Chast stood back to back with her fellow brigadiers, each holding their weapons defensively towards the approaching Sons of Naga. The three were obviously outarmed, with only half the manpower that the Sons boasted. But Chast didn't care. In the pit of her stomach, she felt a burning, righteous sensation akin to her usual fiery resolve in battle.

Even against the roaring bonfire of her furor, a tiny drop of doubt worked against her. She was without Owar, her best friend and companion. The Falcon Knight could count on one hand how many times she had done battle without her trusty steed, and very few ever tipped in her favor.

Without her Falcon, a Falcon Knight was nothing more than a knight.

Chast raised her spear ever so slightly higher as she pressed her back forcefully into those of her companions'. Her forearms trembled, but her grip on her new regal lance did not waver. No matter how afraid she was, she had a duty to protect her friends and the innocent.

As the white-gold armored Sons sprung into action, so too did Chast. The three Brigadiers dashed forward, engaging in combat with two different Sons. The young Ylissean was unable to see the enemies Marius and Valkus were fighting, but soon found herself face-to-face with the two Sons to her immediate front: a white-robed mage and a heavily armored axeman.

The Falcon Knight immediately put pressure on the lesser-armored mage, using her speed to her advantage. Chast leapt through the air, dodging a well-aimed Thunder aimed directly for her head. She landed on the opposite side of the mage, too distant for the axe-wielding general to engage. She knew that she wouldn't be able to fight against an axe, as the constant threat of the heavy weapon splitting her thin, four-pronged lance in two was far too prevalent.

Her distance, however, put her at an extreme disadvantage against the mage. Changing spells with a quick turn of his spellbook page, the white-robed spellcaster lobbed a massive ball of fire through the air. Chast barely sidestepped the inferno, licks of flame only managing to singe the outer layer of her gold-trimmed armor. The threat of the mage was out of the way, but as she glanced upwards she noticed a more dangerous predicament. The dodge managed place herself right in front of the armored general, whose axe was lifted above his head in preparation.

Chast knew that she wouldn't be able to completely dodge his blow, dodging back as far as she could while bracing herself in preparation. The white-steel head of the axe tore through her ivory breastplate, the wicked edge sinking ever so slightly into her pale skin. The Ylissean gasped in shock and pain as she felt bone give way as she recoiled backwards into the granite wall of a building.

Sanguine blood began to pour from the deadly wound as she felt the strength drain from her left arm. The general's axe had torn through her left collarbone, dragging all the way to the center of her chest. Her stricken arm lay uselessly at her side, but her spear was light enough for her to manage with her remaining hand.

The armored general had given her little time to think, immediately following up with a second overhead strike with his massive cleaver. This time, however, Chast was prepared for his strike, and nimbly rolled away while the general's weapon tore through the soft stone wall.

The armored Son's weapon split a wide gash, holding fast into the wall. Despite the general's apparent strength, he struggled to remove his massive axe from the stone. Chast desperately wanted to take advantage of the Son's disabled state, but she knew her weapon would do so precious little against his massive husk of armor.

She instead turned her attention to the mage, who was preparing a third spell. Despite the grievous injuries she had suffered, the Falcon Knight charged towards the white-robed spellcaster, her regal lance at the ready. The Son showed no signs of intimidation, standing his ground as the Brigadier approached him. Verdant green lines of magic ran down the spellcaster's hand as he pulled a wind-class spell from his tome. Yellow spellcasting runes surrounded the mage as he let the deadly Elwind spell fly.

Chast twirled her gilded, four-pronged lance in her sole still-working hand, ripping apart the green, coalesced air particles. Such a spell would have been a death sentence if she was atop Owar, but her unexpectedly strategic grounded position allowed her to approach unharmed.

The magic-wielding Son braced himself for the inevitable, making no attempt to flee from the encroaching Falcon Knight. Chast twirled her spear once more, plunging the wicked prongs through the thin white cloth covering the spellcaster's heart. The fabric quickly became stained a vibrant scarlet as the powerful mage gave a last, weak breath.

As Chast slid the gilded spearhead from the lifeless mage's body, her legs gave way, nearly sending her crashing to the cold stone walkway. Still firmly clutching her spear, the Falcon Knight placed her hand to her gaping axe wound. As she drew her hand away, Chast nearly fainted when she discovered that her entire hand was coated in her bright-red blood. Glancing down, she also came to the realization that the blood wasn't isolated to the wound. It poured from the gash, staining her incandescently white armor a sickening scarlet.

In the time it took Chast to examine her wounds, however, the armored Son managed to free his axe from the building's wall, and was charging towards her at an alarmingly fast pace for a human bulwark. As blood seeped from her axe-wound, her vision split in two and her head lightened. The Falcon Knight knew that she wouldn't be able to fight for much longer before either bleeding out or being torn in two by the massively-armored Son of Naga.

The general struck with another overhand blow, which Chast dodged before the massive white axe tore into the ground. The Son was quicker to remove his wicked blade from the ground this time, and immediately swung lengthwise. Chast held her lance's hilt out to parry the blow, which surprisingly did not snap the regal weapon.

The Falcon Knight backed into another wall, her head light from blood loss. Her legs finally gave way, sending her to the dusty Abnorun street. The Son stood over her bloodied body, axe at the ready to take the Falcon Knight's life. He raised his vibrantly white axe, the edge stained with blood, above his head, ready to deal the finishing blow.

Before he could let the guillotine fall, however, the heavy metal door of the building swung open, revealing a black-aproned man with a massive hammer over his shoulder. He took a step forward from the doorway, letting his mighty blunt weapon fall upon the heavily armored Son. His intricate, white-plated cuirass caved in to accommodate the great hammer's path, shattering the massive man's right shoulder.

The bloodstained axe he was holding crashed to the ground hilt first, the blade falling into the ground harmlessly. A second hammer blow to the chest knocked the Son to the floor, and a third to the head crumpled his intimidating helmet and shattered his skull.

Barely giving himself any time to examine the body of the fallen Son of Naga, the aproned man knelt down besides the quickly fading Chast. He muttered something, but the message was lost upon the Falcon Knight as her hearing has rapidly deteriorated as blood poured from her clavicle.

She soon felt a cool, bitter liquid pouring down her throat, which phased through her flesh and into every vein of her body. It began to take effect immediately, spearheading rapid blood clotting, and revitalizing what blood was missing. Her vision cleared, and strength returned to her weakened legs and arm.

Chast pulled herself from her crumpled position against the building wall into a weakly standing position. The elixir was fast-acting, much too quick for her body to handle. The Falcon Knight looked up, straight into the face of the shopkeeper she and Valkus met moments ago.

"You alright there, princess?" the blacksmith—who Chast vaguely recalled was named Dominic—asked, worriedness tinging his voice as he stared at the opening in her armor. "Damn. And you just bought that armor, too."

"I'll live," Chast assured, giving Dominic a nod. "Thank you, Dominic."

"Just Dom's fine. And hey, at least the guy didn't slice open your—"

Chast gave the blacksmith a steely stare, stopping his words in their tracks. He returned with a sheepish expression before averting his gaze.

"You know what? I think I'm just going to stop right there."

"I'm glad we're on the same page. Now let's move, we have a battle to win."

An arrow impaled itself in a wooden door, only a footfall behind the dark azure-armored wyvern lord as he rushed down the central road of Abnorun. Without breaking his stride, Matt swung his massive steel axe lengthwise, caving in the head of a green-cloaked Son of Naga who was foolish enough to block his way.

The gates of the walled Plegian city came into view as two brilliantly-armored Sons stepped out from behind cover; one held an ordinary bronze lance while the other carried a simple iron sword. Whatever the Sons were planning to do, they failed to account for someone actually uncovering their plot. Besides those that were in close pursuit of him, all those who were standing in his path of escape were weak, poorly trained units. These two were no different; no matter how brilliant their armor, it was crafted solely out of weakly-connected chains, no match for Matt's steel axe.

The wyvern lord leapt through the air, straight towards the lance-wielding Son. He held his lance up in defense, the wooden base tearing in two as Matt let his axe fall. The barrier did little to slow the descent of the Feroxian wyvern lord's weapon, carving a gaping hole in the chest of the defenseless son.

The other Daughter raised her sword, her green eyes seething with hatred. Within moments, the dark-haired cultist was upon Matt, slicing furiously with her iron sword. The wyvern lord was immediately put on the defensive, dedicating every ounce of his strength to parrying with his disadvantageous weapon. The Daughter struck fiercely, unabating in her deadly blows. Matt desperately searched for an opportunity to retaliate, but the Daughter's blazing offensive proved to be quite the defensive tool.

One blow is all he would need to finish the cultist. After several more blows, Matt decided to risk everything on a desperate final gambit. As soon as the Daughter landed a blow on the broad edge of his axe, the wyvern lord shoved forward with his shoulder, disrupting the cultist's endless pummeling. The Feroxian's axe connected with the Daughter's weak chain armor from a rising crescent slice, sending her flying backwards. In the same instance, the cultist's iron sword connected with Matt's left arm, chipping his armor and connecting with his dark skin.

Matt bellowed a painful howl as the Daughter's life ebbed away before him. In a final act of defiance and anger, the wyvern lord stomped on the corpse's face, shattering her delicate nose. Giving the body a final glance, Matt turned and dashed towards the gates of Abnorun.

As if fate was finally giving the weary wyvern lord a break, no further cultists blocked his path out of the city. The gate, however, was barred shut with a heavy wooden beam. Bringing his weapon back to its roots, he hacked away at the timber, cleaving it in two. He kicked the gate open, which yielded with a heavy screech.

On the other side, Matt quickly found the friend he was looking for. Bob had broken free from the stables, which were a shattered mess behind his massive body. In the wyvern's massive jaw was the defiled corpse of a chestnut mare, with most of her flesh torn off.

"Dammit Bob, put that horse down!" Matt chastised, approaching the wyvern quickly. The massive beast turned to meet his master, dropping the corpse. The wyvern lord laid a hand on his mount's muzzle, and whispered, "The old man didn't feed you beefsteak this morning, did he?"

The wyvern stared back with deep, expressive black eyes. In all of Matt's years of experience, that expression usually meant that Bob was either apologetic or hungry. In this case, it must have been a combination of both.

"Gods, what the hell did I pay that man for?" The rider gave his mount an affectionate pat before scanning his gaze across the desecrated stables.

"Did you happen to see Owar hanging around here?" the azure-armored rider inquired, at which the wyvern responded with a gesture that could only be described as a shrug. With more fervor, Matt continued, "Chast is probably in danger. She needs her Falcon."

Bob's eyes narrowed before heavily snorting, bathing his rider in superheated air. The massive beast turned, grabbing a wooden beam in his maw and tossing it to the side. He glanced back at Matt expectantly before stepping to the side and slumping to the ground.

Immediately, frantic whinneys emanated from the collapsed building. Matt stepped inside, his attention quickly being drawn to the light-armored pegasus tied down by the muzzle to a post in the right corner of the room.

"Let me help you with that, girl," the wyvern rider soothingly spoke as he undid the knot around Owar's muzzle. The pegasus' panicked cries ceased, and the majestic animal reared up on her hind legs before charging out of the stable.

"Why thank you, Matt," the wyvern rider mocked, "Why of course, Owar. Anything for a friend. Ugh, ungrateful animal."

The dark-skinned rider followed the pegasus out of the collapsing stable door, albeit more slowly. Bob was waiting for his master exactly where he was before, staring with an analytical gaze.

"Don't you start with me," Matt warned, holding his index finger up threateningly. He waited for an answer—a reaction, even—at which the wyvern offered none.

"Alright, you. Let's go."

– – –

Matt soared above the Abnorun rooftops atop his lifelong companion, dodging the licks of flame consuming the town. He was in close pursuit of Owar, who was leading the way some several meters ahead. The rider had a feeling that Owar's connection with her knight was leading him straight to Chast. Whether it was magical or a simply deep-rooted knowing, he couldn't say for sure.

As he flew, Matt noticed that the otherwise barren streets were absolutely crawling with Sons. A sea of green and white blotted out large sections of the pale yellow or orange paving, as if multicolored ink had been dropped over an otherwise pristine piece of artwork.

Several were carrying torches, tossing them indiscriminately in shattered windows. Flames spread over swathes of the town, and were hardly isolated to the entrance that he and Owar flew over moments ago. Above everything, however, stood the Abnorun Palace atop its hill, which was surprisingly untouched from the chaos.

The coherent picture of white, green, and orange was disrupted as the fliers soared over the town center. One man, plated in basic gray amor, stood against the green tide. Several corpses of teal and ivory lay off to one side, yet the sea raged against him with a fury paralleled by the elements themselves. The fighter was holding his own with his set of twin axes, but his strength was clearly waning.

Matt yanked on his wyvern's reins, stopping the beast in midair. Unaware of her partner's halting, Owar continued on her path into the ashy plumes of smoke rising ever higher into the darkening sky. Matt followed the pegasus with his eyes briefly, tracing a northward path in his mind. With a vague idea of where to locate his Falcon Knight companion, he guided his mount down into the whirlpool of chaos.

The pair landed with a deafening boom in the center of the square, knocking all combatants off balance for a brief moment. Matt drew his steel axe, holding the colossal weapon in one hand. The twin-axe fighter gave the new entrant a furtive glance before turning his attention back to the Sons in front of him, probably assuming him a friend based on his attire.

The enormous wyvern required no commands from his master as to where to go or what to do. The pair had been fighting for long enough to at the very least understand each other in combat. Bob hovered ever so slightly above the sandstone pavement, which took an incredible mixture of red and orange color from the pillars of fire rising above the town.

The pair flew next to the modestly-armored fighter, Matt swinging his axe into the unabating waves of Sons. The two glanced at each other a moment, sharing mutual understanding, despite exchanging nary a word. The fighter sheathed his axes, grabbing Matt's outstretched arm. Despite his muscular body, Matt was able to hoist the man into Bob's saddle before quickly ascending over the madness.

A hail of arrows followed the men and the wyvern as they made their escape, none hitting their mark. The newcomer sliced the arrows that intruded the closest upon their airspace, ensuring that the wyvern's wings wouldn't be torn by the wicked projectiles.

A calm came after the storm, and the simple-armored fighter exhaled a weary sigh before slumping into the leather wyvern saddle.

"Rough out there, isn't it?" Matt asked apprehensively, placing his axe back on its place on his back and taking up his wyvern's reins.

"You're telling me," the newcomer responded between pained gasps for air, "Thanks for the save."

The fighter's voice was throaty and deep, perfectly matching his scarred, musclebound physique. His brown hair, ruffled from combat and singed at the edges, was quite short, and looked as if it would fall straight if not for the recent stress. He sported a similarly colored and burned thin beard, most likely from lack of access to a razor than out of necessity. And, to complete the look, he wore a pair of juxtaposingly thin wide-rimmed glasses.

A heavy silence hung between the two, most likely because Matt had appeared from seemingly nowhere to spirit the fighter into the sky.

"Got a name?" the wyvern rider requested in a casual tone.

Before the man had a chance to respond, a deafening explosion rattled the very sky. The bell tower adjacent to the palace had burst into flames, massive licks of raging flames carrying high into the sky. Despite the roaring inferno, however, the bell carried on ringing methodically in its doomed chamber. Back and forth it swung, and the fighter's eyes followed it as it persevered through the flames.

"Bell," he murmured, "Call me Bell."

Grace pulled her sword from the broken heart of one green-cloaked cultist, barely having enough time to parry a heavy axe strike from above and behind her head. A swift kick to the knee was enough to knock the axeman to the hard sandstone floor, and a stab to the neck was enough to take his life.

Capitalizing on a moment of downtime, the blue-cloaked myrmidon glanced around the fray, spotting Hunter darting between cultists with swift strikes and Chris slinging dark magic only a few steps away from her position. After mere moments, however, the two disappeared into the churning sea of battle.

Most of the civilians had either fled or met a terrible end at the end of a blade, but the few who remained had drawn simple bronze weaponry and joined the fray. The green-cloaked cultists had reached a staggering number, with at least twenty seemingly appearing out of nowhere. But between the aggressive civilians and the three of them, their odds of survival looked decently optimistic.

Spotting an encroaching swordsman from the corner of her eye snapped Grace out of her reverie. She quickly checked behind her, which proved to be relatively safe, before facing her opponent head on. The green-cloaked swordsman struck first with a dashing lunge, which Grace nimbly sidestepped. She thrust downward with her steel blade, which grazed the Son's shoulder before he parried the blade away.

The two broke off from each other, finding themselves caught in a brief staring match. In the moment of armistice the two shared, Grace caught a glimpse of emotion from the otherwise neutral Son; his eyes widened briefly before returning to an antagonistic, yet calm expression. The expression appeared and disappeared so quickly that Grace was hardly sure that it actually happened.

Was the Son… scared?

The Ylissean myrmidon charged forward, her opponent mirroring her steps. The two shared blows, which rang out in concussive clangs, audible over even the deafening din of battle. Each attack Grace launched met only the metal of his blade, and every strike of the Son's was read easily and parried by Grace. The two appeared to be evenly matched, but Grace was keenly aware of the Son's each and every misstep.

Eventually, an opportunity presented itself. The Son attempted to mix up his offensive onslaught with a thrust, but hesitated for a moment. This projection gave Grace the chance to bash the Son's wrist with her sword hilt, causing him to drop his blade. The blade skidded across the sandstone landing the two battled on, well out of reach. The Son's hand flew to his belt, where a knife laid in wait, but he was too slow. Grace slashed once vertically, splitting the clasp of his sea-green robe in two, before running him through the center of his chest with her sword.

The Son gasped once in surprise before falling limp on Grace's steel blade. She put her boot to the Son's stomach, kicking the corpse off of her blood-soaked sword. As the defeated Son fell, his cloak slid off of his body, fluttering away on a strong gust of wind.

The man under the cloak was a far cry from the person Grace expected to see. Before her eyes was a boy who couldn't be older than sixteen, dressed in plain peasant clothing. His blue and white checkerboard shirt was heavily stained in blood, torn in several places where the myrmidon had slashed him. And his eyes—his large, brown eyes—were expressive even in death. As if they were calling out to her to have mercy on his life.

Something immediately felt very, very wrong. How many of the green-cloaked Sons were young people being forced to fight? Were they fighting by choice?

Grace turned her eyes to the palace. If she and the others were only fighting conscripts, then that would mean…

"Oh gods, no!"

Nila charged up the red-carpeted entrance of the Aborun Palace, each footfall cutting through the eerie silence permeating the building.

"It's already too late," Other Nila taunted, laughing maniacally. His voice projected behind Nila, the echoing sound abating little as the tactician dashed through the empty halls.

"The Queen is dead, and it's all your fault! You were too late!"

"You were too late," other voices taunted, echoing Other Nila, "Too late. Your fault. Too late."

The tactician faltered, rooted to the spot as the voices grew in number and in volume. He held his head in agony with both hands before crashing to the ground. Ashen and the Mark of Grima-embossed spellbook were wrought from the tactician's hands, the twisted sword clattering as the metal blade struck the polished ground. The popping of electrical energy within the steel weapon fizzled out as it came to rest at the feet of a statue in Queen Meliora's likeness.

Other Nila laughed maniacally as the other, mindless voices continued their endless chant. Without prelude, the voice abruptly halted his cackling, instantly fading from existence alongside the mindless voices. In place of the otherworldly voice's laughter was the soft chuckling of a green-cloaked figure, flaunting heavy ivory-colored armor and a sleek iron sword.

"Heheh…" she chuckled, removing her hood and letting her long, blond hair tumble to her shoulders. She glanced from the fallen tactician towards the foot of the statue of the Autumn Queen, where Ashen rested.

"That your blade?" she asked, as a nasty plot formed in her mind as she sheathed her iron blade. The woman picked up the gray, crooked blade, and cradled its hilt in her long, pale fingers. The purple-veined Levin Sword remained dormant in the woman's hand, however, functionally identical to an ordinary steel longsword.

"I think I'm going to enjoy killing you with it."

The Daughter of Naga twirled Ashen around in her fingers, stepping over the collapsed body of Nila. She pointed the wicked, curved blade downward as vile grin crossed her face. She clasped the blade's hilt in both hands, preparing to thrust Ashen into its master's exposed back.

Before she had a chance to thrust the blade downward, however, a faint laughter rose up from between the two. The Daughter's wickedly evil smile wavered for a moment, unsure of the source of the unexpected giggling. Before she had a chance to so much as twitch, a tornado of darkness enveloped her. The dark winds tore at her body, before being struck with a sole bolt of violet lightning. The daughter instantly dropped dead, dropping Ashen as her grip grew limp. The gray blade unceremoniously landed point-first at Nila's side, bouncing once before harmlessly clattering to the tiled floor. It emitted a single violet-colored spark, which ran down the length of the blade and into the ground, before returning to dormancy.

That spell. Even down to the dark, creepy laughter the spell was known for, Nila knew it well. It could be none other than Goetia.

The stunned tactician heard a second set of footsteps rushing towards him, this pair much more hurried than the last. He willed his body to turn to the encroaching noise, but found himself frozen to the spot. After a moment, a gentle set of hands came to rest upon his exposed back before turning him upright.

His gaze was met by a black-hooded figure, her ashy face and striking, ice-colored eyes riddled with concern. Nila found all but his eyes still refusing to obey his commands, but was saved the trouble of moving as the hooded woman hoisted him up and laid him up against the basin of one of the two indoor fountains the palace boasted.

"Are you alright?" the woman implored, taking several steps backward. Nila found himself still rooted to the spot, but noted that the woman's dress was curiously similar to his own attire. If his hierophant coat was refashioned into a woman's dress, it would look exactly the same as the garment his savior had donned. The exact same shade of black, the purple eyes of Grima running across the sleeves, the hood, and even the gold trimming mirrored the Plegian tactician's own coat. The resemblance was uncanny.

Panicked by his lack of response, the woman hastily removed her intricate staff from its holster on her back. The purple eyes of Grima running along the pole lit up at its masters command as she channeled a light healing spell at the disheveled Nila. Within moments, he felt his muscles become more limber, and eventually reclaimed control of his left set of fingers, which he repeatedly opened and closed. The warm sensation seemed to flow across the Plegian's body, and he eventually found the strength to grip the fountain basin and pull himself into a shaky standing position.

"T-thank you," Nila stuttered, concentrating regaining his balance, "I'm not sure what came—"

He was abruptly cut off as the woman embraced him strongly, the jet-black fishtail braid tossed over her shoulder pressing deep into his face.

"I know you," she whispered, tightening her grip on the bewildered tactician, "You're Désirée's baby. You wear her coat…"

"Y-you knew my mother?" Nila exclaimed, the strength of his voice mostly being absorbed by the thick fabric of the woman's dress.

"Knew her? You… you could say that," the stranger trailed off, her embrace weakening slightly. "Did she never tell you about Iris?"

Nila managed to shake his head, which the woman felt keenly through the fabric of her dress.

"Right…" Iris muttered defeatedly, "I suppose she wouldn't. Nor would Serena or Brennan." Her tears came to a halt as she broke the embrace, pushing the tactician away firmly.

"You do look a lot like her. The same eyes and hair… maybe Norman's shoulders…?"

"I… thank you," Nila sputtered, "But we don't… we don't have time. The Autumn Queen is—"

"I know her well, Nila," Iris reassured, "She can handle herself. Those who can match her swordplay are few and far between."

Iris gently unsheathed the thin, pointed rapier at her side. In her other hand she held her spellbook, which appeared to be identical in make to the tactician's.

"Still, we should make sure she's safe. Follow—"

"Wait!"

A voice rang out down the expansive hallway, belonging to a blue-clad figure who was frantically rushing through the emptied palace hallway. Locks of maroon hair peeked out of the person's hood of aqua, immediately revealing the newcomer to be Grace.

Grace came to a stop in front of Nila and Iris, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. Her cloak had suffered minor damage, as it was torn in several places. Underneath said tears were obvious cut marks, but none were deep enough to produce any serious bleeding.

Iris was quick to notice her wounds, and lifted her regal staff. A soothing green aura ran over Grace's skin, smoothing over all of her cuts and bruises. The myrmidon turned to thank Iris, but she held up her hand to halt the young woman. The black-dressed woman removed the emerald orb from the top of her staff, replacing it with an orb that shone with the color of the sun. She lifted her staff once again, but instead of the wounds binding this time, the fibers of her clothes came to life. The strands of azure fabric interlocked, wrapping around each other before fusing together.

"That was… Hammerne?" Grace panted, still hunched over from her sprint to the palace, "Th-thank you."

Iris nodded in recognition while she replaced the sun-orb with the mending green crystal, giving Grace a quick smile. The myrmidon exhaled heavily once before abruptly standing up, causing her pack to tumble to the floor and spill its contents. A heavily damaged Levin Sword, one that Nila immediately recognized as her mother's, skidded across the floor and landed at Iris' feet.

The Plegian woman gingerly picked up the fragile object as if it was made of glass, and cradled it gently in her fingers. She extended her arms, offering the weapon to Grace.

"Here, you dropped… wait…"

Iris pulled the weapon closer, intensely studying the hilt. She ran a finger along the damaged surface, her eyes widening in shock.

"This… this is…" Iris murmured, her fingers tightening on the blade. As quickly as the expression of shock came over her, she managed to mask her emotions as she offered an uninterested, "I see."

Iris practically shoved the blade back into Grace's waiting hands before turning away from the myrmidon. Nila could only read bits and pieces of her expression, but whatever emotions she was feeling were keenly hidden.

"And you are?" Iris asked, turning to the Ylissean once again. Despite how close she was to both Nila and Grace, her voice seemed distant. Almost pained, even.

"Grace… I'm Grace."

"Iris," she greeted, offering the myrmidon a hand, "I'm something of a friend. You can trust me."

"Pleased to meet you, Iris," Grace muttered through closed teeth, stashing her late mother's sword in her pack. She fastened the top and slung it over her back before turning to the momentarily neglected tactician. "Are you alright, Nila?"

The tactician nodded, gesturing towards the mutilated Daughter of Naga laying beside the fountain.

"I'm okay," he responded, "I had a run in with that Daughter over there, but Iris managed to appear right on time."

Grace's eyes noticeably widened at the mention of the limp body of Daughter, whose burned skin was beginning to peel and tear.

"Nila, the Sons here aren't what they seem," Grace offered as she clutched her hands together, "Their fighters outside aren't cultists. I think they're conscripted."

"Conscripted?" Nila exclaimed, "Are you sure?"

"I know so. I cut down a Son dressed in simple farm clothes. I have a feeling that the real cultists are going after the Queen."

"A diversion," Nila mused, bringing a hand to his chin, "If what you say is true, I wouldn't put it past them. We should go make sure that the Queen is holding up."

"But before that," Iris said with a singsonging voice, "Don't forget your weapons!"

Nila nodded, retrieving Ashen from where it rested next to the Daughter of Naga's corpse. He dipped the blade in the pool of fountain water to rinse off the blood that had congregated atop the weapon. The thick, sanguine liquid quickly flowed from the blade and into the churning waters of the fountain before fading away entirely.

Glancing around the chamber, Nila spotted his spellbook, which had landed face down next to a massive, sturdy marble column. He hastily plucked the book from its spot on the floor, slamming it shut clipping it to its designated spot on his belt. Nila gave the patiently waiting Iris and Grace a nod, falling in behind them as the three hurried up the gradual set of marbled stairs towards the palace balcony.

In the aftermath of the confrontation, a lone leaf of paper gently rocked through the air, coming to rest atop the marble lip of the fountain. A corner of the page dipped into the water basin, as the flow of the water threatened to yank the page from where it rested. Finally yielding, it slid into the fountain like a log through a shoot. The first ink diagrams to be pulled from the page were a series of intricate symbols, which glowed a faint violet from the power of the Milathistle paper. The final etching to flow off the paper and into the gently churning water was a singular word, written in a hasty scrawl. A name that the owner of the book the page was previously bound to never forgot to write beneath the inking of a spell. The word, nine letters in length, bound the spell and controlled its power.

Nosferatu.

– – –

The similarly-dressed pair, accompanied by a tinge of blue, bolted through the high vaulted, massive hallway, each footfall muted against the regal red carpet leading to the Queen's royal chamber. The still, heavy silence inside the palace contrasted heavily with the bustling of combat right outside the palace doorstep.

The eerie silence, however, didn't sit right with Nila. If this was supposed to be an attempt on the Queen's life, the Sons certainly weren't trying very hard.

"They must be planning something, without a doubt," Nila thought, barely managing to keep pace behind Iris. "If what Grace said is true, then there's no question about it."

"What makes you so sure you can stop it?" Other Nila taunted, his voice manifesting to both Nila's left and right, "Perhaps you're too late already…"

Iris halted as the three reached the end of the corridor, resting a hand on the heavy wooden door. Twisted gold handles were firmly set into the wood paneling, providing a sense of almost foreboding elegancy. Iris wrapped her fingers around the thin, gold metal, giving Nila and Grace a quick nod before hoisting it open.

Inside the chamber stood a lone figure over a pile of fallen bodies. Winds swirled around the chamber, pulling books from their shelves and throwing them indiscriminately around the large, luxurious room. Nila ducked as one crashed into the section of the door that his head occupied only seconds ago, only for the tome to bounce off of his head and onto the carpeted floor.

The violet, armored dress the woman at the center of the vortex wore was unmistakable. In combination with her once braided off-white hair, which had come undone in the cyclone, the woman standing before him was none other than the Autumn Queen, Meliora.

Recognition crossed the Queen's face as the black-dressed Iris stepped through the door, followed closely by Nila and Grace. Iris slammed the regal door shut, throwing the bar lock over the interior handles. The Queen sheathed her glowing orange sword, immediately halting the wild gale; the books and papers circling around her lost all momentum in an instant, dropping unceremoniously to the ground.

"Iris, you've returned," Meliora flatly stated, lightly kicking the limp arm of one of the several bodies scattered across the floor, her face contorting in disgust. "You know how I despise fighting."

"I know, I know," Iris chuckled, sheathing her rapier, "But you seem to have handled them quite well yourself."

"This was just a scouting party. It doesn't take a tactical genius to figure out that there will be more where these lot came from."

Without warning, the queen ripped her gaze from Iris before staring intently at Nila.

"Speaking of, we just so happen to have one in our presence." The queen held out an ashen-brown hand, giving Nila a firm nod. "I am the Autumn Queen, Meliora. You must be Nila. Your mother told me much about you before she passed. A shame, to be taken by illness."

Nila hesitantly grasped the Queen's hand, giving a weak shake and falling to one knee.

"Y-your highness—"

"Drop the formalities, Nila," the Queen interrupted, forcefully pulling Nila to his feet, "If your mother had bothered to tell you anything about her time in the court, you'd know that friends and family of the court are on a first name basis with me. Regardless, the situation we find ourselves in is hardly befitting of such behavior."

"R-right. My apologies."

She then turned her attention to Grace, who was busy tilting a crooked painting back into position.

"And you, my dear. You are Serena's, yes?"

Grace nodded, her eyes darting back and forth between Nila and Meliora as she rocked on her heels. Her arms remained behind her back, interlocked by her hands, which clutched each other at the wrist.

"Greetings. I knew both of your parents well."

Meliora either chose not to acknowledge Grace's noticeable flinch, or did not see it at all, as she cleared her throat and quickly resumed speaking.

"As it stands, we have very little time to ponder our position. No guards will be able to come to our rescue now. At this point, we must simply hope for the best."

A sharp bang on the wooden door cut through the room, only managing to startle Nila. The Queen's otherwise impassive face turned to one of muted anger as she rested her hand on her blade's hilt. After a moment of silence, the sharp head of a wicked black axe tore through the heavy door, dragging downwards and sending splinters to the floor beneath the barrier.

"I suppose our guests have finally arrived," Meliora mused, drawing her orange-tinged blade, "What's the strategy, Nila?"

"Well… we wait."

"Wait?" Grace questioned, her voice soft, yet stern, "Nila, are you sure that's the best option?"

"It's the only option," the tactician affirmed, causing all those present to stare him down. The tactician hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to best approach the situation before continuing, "Our first mistake was tarrying here. Fortunately, though, this room should be big enough to host some measure of combat. And if the people on the other side of the door are the real enemy, and not just conscripted peasants…"

Nila trailed off for a moment to gauge Grace's expression. She was worried, expectedly so. But beyond that remained a small measure of hope: trust in his decision.

"…then we're safer in here."

The keen black axe finally hit its mark, splitting the bar lock holding the heavy wooden door in place. A steel-toed boot shoved the now-useless barrier ajar, revealing four brilliantly armored Sons of Naga.

The first, and the holder of the axe, was a massive wall of a man that shone with a luminescent glow as the sun peeked through the windows. Three others stood behind him, two in sea-green robes and another white-armored, greatsword-wielding knight. Their eyes fixed on the woman in the armored dress, and they knew that they had found their objective.

"Meliora!" Nila shouted in a commanding voice that surprised even him, "Get to the balcony. Now!"

The Autumn Queen put up no argument, and unsheathed her sword. Gale winds picked up even in the enclosed space of the bedroom, blasting the four intruders backwards slightly. Meliora took to the door on the opposite side of the room, and disappeared outside.

Iris immediately jumped into action, brandishing her pointed steel rapier. She bowled into one of the green-robed Sons, who barely managed to raise his staff and parry the blow. The other robed figure reacted to Iris' sudden offense, and the three disappeared into the hallway in a hail of spells and steel.

In the very same moment, the two more heavily armored fighters charged into the room and immediately engaged the barely-prepared Nila and Grace. The axe-wielder quickly opened with a lengthwise slice that Nila managed to parry, sending both magical and physical sparks flying.

For such a large juggernaut, the Son was unexpectedly nimble. He shrugged off the parry as if his strike had actually connected, and he immediately followed up with an overhand vertical strike. Nila found himself on his toes, struggling to fend off this offensive threat. The Son left no openings for him to take advantage of.

Nila wasn't able to see how Grace was faring, but a small part of his mind hoped that she was faring better than he was. Blow after blow rained upon the tactician, but he always managed to put Ashen in between him and the black edge of the Son's axe, if just barely.

The white-armored Son was no fool, though. After another similar overhead strike that Nila managed to parry, the cultist shoved Nila backwards with his boot, sending Ashen soaring out of sight. The tactician fell hard upon his back, the wind being knocked from his lungs. The Son wasn't through, however, as he sent a blow straight towards Nila's exposed face. Rolling to the side, he managed to both avoid the blow and jump to his feet.

With Ashen gone, his main line of defense against the cultist was nonexistent. Nila pulled the spellbook from his belt, estimating that a Nosferatu or two would be sufficient to finish the job.

Except Nosferatu simply wasn't present in his tome. Where the page was normally placed was a completely blank canvas, alongside the jagged edges of a torn page.

The one moment that Nila hesitated was enough for the Son to have his chance. The black head of the axe tore through Nila's right shoulder, causing him to erupt in roars of pain. The agony was doubled as the Son tore the blade from fresh wound, preparing a finishing blow.

On reflex, Nila raised his left arm defensively towards his attacker. The back of his neck burst into searing pain, as arcs of violet lightning traveled down his extended arm. In the palm of his hand, lightning danced as it traveled to the tips of his fingers, before arcing together in a hideous violet cloud.

The Son of Naga's face contorted in fear, clearly as baffled and terrified of what was happening as Nila was. He didn't even have time to scream before darkness itself descended upon him.

Chris closed his spellbook, finally finished with his work. The sun had set on the threat the Sons of Naga had posed, at least in the courtyard. Dozens upon dozens of green-wrapped cultists lay dead over the sandstone pavement, which was stained a deep red from their blood.

The dark mage heard a sword sheath as the black-robed Hunter approached from behind. He was hardly devoid of scratches and bruises, if his tattered clothing was any indication, but he seemed otherwise unharmed.

"Thanks for the help," he started, holding a hand out to Chris, "You're pretty reliable for a mage."

"For a mage?" Chris replied with a grin, firmly grasping Hunter's outstretched hand.

"A story I don't want to discuss at the moment."

"Ah! Understandable."

The two shared a silent moment in the eerie courtyard amongst the corpses of both Plegians and Ylisseans alike. Surviving citizens milled about, tending to the fallen and searching for their companions. Chris and Hunter, however, both knew that more would arrive once word had spread of the cultist defeat.

"Let's take to the streets," the swordmaster said, returning awareness of the current state of affairs to both Chris and himself, "Marius and the others—"

Hunter paused, his attention being drawn to the balcony that Meliora gave her address upon. Previously empty, it now had a sole resident: Meliora herself.

"Up there," he pointed, Chris following his pointed finger to the ledge that the queen was standing upon. In her hand was a peculiar orange blade, and her stance divulged that Sons were probably on the other side of the door.

"The Queen…" the dark mage marveled. He had expected that Nila would be able to defuse the situation. Was he mistaken? Collecting himself, he continued, "Try to discover the whereabouts of Chastity, Marius, Matthew, anyone. If what I think is happening is indeed happening, we're going to need reinforcements."

The black-robed swordmaster nodded, and darted through the crowds of people and piles of bodies to the courtyard's exit. Chris watched him leave for a moment before he scanned the area, searching for the palace's entrance.

In the same moment, however, a peculiar sensation rose up around Chris' Mark of Grima. His breath faltered, and his heart skipped a beat. Fellblood were never privy to such a feeling, unless…

A shockwave, traveling through the very earth underneath the dark mage's feet, caused him to stumble before a deafening blast tore open his eardrums. He looked to the source of the sound, and gazed in horror as the palace's windows shattered, smoke billowing through the openings, and the very walls holding it together became riddled with thin, violet lines. He saw Meliora thrown back, her head connecting with the guardrail around the balcony's edge, surely stripping her of her consciousness.

Chris knew exactly what was happening. Nila, who he previously thought dead, was definitely alive. Whether or not the people with him lived was impossible to say.

Commotion in the Abnorun side street died down as Chast and her allies finished off the remaining cultists. The six that they fought were powerful, that much was for sure, but how many more were lurking in the shadows they could not say.

Chast watched as Valkus pulled her spear from the gut of a white-robed Daughter, hoisting it over her shoulder triumphantly.

"Feeling better?" the armored general asked with a tinge of concern, her eyes being drawn to the shattered portion of Chast's armor, "That looked like a pretty nasty strike."

Chast shook her head reassuringly.

"I'm feeling better. Dom's elixir has worked wonders."

"Not just the elixir!" Dom piped in, a beaming smile across his face, "Your lance, too."

The Falcon Knight gazed down at the regal weapon in her outstretched hands. Even in the bright afternoon light, the weapon had adopted a soft, pulsing glow. In the heat of combat, she hadn't noticed it, but even simply holding it sent a warm, coursing feeling through her body.

"It's blessed! I… I did mention that before, didn't I?"

Chast opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by an ear-shattering explosion from somewhere to the far south. A small, almost unnoticeable shockwave followed immediately after.

"What was—"

The Falcon Knight gazed to the south, and was witness to plumes of smoke that were climbing higher than those from the Abnorun rooftops.

"Wait a minute," Marius observed, "That's where the palace is, isn't it?"

Chast nodded, having drawn the same conclusion that her Dread Fighter companion did.

"The Queen was in there, wasn't she? That would mean…"

"We've been wasting our time here. We need to get over there, and fast."

When Nila came to, chunks of plaster were raining down from the ceiling like a heavy storm of water droplets. Whatever just happened ended with Nila meters away from where he was standing, face down on the plush red carpet of the Queen's temporary quarters, and facing opposite of the heavy wooden door that guarded the entrance.

A sharp pain coursed through the back of the tactician's neck, running up the length of his left arm. The pained limb felt heavy and dull, while lacking responsiveness to his attempts to lift it. Oddly, though, it wasn't numb. He could feel the fabric of his coat, the sturdy ground underneath the carpet, and the searing pain where his arm lay. But despite his efforts, his arm barely managed so much as a twitch.

Using his right arm, which fortunately still had some measure of feeling, Nila pulled his motionless arm from where it lay at Nila's side to the front of his face. He massaged his forearm in an attempt to restore movement, which ultimately proved in vain. With the crippled arm in front of him, Nila observed that the once sickly-blue veins running up and down his arm had turned to a disturbing, softly glowing violet. Fledgling electrical sparks of a similar color jumped from finger to finger on his right hand, their shocks entirely painless. Based on the situation, though, Nila felt no bewilderment at such a concept.

Exhaling with a pained grunt, the Plegian managed to pull himself from the ground and into a weakly standing position, relying solely on his shaky legs and his remaining functional arm. Glancing around, Nila was quick to notice a black haze had descended upon the room, choking in both the mind and the body. Tiny particles of soot floated through the air, saturating the precious, breathable air with tainted powder. Nila held his left black sleeve over his face, erupting in heavy, dry coughs.

In the still, smogbound room, all was quiet. Not a noise, save for Nila's coughs and gasps for air, permeated the disturbingly calm air. Even Other Nila had become peaceful and reserved, despite his threats and insults of malice seemingly moments ago. Not a single beam of sunlight managed to penetrate the thick layer of black fog. Adding to the grim atmosphere was Nila himself, who lit the floating dust around him like a human candle. A violet candle, but a candle nonetheless.

Nila began to panic, his already weak breaths becoming even more labored. This was not the first time he had been witness to a calm this eerie. Immediately after the disaster that surrounded him and his mercenaries in the forests of Ylisse, the air carried the very same stillness. The motionlessness of the air embodied the same chilling feeling that becoming witness to his sister's corpse all those years ago had done.

"Which must mean… No. Oh no."

"All dead. All forgotten," Other Nila whispered, his voice barely audible even in the sinister silence surrounding Nila and his thoughts, "You did it. You're free."

"They can't possibly be dead. They… can't."

Nila trudged through the blackened room, carefully stepping over a pile of loose plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. He managed to wave enough of the soot away from his face to spot the place he had been standing before the blast. A white, circular ring of singed carpet marked the spot that whatever that unholy mass of dark energy was had landed. The Plegian closed his eyes, his mind rewinding back to the skirmish with the Son of Naga from before.

He remembered the man's thin blade plunging deep into his shoulder, causing him to throw his spellbook across the room. And, sure enough, the hardy little tome managed to survive the blast, and was lying next to the ruined dresser it had fallen next to with only a thin layer of plaster powder to show from the catastrophe.

"Pick up the tome," Other Nila murmured, speaking in an unsettling monotone, "Others will come. Make short work of them."

Picking up the book and resting it in his lap, Nila managed to flip the pages to a simple Wind spell. This time, the page was actually present in the tome, and he was free to draw the spell from its page with his free hand. The tactician let off a weak stream of the spell, panning it across the room. The soot plaguing the air found itself caught in the gust, and billowed away in the current of wind. Sunlight poured in, from the shattered windows.

Nila gasped as he allowed his lungs to fill themselves with revitalizing pure air. With the dust cleared, sunlight filtered in through the expansive windows, beams of sunlight reflecting off what few specks remained.

With the choking smog gone, Nila was witness to the devastated room in all of its terrifying glory. The heavy door that once bought their group precious time simply did not exist anymore. Not even a splinter remained; in its place stood a gaping maw of darkness leading into the hallway immediately outside the chamber. A thin layer of dark soot, presumably the remains of the once proud and sturdy entrance coated the white walls and floor, staining them a sickly black. Even without the presence of fire, scorch marks lined the walls around the center of the impact.

And in the center of said impact was none other than the charred corpse of the Son of Naga he had dueled. His skin had transformed from a standard Ylissean pale to as dark as the night sky in an instant. His great armor, which once served as an impenetrable fortress, had mostly melted away, burning the corpse's ruined skin and creating a not-quite-liquid puddle next to its chest. His black-headed axe was nowhere to be seen. In his new state, the corpse felt small and insignificant compared to the paragon of Naga he once was in life.

Nila felt ill.

Despite the damage, no other corpses remained. Whether or not the others Sons and Daughters faced a similar fate as the door was uncertain. But that begged the question: what became of Grace, Iris, and Meliora?

A raspy coughing from the side of the now-destroyed canopy bed would prove to be the answer to his question. Rising from a pile of black dust and plaster was Grace, covered head to toe in a fine gray powder. The myrmidon shook the dust from her maroon hair, creating a puffy white cloud that floated for a moment before dispersing into the air.

Grace looked around with bewilderment for a moment, trying to process exactly what had happened. After feeling around for a moment, she grabbed the hilt of her steel blade and removed it from the wall it was embedded in. She rubbed the dust from her eyes, and quickly noticed the black-coated man standing across the room, staring at her.

Powder cascaded downwards like water rushing from a broken dam as Grace painstakingly pulled herself from the carpeted floor. She winced as she put weight onto her left leg, tipping Nila off that it probably had been damaged as a result of him. Regret and sorrow immediately washed over him.

"She's crippled," Other Nila whispered into the tactician's left ear, as if to dissuade him from his remorseful thoughts, "End it now."

Using her sword as a makeshift cane, Grace slowly made her way towards the waiting Nila. The Plegian could only imagine how he looked to her, with his veins growing violet, a traumatized, wide-eyed expression across his face, all while being covered in dusty plaster.

Grace, however, just looked at him. She didn't say anything, and her face remained quite unhostile. Her expressive blue eyes slowly followed him up and down, capturing every detail.

The two shared many a moment in silence, neither daring to say a word. Grace's eyes welled up with tears, Nila quickly noticing his mirrored hers. The myrmidon took an uncertain step forward, and wrapped her arms around him.

In between shaky breaths, Grace murmured, "I thought I lost you."

Her quiet voice was the first to pierce the heavy veil hanging over the scarred room. Nila could not find any words to respond. What could he even say to her?

Grace's arms soon loosened, and she ran a hand through Nila's rough brown hair. Ash and plaster dust rained down, obscuring his vision in the already moodily-lit room. The myrmidon spent a longer than average time working on a specific spot on the left side of his head. She rubbed it thoroughly, but whatever was stuck in there refused to yield. Grace apparently understood what had happened, her eyes widening in shock.

"Nila, I think you'd want to take a look at this."

Without warning, the red-haired myrmidon plucked a hair from his head, yielding a surprised yelp from its owner. She held the thin strand out expectantly, which Nila took apprehensively. In between the tips of his fingers, the tactician held a hair that couldn't conceivably have come from his head.

A strand of pure white met Nila's amber eyes. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it had come from a spool of string.

The Plegian could only manage several inarticulate babbles while Grace grabbed her sword cane and approached the far wall. From the mirror, which had shattered in the explosion, the Ylissean myrmidon claimed a sharp, triangular remnant.

Nila took the mirror piece from Grace with a trembling hand; his left arm still hung limply at his side. Holding it away from his face, Nila at first could barely recognized the person staring back at him. The purple veins still present on his arms ran up his neck and across his face, crisscrossing like an ethereal spider web. Even his amber eyes had cracks of amethyst at their corners.

Atop his head, however, was the most startling change; a lock of hair on the left side of his head was completely drained of color. In the moody room, it appeared almost ghostly.

A hand pressed against Nila's right shoulder, sending lines of searing pain throughout his body. His right hand flexed instinctively, sending the mirror to the floor where it shattered into even smaller pieces.

"You're bleeding," Grace stated simply, holding a roll of bandages in one hand, presumably taken from her pack, "Let me help you."

The myrmidon helped Nila from his coat and his white undershirt, which was stained crimson red from how profusely he had been bleeding. She gently wrapped the adhesive side around the wound, which had already started to clot.

Just as Nila began to put his coat back on while he gazed at the tear through the shoulder, the two heard commotion from outside the now-useless door frame. Grace immediately drew her steel blade, while Nila fumbled around his belt searching for Ashen, which had managed to disappear in the chaos.

The tactician ducked into the opposite side of the canvas bed that Grace landed in, while Grace pressed her back against the little-remaining wall adjacent to the door frame. To his surprise, though, Ashen was waiting for him aside the bed, underneath a small pile of ash. However, it was not dormant; lines of violet electricity ran up and down the blade, while it clattered softly on its own accord. It was almost as if the blade was agitated.

Nila placed a hand on its hilt, but the blade did not respond to his touch as it normally did. The dark magic it absorbed must have been more powerful than Nila could produce passively on his own. The destruction in the room was indicative of that.

Peeking above the surface of the bed, the Plegian tactician soon noticed that two other figures were accompanying Grace, speaking in low voices. He assumed that if Grace wasn't in any danger, neither was he, and he sheathed the still-trembling Ashen to his belt and approached the strangers.

As he approached, the three immediately ceased their conversation, staring at the violet-glowing Nila. The tall, black-dressed woman—Iris—wore an oddly-mixed expression of concern and fear, while Grace managed to maintain a neutral expression. Her eyes, however, gave away that she harbored doubts and concerns of her own.

The dark-cloaked, masked mage—that Nila quickly recognized as Chris—differed from the two women. His eyes were fixed to the newly-present white lock of hair on the side of Nila's head. One look at Chris revealed that several locks of his own hair were not too dissimilar from the one that the tactician now wore.

The dark mage took one confident step towards Nila, gazing at him as intently as he could from underneath his mask.

"Nila…" Chris trailed off, as if he was searching for the right words to use, "Do you know what exactly you've done?"

Nila's mouth ran dry. He desperately tried to form some sentence to break his painstakingly long vigil of silence, but his search proved fruitless. The tactician instead opted to shake his head slowly, his eyes never straying from the black circles on Chris' mask.

"That was… an Expiration."

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 ?

…

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)

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)

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)

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 Esthara

An Ylissean tactician in training. She wields the legendary weapon Mercurius, one of the three regalia of old, given to her as a gift by her professor. Studying under the legendary tactician and professor Kairos, she aims to one day match the intellectual might of the most famous tacticians in history.

The lightest sleeper.

Born on November 19, age 19.

Class: Strategist (Sword)

No.013 Christopher

A masked prodigy dark mage who shortens his name to Chris. His skill comes from necessity, having lived his most of his life around bandits and thieves. He trained under a Plegian outlaw sorcerer, partaking in both assassinations and thefts. After being conned into murdering his parents, he took up his father's mask and fled to Abnorun, a Plegian border town. He shares a proficiency in shadow with Nila.

The giddiest laugher.

Born on October 4th, age 16.

Class: Dark Mage (Dark|Anima, Dark enhanced from Shadowgift)

No.014 Grace

A nimble and powerful Ylissean myrmidon. Her father and older sister served as fighters for the Plegian Mercenaries years ago, a fateful mission taking her father's life and causing her sister to vanish. At the age of only fifteen, she picked up the pieces of her shattered life and became a wanderer with her mother. Finding herself a mercenary after her mother's recent death, she will invoke any means necessary to stay on her feet.

The most sentimental.

Born on September 19, age 19.

Class: Myrmidon (Sword)

*New* No.015 Iris

The royal hierophant of the Plegian Court. She and the Autumn Queen Meliora have been great friends for many years, alongside the parents of both Nila and Grace. Désirée, Nila's mother, worked alongside Iris to put Meliora in power twenty years ago. The six friends have shared many an adventure, but Iris is definitely hiding something…

The one with her eyes on the horizon.

Born on February 15, age 43.

Class: Hierophant (Dark|Anima|Staff|Rapier)

*New* No.016 Bell

A Valmese fighter whose travels have landed him in Abnorun. Previously an orphan, he found himself running with the worst types of crowds. He traveled to Ylisse to escape his past, but much of his experiences are unknown. Even his real name is shrouded in mystery.

The most fiercely protective.

Born on September 30th, age 28.

Class: Fighter (Axe)

Guests

Meliora

The noble and pragmatic Autumn Queen of Plegia. Most of her past is shrouded in mystery, even from her closest remaining friend, Iris. She feels uncomfortable in violent situations, but always strives for her people to see a brighter tomorrow.

The most chilling presence.

Born on September 7th, age 41.

Class: Queen (Sword)

Dom

Otherwise known as Dominic, this man is the go-to blacksmith of Abnorun. Some people say they've seen him in cities all over the world, but he claims that he was born and raised in Abnorun. Has a fondness for beautiful women paralleled by few.

The most strangely familiar.

Born on May 5th, age 28.

Class: Blacksmith (Axe, Hammer only)