester questioned, "I haven't exactly heard of them. Who are they?"

"They're kind of the taguel equivalent of the Sons of Naga, in a way; a group of purists, and violent ones at that."

"That doesn't seem… logical, I would say. Aren't all taguel mostly human? The last of the pure taguel died generations ago."

"That's exactly the problem," Desmond replied, thinking back to past traumatic events, "They still think themselves better than the other taguel. On top of that, they worshiped Greatmother Panne to an even greater extent than the rest of us, forgetting that she was allied with humans."

"Either way, they frequently raided our village, killing citizens and looting shops. Since we were peaceful people, our guard was very meager and often overrun by the Gray. We just didn't have the arms nor will to fight back. When we caught wind of an attack, we often evacuated the village and just let them have whatever of ours they wanted."

"My, that sounds absolutely terrible," Lester responded, his voice tinged with sadness, "I suppose I understand why you left, now."

Desmond shook his head, his ears dangling like loose streamers.

"That's not it. The village is still there, in better health than ever."

"Oh? Do tell."

"Of course," Desmond said, nodding.

"You're right that the Gray Claw had their way with our village and destroyed it. Several times, actually. But we always managed to rebuild before they came back."

"When I was younger—gods, I must have been only eleven years, then—the Gray had come again for another invasion and raiding. But this time, we hadn't heard of any plans and were unable to evacuate before they came. A lot of the villagers lost their lives that day, human and taguel alike. My parents were subject to the same fate."

Desmond paused as he recalled the event, a saddened visage overtaking his face. Lester smiled reassuringly at his friend, yet said nothing. Eventually, Desmond cleared his throat.

"But something happened that day that none of us expected in the least. As the Gray tore through the streets, someone that none of us had ever seen before appeared. His name was Roderik of Ferox, and he was a very big and very angry East Feroxian."

"Eastern?" Lester asked, shock evident in his tone. "I can't say I've ever met a friendly East Feroxian in my life."

"He was a man who was above borders. He cared little for the name of his nation, rather the people inside it were his main concern. And since we lived in the east, he took it upon himself to protect us. He eventually became the one that taught me to fight."

"I remember him storming into the village with an air that disturbed even the Gray Claw taguel. That's when he began his attack. See, the reason you've probably never heard of the Gray Claw is because all of them are dead now."

Lester's eyes widened.

"You're saying that this one man killed every last one of them?"

"That he did," Lester confirmed, nodding. "At least, the large majority of them. I'm not sure how, exactly. It was like pain wasn't concerning to him. He cut through each and every one before a few of them had run off for the hills. After that, he told everyone who wished to protect their homeland to follow him to Coliseum East Ferox. That's where I learned to use an axe under his teachings."

"He taught us that strength didn't only lie in our beaststones. True strength stems from a pure mind and a powerful will."

"That's impressive. Very much so," Lester remarked. "If only I could meet this man. He sounds like an excellent tutor."

"He was," Desmond agreed. "He was more of a friend, actually, than a teacher. Marching into danger without a second thought, but rather a laugh as he threw caution to the wind. Around a year ago, we invaded straight into the heart of the Gray Claw's warren, finishing the last of them off."

"Was it overkill? Probably. But at the time, I just wanted to make them feel the same pain that we felt for all of those years. As we returned, though, Roderik was arrested by the guard and executed for dodging the military draft."

"And the world was robbed of an excellent man," Lester assured, "Most East Feroxians could stand to learn from his example."

"I agree, Lester. After his death, I left Ferox for Ylisse. That's when I met Brooks, of all people, who had just left his caravan. And once the two of us arrived in Ylisse, we met you and Samuel. You know the rest of the story."

The two were quiet for a moment, only the sound of trotting hooves and rustling branches permeated the expanse of dense pine forest.

"I have but one more question for you, Desmond. Is this why you don't use your beaststone anymore?"

"Anymore? I've never used it to begin with," Desmond confessed.

"Never?"

"Not once. By the time that the need arose for me to fight, Roderik had already shown me the ways of the axe."

"So what is it, then? From white I've heard, taguel are remarkably powerful in their beast forms."

Desmond searched through his bag momentarily before pulling out the purple stone in question. He held it in his hand, staring into it fearfully.

"You'd be right about that. I'm proud of my heritage, Lester, but after seeing the destruction a beast taguel can bring upon others, its power simply isn't for me." With that, the taguel stowed the stone, making sure that it ended up in the very bottom of his bag.

"I… hadn't thought of that," Lester said apologetically. "Forgive me."

"No offense taken. But should we ever need to fight, you'll see that I don't need a beaststone in combat. I'm more than capable with the axe Roderik gave to me."

Desmond smiled, and unsheathed his beautiful steel-edged iron axe, the blade gleaming in a small ray of orange-tinged sunlight striking through the ever-thickening barrier of clouds.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Samuel asked, his voice tinged with concern. Brooks had given the priest the spellbook, which he held in his hands much like a squire would hold his master's unwieldy sword.

"Yeah, sure," Brooks replied nonchalantly. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Brooks took the book from Samuel and opened it to the first page. He pointed at the image portrayed on the paper.

"This is Fire. It should be the easiest for a beginner to cast. It's the most basic form that anima magic can take. Why not give it a try?"

Samuel scratched his beard, replying hesitantly, "Alright, I suppose. If you're sure…"

"It's pretty simple, really. It's all in drawing the magic from out of the book."

Brooks lightly brushed the surface of the paper with his fingertip.

"See, the magic is mostly inside the paper. It's true that you need to have an innate magical proficiency to even think about spellcasting, but you just need to understand how powerful the spell lurking inside the page is."

Samuel's eyes darted around nervously.

"A-alright. I'm going to give it a shot."

Brooks clapped his hands once.

"Perfect! I'll be here if things get out of control. But don't be discouraged if you can't do it yet, since it takes a lot of work and patience to be mage."

"So what should I be doing now?" Samuel asked nervously.

"It's kind of like reaching into a bucket of water to pull out a rock. That's how I've come to think of it, at least. If you do it right, the 'rock' should appear in your hand as magical energy. Just try to picture that in your head for now."

The priest nodded in acknowledgement. Closing his eyes, he imagined that a small bucket lay before him. Inside, was a smooth, red pebble resting comfortably at the bottom of the smooth water. A fiery energy danced within the stone, causing the water to glow a soft orange color.

Reaching for the pebble, Samuel felt his hand grow cold as it broke the surface of the water. He grasped the pebble in his hand, lifting it triumphantly out of the water. As it broke the surface, a terrible burning sensation imbued his hand.

"Gah! Hot!"

The priest unconsciously threw the pebble down at the ground below him. As Samuel slowly opened his eyes, he realized exactly what he had done.

The floor of the wagon had caught fire.

"Dammit! Hand me that!" Brooks commanded, uncharacteristically serious. He quickly flipped through the pages until it landed on the page detailing the wind spell. Channeling briefly, he shot a powerful gust of wind at the blaze, snuffing it out quickly.

Brooks stared at the scorch mark, wondering how exactly to explain the burn to the friend he had lent it from.

"You two okay back—good gods, where did all that smoke come from, Brooks?" Lester had halted his conversation with Desmond, and was staring unassuredly at the cart.

"Yeah, we're fine!" Brooks said, covering for his friend. "Accidentally shot a fireball. Magical experiment, my bad."

"You're paying for the damages, Brooks, not me. Remember that." Lester's glare was that of deadly seriousness.

The mage scratched the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. Lester turned away from the scene, continuing to converse with the taguel.

The silence was deafening in the cart for a moment, before Brooks spoke up to break the awkwardness.

"Well… on the bright side, you got it on your first time!" Brooks said, turning to the melancholy priest and grinning nervously.

"Gods damn it. I expected something like this to happen," Samuel grumbled.

Brooks comfortingly wrapped his arm around Samuel's shoulders.

"Cheer up, pal. Not many can claim to have drawn out a Fire spell perfectly on their first try. It was my fault, though, that the wagon got burned. I thought a trial by fire would be fitting."

Brooks grinned sheepishly as Samuel furled his brow.

"I get it, I get it!" Brooks continued, "Next time, we'll start you on Wind. But I believe you have a promising future as a sage!"

"I think I'll stick to healing for now, thanks," the priest sighed.

"Suit yourself. If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Sneaking one last glance at the smoke filled cart, Lester met his gaze with Desmond's once again.

"Does he usually do that?" Lester asked. "You know him better than I do, after all."

"That I do," Desmond agreed, nodding his head and recalling how he had met the zany mage from his travels from East Ferox to Ylisse. "But Brooks is very careful with his magic. He may not look that way on the outside, but I can attest to it. Samuel was the one who cast Fire, actually."

"Samuel? Impossible!"

"Once again, you underestimate the power of my ears." Desmond lifted his ears up to make a perfect horizontal line to demonstrate his point.

"I heard their entire conversation. By the looks of it, Samuel wants to learn magic."

"Really? He doesn't seem like the type of person to be interested in actual combat. Probably from his sheltered childhood."

"Sheltered?" Desmond dropped his ears, causing them to strike his bare shoulders with an audible thump.

"From what he told me, he went straight from school to priesthood before I found him. I don't think he's actually seen combat yet."

Desmond didn't respond. The horse-drawn wagon clattered on in silence for several minutes, the wind picking up to an audible gale and the sparse snowflakes beginning to fall became much more frequent and dense.

The snow produced an eerie quiet, enhanced by the near-setting sun. It seemed that all sound had been drained from their surroundings besides the constant clatter of the horses and the cart wheels. The clouds above seemed to be lowering from above, foretelling the arrival of heavy fog. A voice spoke calmly to Desmond, snapping him out of his calm meditation.

"O-oh, sorry, Lester. I didn't hear what you said."

"My apologies. I didn't notice how relaxed you were," Lester cleared his throat, and continued, "Anyway, I have been pondering about what you've told me earlier."

"Oh?"

"Your story reminds me of my own. I cannot shake the thought of how similar the two are."

"So you've been sidling up to some fine taguel women, then," Desmond jeered with a laugh. "I knew you had it in you, Lester!"

"Yes, that's exactly—I beg your pardon?!" Lester cried, taken aback by Desmond's jest.

"Nothing, nothing... " Desmond dismissed, still laughing furiously. "Anyhow, tell me more. You listened to me rant, so the least I can do is listen to your story."

"Here I am, about to pour the entirety of my heart out to you… ah, forget it. I assure you, there are no taguel women to speak of in my story."

"How disappointing…"

Lester couldn't decide to make a face of disgust or join in with the taguel's jeering, eventually deciding to settle with a drawn out sigh.

"Ahem, let me begin with my story, please. You recall the time I told the three of you—"

"Hate to interrupt you guys, but how much longer to we have to go before we get to Stormguard?"

Brooks' sudden comment caused the paladin to groan loudly.

"You know what? We can discuss this matter later, Desmond."

"But I was getting so excited?" Desmond's statement sounded more like a question than an answer, adding to Lester's vexation.

"No more!" the paladin interrupted loudly, "I will not have it!"

"Hello? Are you two there? I can't see through this fog so—"

"Yes! Yes, yes yes! We should be arriving at the border pass momentarily," Lester shouted, frustration almost boiling over.

"Is that it over there?" Desmond asked, gesturing forward to a large, dark bricked structure that towered over the massive pine trees. Its high walls were a sight to behold, massive enough to conceal half of the horizon if not for the heavy cloud coverage plaguing the area.

The clouds above had gathered forebodingly thick above, the snowfall precipitating at a steady rate. The setting sun was concealed completely, providing an atmosphere comparable to that of the dead of night. The gate watchers had lit signal and guidance lanterns to compensate for the lack of natural sunlight.

"Ah, there it is," Brooks commented. "What with the cloud coverage and all—"

Brooks paused abruptly, concern evident in his eyes.

"Wait a moment… something is not right here."

Samuel joined the mage at the helm of the cart, poking his head outside the cloth wagon covering.

"Something's not right…?" the white-robed priest inquired. "It looks okay to me."

"No, Samuel. I've gone through this border pass several times. More than several, actually."

Brooks' jovial personality was lost as deadly graveness replaced it.

"I may not have been to Stormguard or the Homely Hearth specifically, or even to the Stormguard area, but this gate is like a second home to me. And not once have I recalled the portcullis being shut."

Brooks was correct; the gate was definitely fastened shut. The iron plating made the border appear more like a prison than anything else. Through the fog, people were moving about atop the gate and around it hurriedly.

"That can be explained logically," Lester rationalized, "Stormguard was just under siege. The Western soldiers are probably just on high alert from that."

"Still, I don't like the situation in the least. At least have weapons at the ready, just in case. This just doesn't seem right."

"Alright, fair enough. We'll be prepared for anything," Lester responded reassuringly. "If they attack, we will be on guard."

The cart rattled on, approaching the devastatingly bleak structure. Silence permeated the group of four, as the comparatively tiny cart approached the goliath wall. As the cart stopped, an armored guard, very much Feroxian, approached the halted wagon.

"Oi, you lot! What business have you in Ferox?"

"Khan, I've brought you something," Aniam's commander pulled his head through the simple gray tent flaps that marked the Khan's personal tent.

The East Feroxian military had set up camp only one day's journey from the Western Arena, just in time for night to set in and the snowfall to pick up. For Feroxians, the weather at around this time of year was remarkably average.

The Khan sat upon his wooden seat, looking something quite like a throne. His interest piqued at his commander's call.

"Lambert? What've you got?"

Entering the Khan's temporary abode, Lambert tossed a black bottle into the air towards Aniam. He deftly caught it before turning the label side up.

"East Feroxian Pale? They still have that here?" the Khan questioned, confused. As far as his memory went, Westerners had stopped drinking anything that was traditionally Eastern.

"Apparently," Lambert remarked, pulling up a wooden chair that had been positioned in front of a table holding nothing save a single Feroxian map.

"The town that my battalion passed earlier on the way to Stormguard had some Eastern sympathisers running a tavern, so I picked that up on my way. There's a couple more where that came from, too."

"You know me well, commander. No wonder I gave you that promotion before we started our conquest. You put in the best of work in and off the battlefield!" The Khan heartily laughed at his own joke, his commander sharing in his emotion.

"I do try my very best, sir. Anyway, how does the night find you?"

"It's cold. Just the way I like it. And you brought me my favorite brew, so I'm in a better mood than I have been in years!"

Lambert smiled, noticing his Khan's joy. He had become almost a brother to him since the murder of his father.

"Glad to hear it, sir. But there was another reason that I came to seek you, though," the commander's expression became noticeably more difficult to read, as if he was unsure how to deliver the information to his superior.

Aniam noticed this, and leaned in closer towards his commander and friend.

"What is it, Lambert? I'm all ears." His tone became quite sympathetic upon seeing his commander's troubling expression.

"It's just… one of our privates who was present at the siege of Stormguard has told me he has some very troubling news from the battle. He hasn't told me yet since he keeps saying that he can only give this information to you specifically," Lambert said, before exhaling slightly louder than normal.

"He seems quite rattled too, sir. Shall I go fetch him?"

The Khan's eyes narrowed, unsure quite how to handle the situation. The only thing he hated more than his Western adversaries was discontent among his soldiers. Aniam closed his eyes, nodding.

"I see. Bring him to me, please."

Lambert stood from his chair before snapping a slightly awkward salute. As he approached the tent flap, Aniam piped up from behind him.

"Lambert… forget the salute. We are friends, and almost equals in my eyes. It is a formality that you nor anyone else of your rank needs to do."

The commander stopped in his tracks, holding the tent open slightly. Without turning his head to hide his surprised expression, he bowed his head low.

"I… okay. I understand. Pardon me for a moment."

With that, Lambert exited the tent and into the snowstorm outside.

The Khan slumped into his wooden throne, his good mood well and gone. What could happened at Stormguard? The city had been destroyed, and his target was not recovered, but otherwise the mission was a success.

Or was it?

Before he could theorize too much, the front of the tent reopened. A young man, who could not have been more than seventeen years of age, with Lambert corralling him into Aniam's presence. He was dressed in a simple red private's uniform, with an iron sword strapped to his side. The private was visibly shaking, and his eyes darted around the tent nervously.

Aniam stood from his throne, adopting an expression of worry.

"You there, are you alright? May I have your rank and squadron?"

The private began to stammer something that neither Lambert nor Aniam could make out. He cleared his throat, still shaking all the while, before saluting smartly.

"S-s-s-sir! P-private Michael, s-sir! U-under Captain Z-Zachariah!"

Private Michael began to tense up as the Khan approached, bottle of Pale in hand.

"Private Michael, I'm going to need you to calm down. I've heard that you have information that I need to know."

"Ye-yes, sir! I will attempt to calm down, sir!"

As he spoke he still held his salute, not daring to drop it in front of his Khan.

"For gods sake, son, drop the damned salute and drink this bottle from top to bottom."

"B-but!"

"That's a goddamn order! Cut the salute, and drink the alcohol!"

The private's eyes widened in shock, not understanding exactly why his superior had ordered him to a casual position and to drink on duty without proper cause. Nevertheless, he did as he was commanded, tilting the base of the black bottle upwards until its entire content had disappeared down his throat.

A rosy blush began to appear across the private's face, his rapid breathing beginning to slow down as the alcohol began to dull his nerves. Eventually, the kick from the powerful beverage knocked back Michael into a chair that Lambert surreptitiously had pulled up for the panicked private as he drank.

Eventually, Michael spoke, "Thhanks sir, I neeeeded that." As the alcohol took hold of his mind, his words began to slur, his eyes comically glazed over.

"What a lightweight," the Khan muttered under his breath before coughing into his hand. "Now Michael, I have been informed that you have extremely important information regarding the events at Stormguard. I hate to push you, but it is valuable for me to know what you know."

The private blinked before being drawn away from his alcohol-induced reverie, almost seeming to sober up instantly.

"Oh, yes, that," he whispered, a frown appearing on his face. He hiccuped once before continuing. "I can tell you that. But I don't think you'll like what I have to say."

"All the more reason for you to tell me, son." Aniam grinned in an almost fatherlike manner at Michael, coaxing him on.

Eventually he surrendered with a quiet, "Okay."

The private closed his eyes to gather his thoughts. Immediately after they opened, he began.

"My battalion approached Stormguard in the dead of night, but well rested enough to fight proudly. Captain Zachariah had gone all out for his assault on the town, I think because it was the first important mission you assigned him to."

Aniam nodded in agreement, before gesturing for him to continue with the wave of his pointer and middle finger to the side, as if turning pages in a battle report.

"He had brought more pitch throwers, cannons, and ballistae than I had ever seen in my life. We must have brought well over one hundred siege weapons. Anyway, we began our assault and people started running from the fires."

The private's breath began to quiver as he continued to more delicate topics.

"The captain ordered some of the better equipped soldiers to take down the town guard. For us privates, he ordered us to round up the townspeople. And then he…"

Michael stopped, unable to continue. Noticing this, Aniam spoke, his tone hurried.

"And then he what, Michael? May I remind you that this information is extremely important?"

"I know, I know, sorry, sir. He… he ordered us to kill each and every one of them. I knew that was against Feroxi honor, but the captain said he'd have our heads if we didn't follow his order. So I did. I killed them all. Innocent and defenseless women, children, and men. Some were holding babies. And then he told us to burn the bodies and bury them in the snow before your arrival."

Michael was visibly shaking, not daring to look up at his Khan. Aniam's expression became grim, his voice visibly attempting to conceal rage.

"I understand. You are not at fault, Michael, and neither are the others who spilled innocent blood yesterday. Return to your barracks, private. I will handle the situation."

Private Michael lifted his gaze to see Aniam's expression, surprisingly one of understanding, feigned or no. Bowing slightly, he thanked the Khan and hurried as quickly as he could from the simple gray tent.

At the private's departure, Khan Aniam allowed his rage to boil over into his expression and his speech, deadly venom tinging his words.

"Bring me the captain, Lambert. And bring me my axe."

Nothing but the incandescent light of candles illuminated the simple gray hovel that was Khan Aniam's personal quarters as Captain Zachariah pushed through the thin flaps that separated the warm interior from the frigid nighttime Feroxi air. The snow had finally died down as the night waxed into stages of midnight, yet the wind still howled and the arctic chill permeated the vulnerable Eastern camp.

Zachariah shivered as the change in temperature became more apparent. He kicked the packed snow off of his plated war boots before continuing down the admonishingly long red carpet to the wooden throne that the Khan of the East sat upon. Zachariah's expression became similarly wooden as he noticed his superior's demeanor.

The captain had never seen his lord with anything worse than a neutral expression. Anger was an emotion that he did not believe Khan Aniam possessed. Yet there it was, written across his face like a hastily scrawled warning sign at the entrance of a darkened swamp.

"Run, now," his mind warned him, yet his feet did not permit the movement. He knew he must face the wrath of the Khan, but for what?

Aniam shifted his grip on the axe he held, the weapon's head pointed into the ground. Yet he did not speak, and simply waited for the captain to make the first move.

"You called upon me, sir?" Zachariah noticed his voice waver slightly as he saluted, and hoped his lord had not detected his sign of weakness.

Unwavering, the Khan gave a neutral reply without showing any change in facial expression.

"That I did, captain."

Zachariah could taste the venom on his lips. Whatever Khan Aniam wanted with him, he knew it was not going to end well.

"Drop to your knees, scum," Aniam ordered, his anger threatening to boil over as he stood from his simple throne. The captain obeyed as commanded, not daring to oppose his leader.

"Forgive my question, Khan, but what is this—"

"You will know when I will it, vermin. Now tell me; what were the orders that I gave you when I tasked you with the destruction of Stormguard?"

"I… you said you wanted the city laid to waste, the guards dismantled, and—"

"The axe. What ended up happening to that axe I asked you to find for me?"

Zachariah's breathing became labored. He knew what this about, now. His failure to return the axe his lord requested…

"Forgive me, my Khan, but neither the axe nor its wielder were discovered."

"Ah, so neither were discovered, then?" the Khan asked sarcastically. "I do not like your word choice, but that explains plenty, actually. And that is not why I have brought you here, either."

"It—"

"Of course not. I'll find Colin eventually and pry Hauteclere from his cold and dead hands. Wherever he may be, my armies will find him."

"Then what—"

"SILENCE!" the Khan's voice rang out in anger. Birds ceased their chirping, the gale winds died down outside, and somewhere a man stopped midway between casting a Fire spell to light his campfire.

"You will speak no more until I order it specifically. Am I clear?"

The question elicited no response from the captain.

"Excellent. I am glad you understand. The reason you are kneeling pathetically under me is not because of what you were unable to do, but rather what you did do."

Aniam turned his back on the kneeling captain, tilting his chin towards the tent ceiling.

"Retell the events of the siege in your own words."

Zachariah coughed, shaking madly.

"W-we brought the siege weapons to the town as you commanded. I ordered the first round of cannonfire, rousing the guards. We cut them down easily. Afterwards, I sent some of my more experienced soldiers into the town while I ordered the privates—oh gods…"

Realization dawned upon the captain. He knew what Khan Aniam wanted with him.

"The privates…?"

"I ordered the privates to cut down the townsfolk," Zachariah finished his earlier sentence hastily before dropping his head low. The Khan turned around once again.

"Do you recall what the people you ordered the privates to murder were holding, captain?" Aniam's voice was unnaturally calm as he addressed the captain.

"N-nothing, sir, save for—"

"CHILDREN! Goddamn INFANTS, at that! And then you ordered the privates to burn them all before I arrived at the battlefield! You didn't even grant them a proper burial!"

The captain did not respond. His shaking intensified at the sound of his admired leader's fury.

"You forget even the most basic of Feroxi rules of war!" The Khan positioned his axe offensively, taking long and heavy strides towards the kneeling captain.

"Honor, Zachariah. No matter how dire the war, no matter who the enemy is on the other side of the field… you must never relinquish it."

The Khan stood near the fallen captain, towering over his crumpled visage like a colossus over men.

"And what has been reported to me was the most disgusting abandon of basic honor and rights of the enemy that I have ever had the misfortune of witnessing."

Still pointing his weapon downwards, he thrust the pointed tip of his silver war axe into the wrist of the captain, rousing an agonizing cry of pain.

"They're… Western," the captain managed to sputter, "They… deserve to die…"

"I do not CARE, captain! They may have been responsible for the split of our homeland…" as he spoke, Aniam twisted the axe in the captain's wrist, causing Zachariah's cries of torment to escalate.

"…and they are right to be hated, but that does not remove their basic human right to honor!"

Aniam thrust the axe downward with as much force as he could muster, severing the captain's left hand. As he cried out, crimson blood began to pour rapidly out of the open wound, staining the carpeted floor.

"And for your transgression," the Khan spoke softly, his anger petering out, "you lose your left hand. Count yourself lucky that I did not take your sword arm."

Zachariah stifled his cries, his teeth clenching to hold back the pain.

"If I had taken your other hand, you'd be worse than dead. But I am generous, so you will keep your battalion, rank, and ability to fight. But if you dare fail me again…"

Aniam lowered his face until it was mere inches from Zachariah's, his gaze narrowing as he stared into his captain's fearful eyes.

"You will lose your right hand, and after that your head. Do I make myself explicitly clear, captain?"

Zachariah only managed to nod, his teeth still clenched in pain.

"I will hear you say it, Zachariah."

"Sir… yes, sir," he responded, managing to fight back the cries of suffering he harbored at the back of his throat.

"Excellent. Now go find yourself a healer, captain. You're spilling your filth all over my floor."

Roster

No.001 Nila

A resident of Plegia and descendent of one of the famous time travelers of Ylissean past, Morgan. Although weakly, he carries the same blood of Grima used to revive the fell dragon generations ago. He was a tactician for the Plegian Mercenaries in the past, who eventually dissolved under his leadership.

The most likely fall asleep while reading.

Born on December 20th, age 24.

Class: Tactician (Sword|Anima, Dark from Shadowgift)

No.002 Matthew

The leader of a group of fighters known as the Justice Brigade, who prefers the name Matt. He brought the group together after he and Hunter fled a devastated city in Western Ferox, one of the first Western settlements destroyed by the marauding nation. His confident personality is what the Justice Brigade's foundation stands upon, yet he harbors doubts of his own sometimes.

The one who slouches the most.

Born on January 2nd, age 21.

Class: Wyvern Lord (Axe|Lance)

No.003 Hunter

A Feroxian duelist with a deadly mastery of swordplay. He has lived in not one, but two villages that have been razed by magic-wielding bandits or conquesting Easterners. The loss of his sister invoked a keen sense of justice within him and a fear of magic and fire.

The least fond of parlor tricks.

Born on January 25th, age 22.

Class: Swordmaster (Sword)

No.004 Chastity

An Ylissean Falcon Knight—who prefers to go by Chast—with pale white skin and red eyes. Her albinism runs in the family, being shared with her father. She had high hopes of joining the Ylissean cavalry, yet was advised to pursue a separate line of work by her father. She instead took up work as a mercenary, and eventually met Matt after he saved her life.

The one with the scariest glare.

Born on October 29th, age 17.

Class: Falcon Knight (Lance|Staff)

No.005 Marius

A peculiar fighter hailing from Stormguard. Initially striving to be a scholar, Marius studied magic diligently throughout his childhood. However, he shifted priorities when bands of rogue dark mages attacked the settlement. With his interesting combination of swords, Anima, and throwing axes, he joined the enthusiastic Justice Brigade to put his skills to the test.

The one with the worst sense of humor.

Born on April 1st, age 20.

Class: Dread Fighter (Sword|Axe|Anima)

No.006 Valkus

A Valmese quartermaster who tolerates nonsense of no kind. After a false claim of fraudulence, Valkus chartered a ship to the Ylissean continent. She joined the Justice Brigade after falling to them in a battle to mete out justice for herself and others. How this beauty's personality meshes with the jovial brigade is a mystery.

The most likely to enjoy taking inventory.

Born on March 25th, age 28.

Class: General (Lance|Axe)

No.007 ?

…

*New* No.008 Lester

A seasoned veteran and guardian of Ylissean royalty. Lester began his training for knighthood at the young age of seven. He failed to protect the lord he was sworn to from a powerful East Feroxian warlord. He formed the Ylissean Vanguard in an attempt right the mistakes that he brought upon the halidom.

The longest bather.

Born on May 15th, age 20.

Class: Paladin (Sword|Lance)

*New* No.009 Desmond

One of the rare taguel who bounced back from the brink of extinction. Desmond is one of the few taguel who have refused to their cultural roots of warren life. He trained under a man who fought against the Gray Claw, a taguel purist society that threatened his home. He refuses to use his beaststone.

The one with the biggest rock collection.

Born on August 8th, age 19.

Class: Taguel Fighter (Axe|Beaststone)

*New* No.010 Samuel

An Ylissean priest of minor nobility. His rigorous education led him to priesthood, where he trained in the Holy Church of Naga to heal his allies. After being denied entry to the Ylissean military, he was recruited by Lester to heal for the Ylissean Vanguard.

The best at insulting others.

Born on July 14th, age 21.

Class: Scholar (Staff|Anima)

*New* No.011 Brooks

A mage of Ylissean background that has traveled the world across. With his traveling mage caravan, he saw the shores of Valm, the peaks of both Feroxes, the sands of Plegia, and the rolling hills of Ylisse. Longing to be greater than an entertainer, he left his caravan to create his own adventures.

The one with dirt on absolutely everyone.

Born on March 10th, age 25.

Class: Mage (Anima)

No.012 ?

…