Archive of Our Own

“The baby is a boy,” Mòrag said simply.

Brighid’s pen stroke ran an extra inch below the intended line in her journal, drawn off course by the young woman’s out-of-the-blue declaration. Granted, Mòrag was wise and insightful beyond her years—and how could she not be, in resonance with the Empire’s keenest Blade? And yet there was no way she could know the baby’s gender. The queen revealed her pregnancy to the other members of the royal family only three weeks ago. The public would not know until the second trimester was reached, either. And even then the baby’s gender would remain a mystery for a while.

And yet Mòrag’s eyes shone with absolute certainty as she made that statement...and with absolute disappointment. Brighid felt her chest tighten at the sight of it. Of course Mòrag had already considered the implications of the impending birth. No formal announcements had been made. And she still bore her title as crown princess. But how long that would last, no one knew. A single stamp of the Emperor’s signet ring, and everything would change. 

It felt...wrong, somehow, to speak words of false comfort. But she had to say something.

“What makes you say that?”

Mòrag didn’t respond at first. Instead, she set down her own pen, abandoning the lesson she’d been doing. Then she rose and stood by the window, arms crossed. 

When she finally spoke, her voice didn’t waver. “Destiny has not been kind to me. Why should this be any different?”

Brighid stiffened. Mòrag only told her the story of her past once; it occurred naught but two years before their resonance. The plague of 4041 claimed her mother and infant sibling. Assassins murdered her father not long after, leaving her a lonely bud on the shrivelling cadet branch of the royal family tree. The Emperor adopted her out of legal necessity, not pity or love. 

Mòrag was right; destiny had not been kind to her. 

Brighid longed to reach out and pull the girl into a hug, but she resisted the urge. Mòrag always recoiled from physical affection—an unpleasant side effect from the Ardainians training her to be an immutable Empress, Brighid supposed. Instead, the Blade reached out through the ether, brushing her own consciousness against Mòrag’s. She’d only just recently started doing so outside of combat; how else was she supposed to familiarize herself with her Driver’s thoughts and feelings? Even after several years together, Mòrag remained something of an enigma. She never spoke much about her past, her hopes, her dreams, her fears, or her feelings. Training to be worthy of the throne—that had been Mòrag’s sole pursuit, the core of her existence. And unless it did not pertain to that pursuit, Mòrag did not speak of it.

That left Brighid to piece together tidbits of Mòrag’s personality through observation alone. Without a Keen Eye, she would have found the thirteen-year-old as baffling as everyone else. But through her own perceptiveness and healthy dose of stubborn insistence, Brighid caught onto the tiniest visual cues: the way her businesslike tone shifted with the subtlest inflections of excitement when she spoke of history and ancient technology. The gleam in her eyes when her chess opponents fell right into her tactical traps. The extra second’s hesitation as she proudly stared at the Ardainian banner. And most importantly, the way Mòrag’s very soul seemed to flare up when she gripped both whispwords, the ether roaring through Driver and Blade like a wildfire. 

Brighid had seen it dozens of times before: a hero, a soldier in the making. 

But now, as Brighid reached through the ether, she felt none of that. All she felt was a deflated little girl who was trying very hard not to cry. And was that...guilt?

“Tell me, Brighid. Do you think the Architect will condemn me for hating someone in my family?”

“Indignance towards your uncle is understandable, Lady Mòrag. But I think ‘hate’ is too strong a word.”

Mòrag shook her head, still staring out the window. “Not him,” she whispered.

The realization stuck in Brighid’s chest like a chunk of ice. “You can’t mean…” Her voice trailed off. 

“A-A baby is supposed to be a happy thing. The Emperor has wanted a child of his own for so long. So has the queen. But I can’t even pretend to be happy for them. I can’t be glad the baby’s coming. He’s...he’s going to take my place.”

“The baby hasn’t done anything wrong, Mòrag.”

“I know that!” Mòrag exclaimed, spinning around to face her Blade at last.

Brighid’s next words caught in her throat; she’d never heard Mòrag raise her voice, much less cry. But the tears lingered there, sparkling on her cheek. Undeniable. 

“That’s why I feel so...dirty. He’s innocent. He never did a thing wrong. I’ve not even met him yet, and I already can’t stand him. What kind of monster does that make me?”

Brighid finally succumbed to the urge to pull Mòrag into a hug. And to her surprise, Mòrag didn’t resist. “Someone caught in the crosshairs of an unfair system. Not a monster. Never a monster.”

“Preparing to be Empress someday is all I’ve ever known. And now that’s gone, Brighid. The only meaning to my life, stolen by a little baby.”

“That’s not true, Mòrag, and you know it.”

Mòrag pulled away again. “If I’m not to be Empress, then what am I supposed to do?”

“We’ll figure something out. Just give it time.”

Mòrag muttered something else under her breath, but Brighid didn’t hear it.

The days and weeks that followed proved Mòrag right: the Emperor would have a son. Formally, very little changed at first; Mòrag’s title remained unchanged, a final protection should the pregnancy take a turn for the worse. 

But practically, the crown princess’s life changed dramatically. Most notable was the change to her lessons; military strategy was replaced with a renewed focus on pristine etiquette, and all but one of her fighting lessons changed to dancing, the art of “fine conversation,” and all the behaviors fitting a “proper lady of the court.” And her position in the king’s court changed, too. Whereas before she had sat at the table beside the Emperor—as a guided participant who would later lead the discussion—now she was expected to sit quietly, always seen and never heard. 

But worst of all were the stares and whispers, both sympathetic and unkind: 

“Poor girl. Promised the world, she was. And now look at her. Taking second place to a manchild that isn’t even born yet.”

“A shame, really. She’d have been the best military leader this Empire’s seen since Hugo. A waste of talent, if you ask me.”

“I warned His Majesty not to give her the Jewel. The Jewels don’t belong to the Ladairs. But did he listen? No. He gave that little upstart the king’s Blade, and now his own son won’t even have the Blade he deserves. Unless, of course, something were to happen to—What? No. I wasn’t implying that. Forget I said anything.”

“Thank the Architect His Majesty finally fathered a child of his own. A Ladair taking the throne is one thing, but a woman? That would have spelled disaster for Mor Ardain.”

“Tantal’s prince isn’t betrothed yet, right? Now that he doesn’t need her as an heir, His Majesty would be remiss not to propose a state marriage. Mor Ardain needs another Titan. Tantal’s would do nicely if we could draw them out of the Cloud Sea for once. That’s the best good Lady Mòrag could do for this country anymore.”

“A shame she wasn’t born a boy. Then she’d at least be able to pick a career for herself.”

“Maybe she can convince the Emperor to let her put her fighting skills to good use. She’s set to be the strongest Driver in Mor Ardain. Surely His Majesty won’t let that talent go to waste.”

Of course, Mòrag heard all these whispers. But if they bothered her, her public face never showed it. Only Brighid witnessed her emotions, and always behind closed doors: indignance at the world that would so easily discard her, that would choose her life for her. Her initial anger towards her unborn sibling faded, replaced by a shallow resentment towards the whisperers. But even more powerful than the resentment was her burning desire to prove them all wrong, to forge her own path. 

But how she found that path, Brighid never could have predicted. 

“Brighid, do you consider me a friend?”

Brighid cleared her throat, stalling for an answer. What an odd question to ask in the waiting room of the palace’s hospital wing, with the queen’s shouts of pain punctuating the statement. The prince would be born any second, and Mòrag decided to ask this now? 

She smiled warmly at her Driver. At least she’d been more forthright about her thoughts lately. “I’m not sure if ‘friend’ is quite the right term for it. That word seems inadequate, really.”

Mòrag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but then she returned a small, grim smile of her own. “I...I consider you mine. My only friend, really. But there are some who would find such a relationship inappropriate.”

“How so?”

“Some would say that ours ought to be a master and servant relationship, and nothing more. I’m glad it’s more than that, however.”

“As am I,” Brighid replied. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“You’re not one for small talk,” the Blade pointed out. “What’s on your mind, then?”

Mòrag stared at the window for a moment, hesitating. “I-I merely wanted to ask well, where your loyalties lie. As in, if...if I ever left the palace, w-would you come with me? Or would you stay with the Emperor?”

Brighid inhaled sharply. What on Alrest prompted Mòrag to ask that? Where else would she possibly go? Her entire life was here, wasn’t it? 

“Mòrag, what are you saying? Surely you’re not plotting something as childish as running away? Such a thing would be entirely beneath you.”

Mòrag shook her head rapidly, like one last vestige of the child she was trying not to be. “No, that’s not what I meant! I-I’m sorry. I’m being thoughtless with my words. I merely—never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Lady Mòrag?”

“Never mind, Brighid. Please.”

Even if Brighid had wanted to protest further, she would have found herself interrupted by one of the medical staff who entered the room at that moment. Pride and excitement gleamed in the nurse’s eyes. 

“Lady Mòrag, the Emperor says you may come meet your baby brother now.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Mòrag replied, nodding politely as she rose to go. 

Brighid followed immediately behind, reaching through the ether to ascertain her Driver’s feelings. In the weeks leading up to the birth Mòrag’s demeanor was more reserved than usual, although she’d seemingly resigned herself to the dramatic change for her lot in life. And Brighid expected Mòrag to seem angry or resentful in this moment when she would first meet the little one whose appearance changed her own so drastically. But no such emotions rolled back through the ether. No, now Mòrag seemed...indifferent, if not the tiniest bit curious. 

Mòrag hesitated at the door to the room, took a deep breath, and entered. As soon as she did, she bowed low, waiting for the Emperor to acknowledge her. 

“Ah, Mòrag. Come.”

Her eyes met the Emperor’s, and Mòrag was taken aback by the softness in the man’s gaze. She’d always thought her uncle and adoptive father to be a much harsher man than Eandraig, hardened by the war and the strain of his office. She’d never even blamed him for the way he pushed her relentlessly to be an excellent warrior and peerless student while she was still his heir; she learned very early on not to expect a smile from him often. But now, as he held the tiny, squirming infant in his trembling hands, he looked like an entirely different person. A small surge of jealousy panged against her chest as if one of Brighid’s flames had struck her. But the feeling vanished instantly when her gaze focused on the baby in his hands instead. 

“He’s so little,” she whispered, immediately giving herself a mental scolding for saying something so stupid. Of course he was little. He was a newborn. 

Emperor Nolan smiled all over again. And he laughed—he actually laughed!—a mirthful sound which reminded Mòrag of her father. She gave a weak smile in return, hoping his giddy mood might last a while. He gestured for her to sit down, and she gladly complied.

It struck her in that moment that she’d never really seen a baby, much less one freshly born. Her life as a crown princess had not afforded her many opportunities. But she decided in that moment that even if she’d seen a hundred infants, she would have thought this baby was the handsomest. Before she quite knew what was happening, she found that the Emperor put the infant into her arms. 

She stiffened (she certainly never held one before). Contrary to her fears, however, the baby didn’t start crying. Instead, he stared up at her with bright eyes and round, smooth lips curled into the littlest pout she’d ever seen. 

“What’s his name?” she whispered, entranced by his little features. Any resentment she felt towards him vanished in that moment, overrun by her sense of awe. 

“Niall. Niall Malcolm Augustus Ardanach,” the Emperor recited proudly.

Mòrag resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the humorously long name. Silly royal traditions—thankfully Eandraig had shirked that tradition. “Hello, Niall. Nice to meet you.”

Two years later

“Your Majesty, with your permission, I’d like to join the Ardainian military when I come of age.” 

The entire court went silent at that sudden announcement. The courtiers had good reason for their shock, too. For one thing, women rarely spoke in court; even the few females elected to the Senate rarely found audience with the Emperor himself, and to speak to him, while not explicitly forgiven, was rarely regarded as an acceptable course of action (despite activists working to change that norm). More notable, however, was the fact that Lady Mòrag had made the announcement. 

Most courtiers wrote off her presence two years ago. Prior to the prince’s birth, she had attended as the Empire’s crown princess. Now she attended merely out of formality, a lady of the court; some even came to view her as the prince’s governess, in a way. That was not the truth, of course; but she had such a soft spot for her baby brother that much of her daily schedule revolved around him. And since the little prince smiled the most (and behaved the best) when Lady “Mo-Mo” was around, no one protested it too much. 

No one, however, expected her to make a loud declaration in court these days—much less one pertaining to a military lifestyle. The only individual who didn’t look surprised by her statement was her own Blade, who stood behind her with an expression of slight amusement (though it always so hard to tell with her closed eyes). After a long moment, the Senators and royal counselors at the table collected themselves. Lord Beckett, Mòrag’s tutor, was the first to speak.

“Lady Mòrag, hold your tongue! In court, you will speak only when spoken to.” he scolded.

“But I—”

“Peace, Beckett. Mòrag is allowed to speak as she pleases.” Then the Emperor turned to Mòrag. “My dear, you would do well to discern when it is appropriate to broach such topics. Now is not one of those moments. We will discuss this after court has adjourned.”

“My apologies, Father,” Mòrag said, more quietly this time with head hung low. “I merely brought it up now because you have not had much time to spare for me these past few months. It’s been heavy on my mind since the prince’s birthday.”

Another tense moment passed, the Senators wondering if the girl had intentionally implied that the Emperor neglected her as of late. Granted, her statement rang true; international tensions had risen to an all-time high, his own son was in his formative years, and his wife’s health was failing. The former crown princess, old enough and diligent enough to attend to her own studies and interests without extensive oversight, had been largely overlooked. 

The Emperor’s normally stoic gaze flinched a moment, and he nodded. “Very well. My ear is yours as soon as court adjourns.”

The remainder of the court’s meeting passed without incident, and Mòrag dutifully waited until the courtiers streamed out, leaving her behind with just the Emperor. Nolan rose from his seat and strode to the window. For a long moment, he stared out over his domain, his jaw set in a firm line and hands clasped behind his back. Mòrag felt a lump form in her throat. She recognized this posture. It was the way Emperor Nolan always stood whenever he was about to give her bad news—gaze resolutely avoiding hers. He’d stood that way the day he told her that Eandraig fell in battle. The morning he broke the news that the Empire had gone to war with Gormott. The day he told her that she was no longer crown princess, that Imperial law would favor a blood heir over an adopted one. So she knew what was coming. She wanted to scream, Look me in the eyes for once! But she held her tongue.

At last, Emperor Nolan finally spoke. “Why the sudden interest in the military, Mòrag?”

“I-I wouldn’t say it’s a sudden interest, Your Majesty,” she stammered, startled by the question. She expected an immediate dismissal, not a discussion. “The military has always been a part of my life. Since the day you adopted me when I was seven, I’ve been immersed in it. Tactics and strategy made up a large part of my lessons. And I’m a good Driver. You’ve said so yourself on many occasions. I know it’s wrong to boast, but I’m well aware that people believe I’ll be the strongest Driver in the Empire by the time I’m an adult. And I believe I’d be remiss not to put that talent to good use serving my country.”

“Skill with a Blade runs deep in your veins. Of that there is no question. I always envied my brother’s command of the ether,” Nolan said quietly. “...The life of a royal is not an easy one, Mòrag. We do not belong to ourselves. Our choices define the lives of thousands. It is up to us, then, to make decisions that bring the greatest benefit to the masses, no matter how difficult those decisions may be. That is our sacrifice.”

“I am more than willing to give my life for Mor Ardain, as my father did. You know that.”

The Emperor gave a heavy sigh. “I have always admired your sense of duty, Mòrag. If all politicians had your dedication to king and country, Mor Ardain would never know crisis again...But as your king, I must ask you to abandon this line of thought. The military life is not the path for you.”

There it was: the dismissal she expected from the beginning. 

“Your Majesty, if I may, will you not at least take the time to consider it? Please.”

Nolan turned around, finally facing her again. His eyes gleamed with an odd mixture of emotions—frustration, determination, and even the tiniest touch of sympathy. 

“I have considered it, Mòrag. From the moment my wife discovered she was pregnant, I’ve considered what to do with you. I’ve thought long and hard about how you can be of greatest service to Mor Ardain.”

“With Brighid at my side, fighting for my country—that’s how,” Mòrag insisted, losing track of propriety and speaking out of turn. “I’m to be the strongest Driver in the Empire. Let me put that skill to use. Think of how many lives I could save, how many soldiers I could keep from walking to a needless death. You say so often that part of a leader’s job is to put people into the positions that their talents are best suited towards. So why will you not do the same for me?”

“You’re right, Mòrag. You would be an excellent soldier,” the Emperor admitted. “But that is no longer your path. Rest assured that your purpose is still a meaningful one. You will still save many lives, but you will do so peacefully with no need for violence.”

Mòrag bit back an angry tear that threatened to surface. “And just how will I accomplish that, Your Majesty?”

“I do not know the specifics just yet, Mòrag. I have received several different proposals that my council and I must evaluate. And I’ve sent an emissary to Tantal to inquire if Eulogimenos’s son is yet betrothed to anyone. Genbu, as I understand it, is quite large.”

“You intend to marry me off,” she said simply, trying—and not quite succeeding—to banish the sense of outright betrayal rising in her chest.

“It is standard procedure for members of the royal household. In fact, if not for the fact that you were heir to the throne for so long, you would have been betrothed long ago. But plans changed, as they so often do in life. And it is our duty to adapt and find the right new course for our country. Think of it, Mòrag. You could guarantee Mor Ardain an alliance, and with that alliance would come new territory and trade and economic prosperity for our country. And not one drop of Ardainian blood would have to be spilt to win it. Think of the lives you can save simply by signing a single political contract!” 

“And what if I don’t want to marry?”

“Arranged marriages are the sacrifice we royals have to make. It is your duty, Mòrag.”

For the first time during that exchange, her eyes met her uncle’s. She stared back at him, wishing her eyes could burn into his as strongly as Brighid’s flames blazed on a battlefield. His eyes glared right back, unwavering. And for the first time, she realized that she no longer recognized him—the man who’d taken her under his wing when she lost her father was now replaced by a cold, dutiful ruler.

“Three years ago, it was my duty to wield Brighid in battle. It was my duty to be the first in the charge and the last in the retreat. It was my duty to be Mor Ardain’s symbol of conquest and valor. But now that the Architect has granted you a son of your own, you have discarded me. You’ve reduced me to nothing more than a bargaining chip, a pawn to be bartered off the highest bidder.”

The Emperor’s mild annoyance shifted to a deep frown, his lips set in a firm line. “Come now, Mòrag. Don’t look at this so cynically. Consider the pragmatics of the situation. We must make the best of the lot that is dealt to us.”

“Cynically? You think that is the cynical view of the situation?” Mòrag demanded, now forgetting the etiquette of the situation, spurred by her own rising temper. “Tell me this, uncle: if I had been born a man, and I asked you to join the Ardainian military, would you grant my request?”

“...You’d be expected to, just as your father was.”

“And yet, because I’m a woman, you’ve seen fit to deny me the one thing I’ve felt called to do my entire life. That is the cynical take, Uncle. You claim yourself to be a just man. But where is the justice in the life you would force me to lead?”

And without another word, Mòrag spun on her heel and began to leave the room.

“Get back here, young lady! This conversation isn’t over!”

Mòrag stopped short, but she did not turn back around or even look at him. “A conversation requires two parties, Your Majesty. And if one side refuses to listen to the other, as you have, then it’s not much of a conversation, now is it?”

And without another word, she stormed out of the room.

“I can’t believe he wouldn’t even give it the courtesy of consideration,” Mòrag muttered under her breath. 

She flung another pebble over the side. It plopped into the Cloud Sea several dozen peds away with a dull thunk and vanished. 

Disappearing, just like my chances of enjoying the rest of my life.

“What’s the matter? Boy trouble?” a strange voice asked. 

An awkward squeak slipped from her throat as she lurched forward, catching herself just in time before she lurched over the side of the balcony. She’d come to the Grian Wing Area just to be alone; she checked for people nearby twice before she began ranting to herself and chucking rocks like a child throwing a tantrum. So much for that idea. 

“Something like that,” she murmured, unsure why she’d even bothered to respond.

She turned, half expecting to see a guard or even Aegaeon coming to escort her back to the palace with a silly lecture like “A lady such as yourself shouldn’t be sitting atop a fence throwing rocks and pouting.” But the speaker was unlike any Ardainian soldier she’d ever seen. Yes, he was decked out from head to toe in black clothes and ramshackle pieces of armor. But that was where the similarities ended. On his back he wore a massive broadsword, the edges of which gleamed with trickles of ether energy. It didn’t take a second look to realize he was a Driver, though his Blade was out of sight, it seemed. More curious, however, was the rest of his appearance. From the moment he spoke, Mòrag realized he was some sort of foreigner; the only Ardainians with such odd accents were Aegaeon and Brighid. His syllables lacked the rise and fall and short clips of the common tongue, though he spoke the language flawlessly. His face, however, confirmed that his accent belonged to another country, not just an archaic speaker. Silver hair hung about his cheeks, the skin of which had an oddly yellowish-brown tint to them, as if he only recently began spending time in direct sunlight. And the eyes that gleamed back at her were distinctly red , a color she never saw, only heard stories of. 

“A suspicious man, dressed all in black with a funny accent.” That was the description she’d heard regarding the strange intruder the guards found the other day. The fact that the incident had nearly caused a massive international incident largely contributed to the fact that her current fight with the Emperor wasn’t the top item on the week’s gossip list. Apparently she had this high-profile intruder to thank for that.

“You’re the princ—”

He shook both hands and his head. “Please don’t say it. I don’t like to flash that title around. Now if you’d rather call me Zeke, Bringer of Chaos and Alrest’s Ultimate Defender of Justice, that’s another matter. But not that.”

“Ultimate Defender of Justice?” she asked, a solitary eyebrow betraying her amused curiosity. No one in the palace spoke quite like this foreigner. For a moment, the novelty of it made her forget her current frustration. 

“Hey, gimme a break. I’m still working on the titles. But remember my name, chum! You’ll be hearing it far and wide before you know what’s what!” He spread his arms in a wide, flapping motion, an odd gesture Mòrag didn’t recognize. Something told her no one recognized it.

“You’re the one they call Zeke von Genbu, then.”

“So you have heard of me.” Zeke winked, swinging his legs over the side of the balcony to sit beside her.

She inched away instinctively. “In a sense, yes.”

“Excellent,” he grinned. “All good things, I trust?”

She raised her eyebrows, at which his smile faded somewhat.

“Ah, well. Whatever. Publicity is still publicity, eh? And first impressions are rarely right. Don’t let that spoil your opinion of me. So! About those boy troubles: what’s got that pretty face of yours all scrunched up?”

“I’m not about to bare my personal affairs to a stranger.”

He flinched as if she’d just slapped him. “Strangers? Nonsense. I know who you are. You know who I am—that’s the exact opposite of strangers.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“Sure I do! You’re the illustrious Lady Mòrag, Driver of Brighid, soon to be Mor Ardain’s most powerful Driver. Daughter to Eandraig Ladair, adopted by the Emperor, and until recently, heir to the Imperial throne,” Zeke recited.

Mòrag felt her jaw drop in surprise. “H-have you been spying on me?”

He smirked—Architect, he grinned a lot for someone who was supposedly an heir to a royal house. Didn’t Tantalese royalty know it was poor courtesy (and poorer politics) to display their emotions so freely? 

“Relax. I haven’t been spying on you. I was just moseying around, looking for a good view of the city. I saw you with Brighid earlier. Everyone with half a brain recognizes her. I put two and two together. You’re her Driver, which means you’re Mòrag.”

“You shouldn’t be skulking around up here. It’s a restricted area. You’re bound to get yourself arrested again,” she pointed out. Maybe he’d forget his question and leave her alone. 

“Then call them. Bust me.”

She looked back out at the Cloud Sea. He’d called her bluff. 

“I can’t. They don’t even know I’m up here. And there’d probably be a scandal if anyone knew I was up here alone with a man.”

“Ha! Mor Ardain makes scandals out of everything, don’t they? Relax. We can talk for a bit, then I’ll be on my merry way and no one will be the wiser. We can pretend we never even met. Whaddya say? Come on, chum. You look like you need to talk.”

Mòrag paused. Normally, she hated discussing her problems with anyone but Brighid and Niall—the former thanks to her steadfast loyalty and the latter because a two-year-old couldn’t betray secrets. Could she really share this quandary with a complete stranger? If she believed the guards, this interloper would depart the Titan within the next few days, if not sooner. She probably would never see him again. And something about him struck her as oddly trustworthy. Maybe it was the odd red gleam to his eyes, or that the way he moved made him seem larger than life. Or perhaps it was the sheer novelty of speaking to someone close to her own age.

“...Fine. But on one condition: after we both leave this spot, we never speak a word of this to anyone. As far as the rest of Alrest is concerned, we never even met.”

Zeke nodded. “Seems a bit overkill for a simple chat, but okay. So what’s bugging you, Mòrag?”

And so Mòrag explained the circumstance as simply as she could. This, of course, required more substantive explanations than she originally anticipated; Zeke (and all of Tantal, apparently) did not know that the Emperor was actually her uncle-turned-father. And Zeke asked a surprising number of questions about Ardainian law and national policies: why the throne went to the eldest son and not the eldest child, how the Imperial Senate fit into the country’s legislative governance, how being a military state affected the people, and so many other extraneous details that it took her the better part of an hour to relay her predicament and sate his ravenous curiosity. 

“He believes that I’ll do Mor Ardain more good by getting married to some stuffy foreign noble. He’s already begun the process, it seems. He even mentioned something about contacting your father to discuss an arrangement,” Mòrag sighed, finishing her explanation at last. 

Zeke gave yet another smirk as she said that last sentence. “Well I can personally guarantee you that particular offer won’t amount to anything.”

She found herself laughing at his confidence; misplaced though it was, it added a strange charm or charisma to his presence. An annoying sort of charisma, really. “I doubt you’ll have much of a say in the matter,” she commented.

“My dad doesn’t give an ardun’s arse about who I marry because I’m not his heir anymore,” Zeke announced. “He disowned me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. How’d that happen?”

“Finally piqued your curiosity, have I? Honestly, there’s not much to tell. Daddy dearest and I disagreed on several, well, critical issues. I couldn’t take his shit anymore, and I left. He banished me. So I’m a free agent, able to explore the great lands of Alrest and help poor unfortunate souls the world over as I please. Kinda cool, if I do say so myself. Not as stuffy as court life. So don’t worry. You’re off the hook with marrying me, if that’s what your Emperor had in the mind.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Mòrag sighed.

“...H-hang on! Was that supposed to be some sort of backhanded insult?” Zeke stammered. “Are you just assuming I’d be terrible to be married to? N-not that I’m saying I want them to arrange a marriage or anything, but give me some credit, chum. It’s not like I’m a dinosaur close to extinction or anything. And I don’t spit when I talk...usually. Just once in a while when I get really worked up.”

“I mean no offense,” she explained, a little half-smile creeping up at his reaction. “I don’t really want to marry anyone, hence my current dilemma. Although my first impression tells me any woman married to you is in for a...an interesting life. A lively one, to be sure.”

His brow furrowed. “Your voice makes that sound like a compliment, but your face makes it seem like an insult. Gosh, you’re hard to read.”

“You read me well enough to know that I was upset to begin with. Not everyone can say as much.”

“True,” he commented, his expression brightening at the drop of a hat. “And I think anyone in your situation would be upset. Hell, most people would be a volcano waiting to erupt! ‘Cause Titan’s foot, that’s a crummy situation. Arguments with family always are. Nobody wins in a situation like that.”

“...Nobody but the Emperor,” she said bitterly.

“Wait, you’re just going to let him win?”

“He leaves me little choice. He’s the Emperor. Defying his wishes is akin to treason.”

“I don’t think rebelling against your parents is the same as betraying Mor Ardain. Kids disappoint their parents all the time. It’s part of growing up, right?”

“Not everyone is lucky enough to have normal parents.”

Zeke shrugged. “I dunno if anyone our age would call their parents normal, but I get your drift...Look, let’s say you went against the Emperor’s wishes and refused to marry some poor clueless noble. Then you join the military. If you did that, what’s the absolute worst thing he could do to punish you?”

Mòrag couldn’t shake the feeling that she already knew where this was going. After all, he freely admitted he left his country. He even seemed proud of it. And something about it didn’t sit quite right; surely his family life couldn’t compare to hers. But an odd twist in her chest, like some pang of curiosity, compelled her to play along with his logic, even if it was skewed. 

“I suppose he might disown me and banish me, as your father did.”

“And would that really be so bad?”

Mòrag shot the young man a withering look. Perhaps he didn’t feel any strong attachments to his homeland, but she did. Mor Ardain meant everything to her. And the thought of never seeing Niall again...Titans, that thought ached. 

“He could also try to take Brighid from me,” she added.

“Pssh, that’s a non-issue,” Zeke scoffed. “Honestly, if Brighid had to choose between the Empire or you, who do you think she’d pick?”

A sharp pang of familiarity struck in her chest. She’d asked the same question to Brighid once. Had he been reading her mind?

“Brighid...might come with me. But the point is moot. I can’t bring myself to leave Mor Ardain.”

“I dunno if you’d have to. Like, politically speaking, imagine what would happen if you enlisted in your country’s army and the Emperor tried to banish you for it. I don’t think that would be too popular with the people. Forbidding somebody to give their life for Mor Ardain? I’m no expert, but that seems like a bad political move.”

“...I merely want to make a difference,” she whispered.

“Me too, chum. That’s why I left Tantal to begin with,” Zeke added. “I decided that the best way for me to make a difference was to go out and help others, not hole myself up inside our Titan. My dad told me not to, but...my conscience kept telling me that this was the right thing to do. It wasn’t easy telling him no, but I don’t think I could have lived with myself like that.”

“You think you wouldn’t have been happy staying in Tantal?”

“It felt...wrong to stay. Like morally wrong. I can’t really explain it. I mean, if someone knows that they could do a lot of good with one course of action because they’ve got the power or talent to do something no one else can, and they decide not to do it...isn’t that kind of wrong?”

“Perhaps. If nothing else, it does seem selfish.”

“Yeah. That’s why I left.”

“I think my uncle would say it would be selfish for me to choose to join the military against his wishes.”

“Hate to break this to you, but your uncle isn’t a perfect man. And he’s not immortal. He can’t make decisions for you forever. One of these days, he’s going to croak.”

Her frown came back all over again. Architect, talking to this so-called prince was equal parts infuriating and comforting.

“Does Tantal not teach its youth to respect their elders? I may be fighting with the Emperor, but I’m certainly not wishing for him to die.” 

He blushed crimson. “Architect, that came out wrong. Sorry. What I’m trying to say is this: one day, your uncle isn’t going to be around anymore. And when that day comes, what do you want your life to be like? Let’s say you did what he wanted you to and got married to some dumb noble chap. After he was gone, would you be proud of that sort of life? Would you feel good about yourself and what you’d done? Or would you spend the rest of your life regretting that you never became a soldier? Your uncle might give you grief now, but he’s not your conscience. He’s going to die one day, but your conscience will keep talking to you the rest of your life. And you have to live with that. Don’t let your uncle pigeon-hole you into a decision that will leave you with a guilty conscience. If you know deep down that you’re meant to be a soldier, then do it. And damn the consequences.”

“I genuinely can’t decide if you’re trying to tell me to be noble or be selfish.” 

“Sorry. I’m not the best at giving advice. Pandy always says I make it sound too dramatic. D-does anything I said make any sense? Do you feel any better?”

“It did feel good to talk to someone about it, at least,” Mòrag began. “But I don’t know what I’ll do. In truth, I’m a little jealous that you can follow your heart so freely. I wish I had that kind of courage. It’s very admirable.”

“Heh. Tell that to my dad.”

Mòrag paused, not sure what else to say. His words certainly hadn’t made her any less torn about what to do, but something about his demeanor and his zeal (and the stupid, overdone gestures that punctuated every word he said) made her feel inspired or...something.  

“Are you really Tantal’s most powerful Driver, then?”

He gave a cheeky grin. “Yup. Wanna have a go at me?”

Zeke stood up and pulled his greatsword from his back, brandishing it as if its hefty weight were nothing more than a toothpick. Mòrag felt an unusual sense of excitement bubble up in her chest; she rarely got to face off with good opponents these days. Brighid sparred with her regularly, and a few generals and colonels from the army took turns training with her every week. But she knew all their moves by heart now. What she’d give to fight an entirely new opponent and test her skills against another nation’s finest. How exhilarating. 

If only she had her whipswords at her side now. She silently cursed herself for not bringing them along. If she went down to get them, the guards would spot her and whisk her off, back to the duties she’d “shirked” to throw this little tantrum. And a fistfight with the strange prince wouldn’t have the same appeal. So much for that idea. 

“Maybe some other time, perhaps.”

“Oh come on. You’re not scared, are you?”

She gave the most condescending smile she could muster, standing to face him. “Of course not. But I’m already on poor terms with my uncle. And if we fought, he’d have another diplomatic incident on his hands.” 

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’d send you to the hospital. And then the Emperor would have to explain to your father why a member of the Ardainian royal family pummeled you senseless.”

“Confident. I like that in a woman!” Zeke replied, winking. 

Mòrag resisted the urge to punch him; something told her he wasn’t being serious—though it was quite hard to tell what his “serious” mood even looked like. The foreign prince spun his sword around before replacing it across his back. 

“Some other time, then,” he nodded. “Don’t slack off in the meantime! You’d best train like your life depends on it, because the Zekenator will give you a fight for the ages!”

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

He made a clicking noise with his tongue, winked again, and disappeared back into the growing shadows, vanishing as stealthily as he appeared...until he tripped on a raised edge in the dock and face planted. He stood, dusted off his clothes, and gave a sheepish grin before wandering off. Mòrag sighed. Maybe she should have asked him for more advice, or at least indulged him in the spar. It would have been fun. 

Not that it mattered too much—she had a feeling she’d be seeing him again.

No one heard of Mòrag’s visit with the intrepid prince-turned-adventurer; she spoke of it with no one, not even Brighid. But she never forgot what he had to say. 

Weeks dragged on into months. Mor Ardain’s Titan worsened, as did international tensions. The Emperor sent his children and his wife to stay in the safety of a rural estate on Gormott. In those quiet halls and on those tranquil lakeshores, Mòrag enjoyed time with Niall, who grew like a weed—a spindly, lanky weed, but a weed all the same. The little prince adored Gormott, with its vibrant colors and lush landscape. But most of all he loved the days when Mòrag slipped away from her duties to play with him. Her duties—and her covert training sessions, which were grueling—did not leave her much time to spare, and yet she always found ways to sneak away and join him. 

While her relationship with the future Emperor warmed, her interactions with the current one took on an icy tone—if they happened at all. She never broached the topic of enlisting, and she frequently found ways to avoid conversations regarding her future. Fortunately, avoiding him wasn’t all that hard; he remained in the capitol, only traveling to Gormott for token visits with his family. But the visits were usually short, and the Emperor’s focus on Niall made it easy for Mòrag to fade into the background until the potential for conflict had passed. And so she waited and watched and planned.

The day of Mòrag’s eighteenth birthday dawned with an air of finality to it. The Emperor was on his way from the motherland, and deep down, Mòrag knew this visit would not afford her the opportunity to disappear. She’d heard enough whispers about the court proceedings to know his likely intent. But in the two years at the Gormott estate, she had plenty of time to read: Ardainian law, adoption policies, military enlistment requirements, legal disputes about Blade ownership, rights of citizenship, and more. 

This time, she was ready.

Lake Yewtle’s waters lapped at her ankles as she mentally rehearsed each argument and rebuttal for every response the Emperor might give her. 

“Titan’s foot! Missed again!” 

The childish voice broke Mòrag out of her reverie. She looked up. She fought back a laugh at the sight: Niall, a few peds away, stabbing at the water with a long pointed stick, frustrated by another failure. All summer, he’d been trying to replicate her feat of spearfishing. Mòrag didn’t have the heart to tell him that he probably wouldn’t manage it. Four-year-olds lacked the precision and speed necessary to catch a fish unawares, especially the small ones mere peds from the shoreline. But it was entertaining to watch him try. Something about the intense determination set on his brow never failed to make her smile. 

“I can’t do it!” he complained. “Mòrag, show me again?”

He held out the stick to her. She waded over and took it from him, unable to resist the pleading blue eyes staring back at her. 

“Watch very closely,” she whispered. “And keep perfectly still.”

Niall watched with rapt attention as she held the spear aloft, poised and ready to strike. A few minutes passed. She could tell by his breathing that the edge of his patience was rapidly approaching; another minute and he’d scare the fish away again. She inhaled and struck. The makeshift spear sprung forward. In a flurry of motion, the fish scattered, their number reduced by one. Niall gave a giddy cheer as she pulled the catch out of the water. She gave a satisfied smile of her own at the feat; it was a good catch.

“Right through the eye!” Niall gasped. “How do you do that?”

“I suppose Brighid’s keen eye is rubbing off on me,” she answered, handing the stick back to him. She knew full well how she’d done it; the hours of covert practice with Brighid were paying off. In the last three months, she noticed that her attention to detail improved immensely. Small openings and weaknesses that she never seemed to notice before now jumped out at her during a sparring session. Skewering a fish through the eye was just a fringe benefit. 

“You’re so cool, sissy. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Her chest tightened. What she was about to do—just what sort of example did that set for Niall? She knelt down beside him so her gaze fell in line with his. Those bright blue eyes stared earnestly back at her. 

“When you grow up, I want you to be the kindest, bravest person you can be.”

“Like you, then. ‘Cause you’re kind and brave.” Niall grinned.

She gave him a small smile. “I want you to be brave enough to do the right thing, even when other people try to tell you otherwise.”

“Like when we give the fish we catch to the little Gormotti children, even though Teacher says we’re not supposed to?”

Mòrag nodded, recalling the first time they’d done so. Niall had been the first to suggest it. Even as little as he was, he noticed how hungry the little locals were and gave his fish over willingly. His mind had not yet been tainted by a politician’s cynical view that a prince should not give handouts. He simply saw someone in need, knew he could help, and filled the need as best he knew how. And even after his teacher heard of it and scolded him for it, he continued to do so. Mòrag prayed he would never lose that kind heart.

“Yes, Niall. Exactly like that. Promise me you’ll keep being brave, no matter what,” she urged.

“I promise.”

The noise of trumpets echoed over the manor grounds, signaling the Emperor’s arrival. Mòrag bit back a curse; she lost track of time. She should have had Niall back an hour ago, dressed and ready to meet him at the gate. Emperor Nolan would not be pleased to find his children sandy and damp (and unsupervised, to boot). Nothing for it, though; at least in an hour or so, the Emperor’s anger would be directed at her alone. Once she said her piece, he’d probably forget all about Niall sneaking off to go swimming. 

She clumsily threw a towel over her shoulders and draped another one over Niall. Then she scooped him up and ran towards the manor’s outer courtyard. 

A small greeting party had already assembled by the time she reached it, breathless from the brisk climb up the hill. Servants and guards shot her a dirty look; the Emperor’s wife looked mildly amused (she, unlike the bulk of people at the estate, did not mind Mòrag sneaking off with Niall to go to the lake). The only true smile they received came from Brighid. But the attention quickly returned to the Emperor. 

Emperor Nolan made his way through the small crowd, greeting servants and attendants politely before turning his attention to his family. His forced smile faded to a genuine frown when he saw their bedraggled state. 

“Lady Mòrag. Prince Niall.” The Emperor’s voice was stiff and guarded. “I trust there is a suitable explanation for this...casual greeting?”

The little prince failed to recognize his father’s displeasure. “We went swimming! And Mòrag caught a fish with a pointy stick! You should have seen it, Father. It was awesome.”

A whisper of a smile crossed the ruler’s face. Then he looked at Mòrag questioningly. 

“I apologize, Your Majesty. I lost track of time. It will not happen again.”

“It certainly won’t,” the Emperor agreed. “Go. Make yourself presentable and report to my office in half an hour. You and I have much to discuss.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” 

Mòrag hoped the blood rushing to her cheeks wasn’t visible in the afternoon sunlight. Of all the days to be late. She had planned on a private conversation with the Emperor today. But she’d hoped to begin that exchange regarded as the adult she now legally was. Now, however, he would see her as a mere child who couldn’t be depended on to report to a duty on time. Not exactly an image that would win his respect. 

The small crowd dispersed, and she made her way back to her chambers. Her hands quivered as she got ready. If not for Brighid’s steady fingers assisting her, she might have never gotten the tangles out of her hair. On an ordinary day, Mòrag loved having Brighid fix her hair; it soothed her. Today, however, it brought no comfort. 

Would this be the last time Brighid’s hands touched her hair?

Brighid broke the silence. “Relax, Mòrag. It was an accident. The Emperor won’t be angry for long.”

“I’m not so sure,” she murmured.

“You’ve seemed...distant this past week. Something on your mind?”

Mòrag didn’t answer. She was too enthralled in trying to memorize the feeling of Brighid’s presence: her radiant heat, the flow of her ether, the smooth yet firm touch of her crystalline hands, the faint scent of her perfume. 

“You can tell me anything,” Brighid urged. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry, Brighid. I do have something on my mind. There’s something I must say to the Emperor. But I can’t tell you.”

“Why not? I would never betray your trust. Whatever you say, my lips are sealed.”

“I know. But this...I think I’ll only have the courage to say it once. If I tell you, I don’t think I’ll be brave enough to tell him.”

The Blade nodded. Mòrag felt a little surge in Brighid’s ether, like a comforting, touchless hug. 

“I think I know what this is about,” Brighid said simply. “Would you like me to come with you while you speak to him?”

“I’d like that very much. Thank you.”

A cool wave of relief washed over her. With Brighid there, she wouldn’t have to explain the aftermath. The pieces could fall where they would without an explanation.

“After you then, Lady Mòrag.”

Fueled by the promise of Brighid’s presence, Mòrag steeled herself and crossed the manor to answer the Emperor’s summons. In the short time he’d been present at the Yewtle estate, the Emperor had already situated himself in his office. Paperwork and books lined his desk, as if not even a visit to his family could halt his work. Aegaeon lurked behind his chair, ever watchful and always silent, unreadable. 

As she approached, Emperor Nolan set aside the top parchment and gestured for her to take a seat. She did so, breathing as deeply as she could manage. Brighid stood behind her chair, sending tiny ripples of ether through their affinity bond. A stiff silence hung between the Emperor and his niece.

I can do this. I have to do this.

At last, Emperor Nolan spoke. “First, happy birthday, Mòrag.”

“Thank you. I’m grateful the Architect has granted me another year of life,” she said, willing her voice not to waver.

“And what an important year it is. Eighteen—now of age, a proper woman of society. While I do not wish to sully your birthday with political matters, I fear it is a necessity. In these dark days, time is of the essence. The sooner we act, the safer our country will be. As I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve been negotiating with Uraya extensively these past few months. With your help, I believe we may be able to reach a favorable agreement with them. Now, Queen Raqura does not yet have any heirs of her own, but her prime minister’s eldest son, Ulfred, is yet unmarried. He may be fifteen years your senior, but I believe your marriage to him would keep Uraya at a ceasefire. That would buy us enough time to continue the excavation at Temperantia. And once those digs are complete, not even the Urayan army will be a threat. We could eliminate them without any casualties within our forces.”

Mòrag swallowed hard, willing her stomach to calm down. She knew Emperor Nolan had been negotiating an arranged marriage for her, but Ulfred? Not exactly a...pleasant choice. Even that Tantalese buffoon would be more tolerable. Her own sense of disgust emboldened her. She had to go through with it now, no matter the consequences. 

“Now the exact details of the treaty have yet to be arranged, but with your—”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that, Your Majesty,” Mòrag interrupted.

The Emperor stiffened, shocked that she’d spoken out of turn. Then her words seemed to register in his mind, and his gaze turned icy. “Excuse me?”

For some reason, the man’s displeasure spurred her even more than the disgust did. She fought back a smile, her confidence rising.

“I refuse. I won’t be used as a pawn in some political agreement, especially not one that you’ll break the moment it becomes convenient for you.”

“Tread carefully, Mòrag. Just because you are legally an adult now does not mean you have the right to shirk the Emperor’s will. And I will not have you freeloading, frolicking about purposelessly in the sand like a child. You are a lady of the royal household, and you will live as such!”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I never implied that I would be a layabout. I have my ambitions.”

“Such as?”

Mòrag swallowed back the temptation to hesitate. It was now or never. “I still wish to enlist in the military. And I’d like to do so with your blessing.”

A fire blazed in the Emperor’s eyes. “I told you long ago to abandon that foolish course of action.”

“I cannot. It is the course I feel I was destined to follow. And tomorrow, I intend to return to the mainland to submit my enlistment papers. You cannot dissuade me.”

The Emperor rose, flaring to his full height. Mòrag made no move to stand with him.

“I will not abide this outright defiance, you foolish, ungrateful girl! I forbid you to join the military, and that is the end of the discussion.”

“Statute thirty-nine: ‘No man, woman, or office may refuse an able-bodied citizen of the Empire his or her right to serve in the armed forces,’” Mòrag recited, grateful she committed the section to memory. “Emperor or not, you cannot deny me this.”

“And that same statute’s subsections state that every recruit must have written approval from the head of their household prior to enlisting. And as your father, that approval must come from me. And I will not sign off on your papers. Abandon this childish fantasy, Mòrag. I will not tell you again.” 

“...Is that your final answer, then?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then. I truly hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but...I hereby renounce my title and take back my father’s name. As far as the law is concerned, I am once again Eandraig Ladair’s daughter,” Mòrag said simply.

A thick silence filled the air as Mòrag’s words sunk in. Even Aegaeon looked visibly shocked. Mòrag felt an odd ripple through the ether, as if Brighid accidentally unleashed a tuft of flame. The shock was understandable. Legally, she had the right to do it; Ardainian law afforded adopted children the opportunity to regain their birth family names when they reached adulthood (though it happened rarely). But for her to take that route, to renounce the royal family—not even Brighid saw that coming. 

She continued. “And as the last surviving member of the Ladair household, I am, by default, head of my house. I need no consent but my own.”

The Emperor stared back at her, his eyes cutting into her like two swords. Each of his words stuck, punctuated by his wrath. “You would not dare. ” 

“You leave me little choice, uncle.”

“...You ungrateful little child! I brought you in, raised you as my own. While the law allowed me to, I kept you as my heir. I gave you the finest training the Empire can afford. I allowed you to resonate with Brighid, the finest, strongest Blade this nation has. I have given you a life that most of our citizens would kill for. You wanted for nothing. And this is how you thank me?”

“You raised me to be the leader of this country,” she replied, feeling braver than ever. “You led me to believe that I had a singular purpose. And when the Architect granted you a son of your own, I never interfered. I accepted him. I loved him as my own brother. I saw his first steps. I taught him to swim. Even though his birth shattered the only existence I ever knew, I never complained. I never blamed you. I stood aside. And how did you thank me? You denied me the only thing I ever asked for. Worse still, you would repay me by imprisoning me in a loveless marriage.”

The Emperor clutched the edges of his desk. “This is outright rebellion, Mòrag. I ought to have you flogged publicly. Come to your senses this instant.”

“Then flog me. Do it yourself if you must. I want to serve Mor Ardain with my very life. A few scars mean nothing to me.”

Emperor Nolan stiffened, his hands clenched in tight fists behind his back. “Consider very carefully the implications of what you’re doing, Mòrag. Do not scoff at the generosity I have shown you. Do not cast it aside.”

“I am eternally grateful that you took me in after my father died. And words will never adequately express the debt I owe for the privilege of being Brighid’s Driver,” Mòrag agreed. “But the army needs soldiers like me. You’ve said as much yourself. And that is a need I cannot turn away from. If taking back my father’s name is the only way I can do so, then sobeit.” 

“If you go through with this, you lose everything—no title, no nobility, no seat in court. You have nothing,” the Emperor warned. 

“But at least my conscience will be clear...I know it does not seem like it, but it brings me no pleasure to defy your wishes. I hope someday you’ll learn to forgive me. But until that day comes, I must live the life my conscience calls me to.”

The Emperor’s gaze took on a familiar expression. Mòrag saw it a few times when she attended the higher-profile criminal trials. It was the look the Emperor took when sentenced a convict. Cold. Calculating. Unyielding. 

“Mòrag Ladair, you have forced my hand. Go on, then. Play at being a soldier until the military chews you up and spits you back out like the naive little fool you are. But do not come begging to me for mercy. Until you come to your senses and agree to serve the Empire in the way her king sees fit, you are banished from the royal household. All titles and privileges you previously held are now revoked...you have until sundown to gather your things and vacate the premises. Return, and I’ll have you arrested and tried like a common criminal. Do I make myself clear?”

Mòrag swallowed hard, trying very hard not to lose her illusion of resolve. She blinked back a few tears. She expected a reaction like this, of course, and he could have given her far worse punishments. She had tried to steel herself for this outcome. But anticipating it and actually hearing the finality of those words made her waver. 

“Perfectly clear, your Majesty,” she replied, her voice flinching a little. “May I have temporary clearance to get my things from Hardhaigh Palace as well? I have a few of my father’s things in my room. I’d like to take them with me.”

“I will have them sent to you.”

“...Very well. I must take my leave, then.”

Suddenly feeling very small, Mòrag turned and began making her way out of the Emperor’s office. Nolan’s voice cut her off.

“Be sure to say goodbye to Niall before you go,” the Emperor called. “He’ll miss you.”

Brighid watched helplessly as the first tears finally fell from her Driver’s face. Mòrag made an undignified squeak of a response and fled the room. Brighid let her eyes open fully, casting one long gaze at the Emperor. Even after years of observation, she never managed to adequately read the ruler of the Ardainian Empire. But in that moment, her keen eye caught a tiny glimpse of weakness: his hands quivered as he went through the motions of returning to his work. 

“Stubborn, stubborn girl,” Emperor Nolan whispered, shaking his head. “She’s very much like her father.”

Brighid finally spoke, her voice thick with the tension she bottled up throughout the entire exchange she just observed. “Stubborn like her biological father? Or her adoptive one?”

The Emperor’s eyebrows raised for a moment, but he gave no other indication that he even heard the question. “Lady Brighid, I trust you are wise enough to discern the right course of action in this instance.”

She clenched a fist and took a deep breath to dispel the urge to slap the man. Of all the arrogant, presumptuous things to say! 

“I think it’s becoming quite clear where my loyalties lie, Your Majesty.”

And without another word, she took off after her Driver. Locating Mòrag was easy enough; even if she hadn’t expected the young woman to rush off to pack, Brighid would have felt the surge of emotions boiling through the ether like an erupted volcano. She might as well have thrown a signal flare up announcing her location. 

By the time Brighid reached her, Mòrag had already upended her room. A mess of garments were strewn about in a haphazard manner, waiting to be packed into a small trunk. A few tear marks stained one blouse in particular. Mòrag’s hair was tied up in a helter-skelter bun, the style she always wore when she was focused on a task. But she’d done a very poor job of it. Little hiccups escaped her lips every now and then, and the way she tried to stifle them only made them sound more miserable. 

Brighid strode into the room and set to folding the items Mòrag threw out, stashing them in neat piles inside the trunk. She waited and watched; at times like these, Mòrag needed a moment to release her emotions unperturbed. Talking to her before she did so would only upset her more. Mòrag would speak when she was ready. 

About halfway through the trunk, Mòrag finally looked up. “Thank you,” she whispered, gesturing towards the pants Brighid was folding. 

“Mòrag, I—”

“Please don’t try to talk me out of it, Brighid. My mind is made up.”

“I was merely going to ask if you’d like me to add my belongings to your trunk, or if I should pack one of my own.”

Mòrag gasped. She blinked once, twice. “I-I cannot ask you to come with me, Brighid.”

Brighid crossed her arms. “Whyever not?”

“You...you’re a royal Blade. You deserve the best that money can buy. But the life I’ll have to lead now—it’s not worthy of you. I have nothing now. Well, I do have a small amount of money, my inheritance from my father. But it’s a paltry sum. It might sustain me for a year, but certainly not in a lavish lifestyle. I-I’ll have my military salary, of course. But I won’t have servants. Come to think of it, I don’t even know how to do my own laundry. I can’t cook. I’m not even sure how to buy groceries. I’ll live in the barracks during training, but once I’m stationed, I’ll probably have to rent a tiny apartment and scrape by. Those are sacrifices I’m willing to make. But it’ll be hard, especially at first. And I can’t ask you to share such a dismal life. Y-you deserve more than that.”

Brighid gave her Driver a reassuring smile. “I am no stranger to the fog of war, Mòrag. I have lived several lifetimes where my entire resonance occurred in the trenches. Cold meals. Harsh nights without shelter. Aching feet from countless hours marching. Getting lost in enemy territory. Dodging traps. Lying awake wondering if my Driver would survive the next day. I’ve lived through hardship with dozens of Drivers before you. Why should you be any different?”

“You belong to the Imperial household. The Emperor would be well within his rights to take you from me as well.”

“Woe to the fool who tries to take me from you, Mòrag,” Brighid said firmly. “He’d be in Morytha before he knew what hit him. Even the Emperor.”

Another tear slipped out, but this time Brighid knew it was a relieved one. “You’ll come with me?”

“A Driver and Blade are one in body and soul. My only place is at your side.” Brighid laced her fingers into Mòrag’s. “Your convictions are my own, and I will follow where your conscience leads you.”

For the first time in hours, Mòrag gave a wry smile. “It will look odd for a fresh recruit to be armed with the Jewel of the Empire.”

“Heh, I don’t think you’ll be a recruit for very long. Your skill is without question. And I daresay you know more military strategy than many of your instructors will.” Brighid gave a smirk of her own. “The Emperor may have banished you from the palace, but I think one day soon you’ll be a general in his army. And then he’ll have no choice but to let you in and listen to your advice and trust your judgment. On that day you’ll be able to look him in the eyes proudly, a self-made warrior and hero. And he will never be able to take that away from you.”

Mòrag squeezed her hands gratefully. “To a new adventure, then.”

After a few rushed goodbyes, Mòrag and Brighid left the Imperial Estate. Naturally, saying goodbye to Niall proved the hardest. The little boy did not understand why his sister had to go, and no one knew quite how to explain the conflict that caused her to leave. Lady Cornelia, Niall’s mother, was the only one who gave her a sympathetic goodbye. 

“We’ll miss you, dear,” the frail woman whispered. “He’s overreacting. I’m sorry. I’ll try to reason with him. Maybe I can convince him to let you come back. At the very least, I’ll persuade him to let you visit from time to time. How’s that sound?”

Mòrag gave a feeble smile. Nolan was a stubborn man, but if anyone could convince him to budge an inch, it was his wife. “I would like that very much.” 

“Send us your address as soon as you get settled. Niall is already drawing pictures to send you. And I’ll personally ensure the staff doesn’t forget to send your belongings with you.”

“Thank you.”

Lady Cornelia pulled her into a stiff but loving hug. “You’re very brave, Mòrag. I wish I had had your courage when I was younger.”

Mòrag pulled back from the embrace, a little dazed. She’d never given much thought to it, but come to think of it, Lady Cornelia had joined the royal family as part of a political agreement with a smaller syndicate of Titans, long before her birth. Cornelia had grown to love her husband, but marrying the soon-to-be-Emperor of the time couldn’t have been easy. Where would the Empire be if Cornelia had refused? Mòrag tried not to dwell on the thought.

“Make us proud, dear. And be safe out there—both of you.”

And so Mòrag set out on her own. 

As predicted, the first years were hardest—hard because the stares were fiercest, the whispers the loudest the first year. Not one citizen of the Empire missed the story of how the former princess abandoned her station, became a commoner, and joined the army. To some, it was a scandal and discredit to her uncle. But others viewed her as a woman of valor and principle. Everyone, however, talked about it. 

Training as a new recruit proved to be a mixed bag as well. More than once, Mòrag’s superiors instinctively referred to her as “Lady Mòrag,” only to stammer out a “Cadet Mòrag” to correct themselves. She didn’t blame them, of course; Brighid followed her everywhere (she had, after all, joined the Driver cohort with her peers), and most of the drill sergeants had seen Brighid as the previous Emperor’s Blade. It was only instinctive for them to regard her Driver as nobility. But Mòrag did wish they would stop unintentionally reminding her of the life she’d abandoned. And many of the recruits certainly relished in the knowledge that they now had the same status as a former princess. 

However, after a few weeks of field maneuvers, many of those whispers and taunts abated. Because her performance made it obvious: she was meant to be there. What she lacked in brute strength she made up for in ingenuity and agility. In the classroom, she outclassed her peers by titanpeds (and her instructor jokingly said that she ought to teach the class herself). By the end of training a year later, she graduated top of her class, joining the fast-track to a successful military career. 

From then on, life got a little easier. A pay raise from her first promotion (a mere two months after graduation) allowed her to rent a two-bedroom apartment; it was a huge improvement from the studio in a building directly adjacent to a manufacturing plant where they’d lived previously. No longer did her clothes smell faintly of sulphur. And every once in a while, on the way home from her duties, Mòrag could stop off and buy a bottle of perfume or titan-oil hand cream to give to Brighid. It seemed a poor way to thank her Blade for sacrificing palace life to stay at her side. Deep down, she knew Brighid missed the lavish parties, the soft silk sheets, the good champagne, and as many cosmetics as she could think of. And yet Brighid never complained. These gifts were the only thing Mòrag knew to offer her feeble thanks. And the way Brighid’s expression softened whenever she delivered a little present always made her day a little brighter. 

If not for Brighid’s innate sense of fashion—and uncanny ability to find flowers, vases, and decorations at a bargain price—their apartment would have been rather sparse. The only thing Mòrag contributed to the decor was little drawings and letters pinned to the walls with thumbtacks; Niall sent envelopes on a weekly basis, always stuffed to the brim with crayon drawings, and then, when he learned to write, the tiniest little letters. No matter how demanding her schedule became, Mòrag always responded within the hour she opened his package. 

For three years, that was the extent of their relationship; if the Emperor found out about their communications, he never put a stop to it. In that time, Mòrag never saw or spoke to her family directly. She did, of course, see pictures, usually in the papers (and Lady Cornelia always slipped in an updated photo after Niall’s birthday). But the separation from her little brother was the only aspect of her new life that Mòrag hated.

That aside, she thrived. And two years after her graduation from military training, she finally worked up the courage to enter the Empire’s fighting festival. It was a simple tournament, really: Driver and Blade teams faced off in one-on-one combat matches. But very few restrictions were placed on competitors. A match was won when the Driver from one side was no longer able to fight; nearly any tactics could be used to disable the opponent. The only true restriction was that outright killing the other Driver was forbidden. As such, the tournament made for a rather bloody, brutal affair. And yet every year, the Empire held the event, in honor of the Emperor’s birthday.

“And you’re absolutely sure that Niall will be attending?” Mòrag asked, trying to keep her voice low, so as not to disturb the other competitors getting ready in the tent with them.

Brighid nodded. “That’s the word about the grounds.”

“It’s hard to believe,” the Driver commented. “I wasn’t allowed to attend until I was ten. He’s only seven.”

“The Emperor is not a young man. Perhaps he wants to share as many tournaments with his son as he can.”

“That’s likely. Can you believe it’s been three years since I saw him last? He’s grown so much.”

“Don’t let his presence distract you, Mòrag.”

“I won’t.”

“And what will you do if you win? It’s customary for the Emperor to speak directly with the victor. You’d be the guest of honor at the feast tonight.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Brighid. There are many worthy opponents here. And I am by far one of the youngest.”

Brighid resisted the temptation to point out that her Driver was the crowd favorite to win the tournament; bets were placed on her the same day she registered to compete. Rumor had it that her first drill instructor had bet nearly half his annual wages on her victory. But it would be impolite to say so now, with other competitors milling about as they waited for the festivities to begin.

The young Driver stared at a seam in the tent wall, thinking. “I must admit...to see him forced to let me sit at his right hand in the very palace he banished me from, because I excelled at the thing he forbade me to do—that would be cathartic, to say the least. I think I’d like to see the look on his face.”

“I’d like to see it, too,” Brighid admitted. 

“It seems our desires align, then.”

“Always.”

The tournament began with the Empire’s usual pomp and circumstance: a small procession of the competitors, an address from the Emperor, the anthem, and the pronouncement of the first round of matches. Then the fighting began in earnest. Until the final round, competitors fought in one of four smaller arenas; when the final round began, the smaller rings would be combined into one grand arena. Single-elimination rounds kept things moving, much to the crowd’s delight. The entire morning passed in a flurry of metal, sweat, tears, and blood. 

For Mòrag, the morning proved simple. Her first two opponents—former cadets from her recruit class—never stood a chance. She disarmed them easily without deploying a single Art. The third provided her a bit more entertainment; she did have to rely on Brighid once or twice. The commentators, however, wondered if she merely toyed with the other female Driver. The entire fight, she had a slim smirk on her face. 

To the surprise of no one, Mòrag reached the final round of the tournament without a single injury and only one close call. 

After a brief recess (during which a traveling troupe from Fonsa Myma performed a play to fill the time), the crowd quieted, eager to hear the Emperor’s address prior to the main event.

“My fellow Ardainians!” Emperor Nolan began, his voice thrown by a microphone hidden somewhere within the royal box. Mòrag noticed that his voice sounded weaker than it did three years ago. How much had his health worsened since she left? 

“My countrymen!” he continued. “Truly, the Architect has blessed us! What a fine display of valor, what skill! With such fine warriors defending our proud land, we have nothing to fear. My heart is blessed to know that the dedication of our warriors will continue to bring honor and glory to the Empire for generations to come.

“Reagan O’Connor.” He hesitated a moment, making direct eye contact with his niece for the first time since their disagreement. “Mòrag Ladair. You two, together with your Blades, have fought hard. You embody the values we hold dear: courage, grit, ingenuity, strength, and prowess. No matter what happens in the fight to follow, you have brought glory to your families. Congratulations.

“But there can be only one victor. Who will claim the title of Mor Ardain’s strongest Driver? Prove to us your strength one last time. Begin!”

The audience enjoyed a good show of skill all day. But in that moment, those in attendance realized the current match made every other fight look amateur. Sparks flew from the first strike. For the first minute, the audience could hardly track either Driver’s movements; the strikes hammered in such rapid succession that it was impossible to tell who was attacking and who was parrying. The scent of scorched earth permeated the air as earth-based ether clashed with flame. 

Damn greatlances .

For the first time that day, Mòrag found herself vaulting backwards to avoid a hit. Unlike most lance wielders, O’Connor was not slowed by the weight of his weapon. And he never relied on the tip alone. He utilized the entire length of the weapon, threatening to stab her and bludgeon her in the span of a single second. 

Brighid flung forward a wall of flame, buying Mòrag time to collect herself after her dodge. It was barely enough; O’Connor sprung forward, lance spinning overhead.

Her right and left whipsword shot up instinctively, barely catching the tip between her swords. The azure metal wavered slightly under the sheer weight of the weapon. A surge of earth, propelled by his Blade, followed immediately behind the strike. She and Brighid both rolled to the side. Then, before she could get back to her feet, the butt off the lance rocketed towards her. 

Thwack.

Pain rocketed through her side. A shout slipped from her lips. Somewhere amidst the groaning crowd, she could have sworn she heard Niall scream her name. 

Get up. Keep fighting. But stay out of range.

Yes, that was it. If her swords couldn’t keep her at bay in melee range, she’d have to stay out of range. His Blade couldn’t defend against long-range attacks from both Brighid and herself. But could she manage it? She still hadn’t quite mastered the long-range forms of the weapons. Since leaving the palace, she and Brighid had experimented with some...unorthodox uses of her weapons, techniques that Emperors sneered at in favor of traditional fencing techniques. But many of the newer Arts still hadn’t been tested on a living, breathing, hostile opponent.

Now was as good a time as any to test out Radiance and Blaze. Nothing else for it. 

With a flick of her wrist, the right whipsword extended into a long, lethal leash, wreathed in flame. Another flick, and the left sword matched. Brighid seemed to read her intent; Mòrag felt the ether roaring through each sword instantly. Her fingers tingled with the rush of affinity as the thread between them turned to gold. O’Connor’s eyes widened; he saw the unfurled whips and hoped it was an opening. He rushed forward.

Fool. 

“Blaze!”

Mòrag snapped the whips forward, channeling Brighid’s ether through the crystals on each hilt. By the time the tips reached O’Connor’s frame, each sword dripped with azure flames. Before he could react, the whips spun around him, encircling him. For a moment, the sheer heat of the strike blurred Mòrag’s vision of him. But when she retracted the whips, she caught glimpses of angry, pink skin all over his face and neck. She suspected his left eyebrow singed off, too—the face that leered back at her seemed off-balance. 

The tide of the battle turned instantly. 

O’Connor let out an angry roar, but that cry was cut short. He found himself scrambling to dodge the fiery tendrils, sometimes powered by ether, other times fueled by Mòrag’s physical agility alone. Even his Blade couldn’t put up an ether shield in time. 

Radiance, then another two cracks of the whip. Snap. The scent of burning hair. And yet O’Connor persisted, using his lance to bat away what strikes he could.

“We’ve got to disarm him,” Brighid said, her voice an ever-present calm at her back.

“Agreed.” Mòrag tossed one sword back to Brighid. “Concentrate on his hands.”

A loud “ooh” rose up from the crowd as the two whipswords danced in perfect unison, creating a great tornado of flame. That great burning circle grew, its heat increasing with every passing second, only to shrink so it engulfed his entire body, then his hands only. 

For a split-second, it looked as though O’Connor’s thick gloves would ward off the worst of the flames. But then he shouted out again. His weapon clattered to the ground. Before he clenched his hands against his chest, the crowd caught sight of a mess of burnt skin and melted leather. He’d be hard-pressed to hold his weapon any longer. 

O’Connor shook his head—a mix of frustration, awe, and disappointment. He tapped out.

The crowd erupted. 

Brighid looked over to the official timekeeper of the match and smiled proudly. As memory served, it was the briefest championship match in the history of the tournament. Despite a shaky start, Mòrag had won against a field of men and women, most of whom were more than a decade older. And she did so soundly. The Emperor could not possibly look at such a display and deny Mòrag’s chosen path now, could he?

Brighid turned to her Driver, who stood, panting mildly. The young woman was scowling as she stored a whipsword on each hip.

“What’s wrong?”

“That last Art—it was sloppy. I cut off the ether a bit too soon. The strike wasn’t nearly as big as I intended. It needs refining.”

“Oh do lighten up, Mòrag. You won!” Brighid lowered her voice. “That catharsis you talked about? It’s yours now. He can’t kick you out of the palace tonight.”

A wry, nearly full smile blossomed across Mòrag’s face.

The dinner in question proved to be one of the least formal affairs that Mòrag had ever attended. Granted, there were speeches and formal recognitions between courses. But Mòrag didn’t pay much attention to them at first; her seat at the Emperor’s right hand meant she was, intentionally or not, seated directly beside Niall. The sight warmed Brighid’s core. The pair chatted (and whispered when they ought to have been listening) as if they’d been apart for a mere three days, not three years. He asked millions of questions: what her training was like, what it was like to have neighbors, if the people living in the apartment above her ever fell through her ceiling or made too much noise that she couldn’t sleep, what she did in her free time, her favorite place to visit, and any other random fact he could think of. Mòrag answered each one with the happiest expression Brighid had seen in years. 

When the time came for Niall to be ushered off to bed—tournaments were draining days for seven-year-olds, after all—he whispered,

“Why can’t you come to dinner every night? I miss you.”

“Your father won’t allow it.”

Niall’s lips turned into a little pout. Then his face brightened. “For my next birthday, I’m not going to ask Father for any presents. I’ll ask for you to come visit instead!”

Mòrag grinned at that. “I’d like that. I tell you what: you ask your father to let me visit, and then write to me what gift you’d like. And I’ll bring it when I come. That way you’ll get me and a present.”

The boy returned her smile. Then he threw his arms around her neck. “You’re the best.”

He gave her another fierce hug, and with a few protests, left the party with his governess. Mòrag watched until he was out of sight; each step he took in the opposite direction made the knot in her chest tighten. 

“I-I need some air,” she stammered to Brighid. And then she left the banquet hall. 

Finding the exterior balcony was easy enough; just how many times had she come here to escape stuffy formal parties when she was a girl? And in her absence, nothing had changed. Hardhaigh remained the same, a bastion of permanence and tradition atop a crumbling Titan. Had nothing—and no one—within it changed?

Well, I’ve changed, at least. Leaving made me stronger. And people respect me for my talents, not my station. 

If only leaving hadn’t cost her relationship with Niall.

She peered over the balcony railing, watching as little lights began to pop up in the windows of the city below. How beautiful this country of hers was—beautiful not for its foliage or natural resources, but beautiful for its own stubborn tenacity and rugged will to not just survive but thrive atop an aging Titan. Beautiful for its people, who lived hard lives but still smiled, worked, and loved their families, relishing in the simple pleasures of life. People with more loyalty to hearth and homeland than any other country in Alrest. People she was proud to call her own. 

And now, she felt honored to help protect those people. 

“It was worth it,” she whispered to herself, hoping to partly soothe the pain that seeing Niall again had dredged up. Leaving him had always been the hardest part.  

“These past three years have been kind to you, Lieutenant Ladair.”

Mòrag spun around on the spot to see the Emperor himself; Aegaeon did not lurk behind him. Perhaps he wanted a private conversation? She bowed deeply, a salute befitting a soldier to her king. How foreign it felt, to speak so formally to a man she once addressed as her adoptive father.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. But it’s actually Captain Ladair now. I was promoted last week.”

The Emperor’s eyes widened in a look of genuine surprise. “Ah. Aegaeon had not reported that to me yet.”

“You get reports about me?”

Emperor Nolan nodded. “The...wisdom of your decisions aside, I did want to keep track of your whereabouts. F-for Niall’s sake. He asks about you often.”

“I am glad he is doing well,” Mòrag replied politely, her expression more guarded than ever.

“So Captain, then. Such a prestigious rank in a mere three years. Keep getting promotions so quickly and you’re bound to make some enemies, you know.”

“Perhaps. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Your superiors speak very highly of you.”

“I’m just grateful for the opportunity to use my talents to serve my homeland. I find it very fulfilling.”

A long, uncomfortable silence echoed between them. Back in the great hall, music swelled as a bard began to recount some of Mor Ardain’s fondest tales. 

“Mòrag, I…” he faltered. “You—you may come to the palace to visit, from time to time.”

“What?”

“The palace is a lonely place for a child. And Niall still adores you. Today I’ve seen how happy you make him. And your...independent choices aside, you have garnered the respect of our people and our finest warriors. Only a woman of the finest quality would be able to do such a thing. I suppose such a woman would have an excellent influence on my son.”

Mòrag felt an odd sensation of relief and shock well up in her chest simultaneously. Getting to see Niall was a far, far better prize than even watching her uncle acknowledge her chosen path. 

“I—thank you, Your Majesty.”

“We’re quite proud of you, Captain Mòrag Ladair. Keep up the good work.”

And without another word, the Emperor returned to the party. Mòrag stayed still, too stunned to do anything. Had the Emperor really just said that? The entire exchange seemed too good to be true. In reality, she’d daydreamed hearing almost exactly that from her uncle. The thought of hearing him swallow his pride and praise her for the warrior she’d chosen to be—just how many times had she visualized this reality just to motivate herself through the hardest days? 

“Proud of you?” a voice scoffed. “That’s hardly likely. If he were truly proud of you, he’d apologize for trying to force you into a life you weren’t meant to lead.”

“Brighid, just how long have you been standing there?”

Her Blade smiled, moving into the lamplight and letting her flames burn bright again so she was clearly visible in the dim light. “You don’t honestly think I could watch the Emperor come out here to talk to you and not eavesdrop, did you?” Then Brighid shook her head. “What a proud, arrogant man.”

“He...he did apologize, in his own way.”

“How so?”

Mòrag turned to look back out over the city below. “He had no choice but to banish me. As Emperor, he can’t let someone go unpunished who defies his wishes, not even his own family. It would make him look weak. For him to even allow me to visit...it’s a start.”

“What does this mean for you, then?”

She smiled. “It doesn’t change much of anything. I still have my own ambitions to attend to. Now I simply know where I’ll be spending my vacation time.”

Mòrag won that first fighting festival and every festival afterwards, solidifying her place as the “Strongest Driver in the Empire.” She became something of a celebrity, even after her anomaly of being a “prodigy Driver” gave way to a simple respect for the hard work and dedication she applied year after year. No one called her the “banished princess” anymore. Most people completely forgot she was even royalty to begin with. And Mòrag preferred it that way; as Colonel Mòrag (a rank she won just as fast as the others), she was herself: a warrior, nothing more. 

Life was simple but good. The occasional skirmish or border dispute often called Mòrag away, but she always returned to spend time with the young prince. Her relationship with the Emperor reached a calm sort of agreement to disagree; the thin mutual respect they held for each other was good enough to keep the peace. He would never convince her to abandon her military ambitions, and she would never convince him that he was wrong to try and marry her off all those years ago. Both stood by their convictions, and that was that.

The years dragged on. Whispers of collapsing Titans—and of the rapidly declining life force of Mor Ardain—riddled the streets. The queen passed away after her son’s tenth birthday. After her death, Niall seemed to be struck by the mortality of humanity in general, and he threw himself into his studies with a fervor far beyond his years. It was as if he knew what would happen.

Mòrag, however, was blindsided by a sudden summons to the palace a year later. And it further shocked her when the man who delivered the summons led her to the Emperor’s bedroom, not the throne room. When she stood at the foot of his bed, looking at the shell of the man she once knew, she felt a tiny pang of regret. Resentment or not, he looked miserable. His hair had thinned. Eyes that once gleamed with cunning now clouded over with fatigue and age. Jaundice tinged his skin. His cheeks sank back into his skull. And when he extended a hand to gesture for her to sit in the chair beside the bed, Mòrag had to force back a shudder; the limb shook, and the bones protruded far too clearly against his flesh.

No, her eyes had to be fooling her. She last saw him three months ago, and then he’d looked healthy and strong for his age—not this skeleton of a man clinging to the last vestiges of life.

“Uncle…” Mòrag whispered, only half-realizing that she’d addressed him as “uncle” and not “your majesty” for the first time in nearly a decade. “Wh-what happened?” 

With assistance from a nearby servant, the Emperor dragged himself into something that remotely resembled a seated position against the pillows. Only then did Mòrag notice the bag attached to his stomach, full of a harsh, foul liquid that made her want to shiver all over again. 

“Y-you’re dying,” she gasped in realization. “That’s why you called me here.”

Nolan nodded, pulling down the hem of his shirt to hide the bag. “I’ve been ill for well over a year now. But for the people’s sake, I kept it secret.” He coughed once, and an expression of pain wracked his face. “I didn’t want the people to panic while I still had the strength to rule. Those days are all but gone now.”

All at once, Mòrag felt hurt that she was only just now told. Yes, she and the Emperor would never see eye to eye, and they’d kept communication to a minimum these past years (mostly centered on Niall). But a life-threatening illness seemed too important to leave out. Then again, it fit Emperor Nolan’s way of ruling: never expressing weakness outwardly, always maintaining a front of calm strength. 

“What’s wrong with you? Why can’t one of the palace Blades heal you?”

“Unless there’s a Blade out there that can manipulate cell regeneration, then no Blade can heal me,” the Emperor began, his voice weak and strained. “My doctor tells me I have a rare form of cancer. It seems a tumor has grown around a bile duct in my liver. At first the—the tumor was small enough that it didn’t affect my health. But now, the tumor has squeezed the duct shut. I...I can’t digest food properly anymore.”

“Isn’t there anything they can do? Surgery? A stomach port? Something?”

“There’s no known cure,” he whispered. “Not even with a Blade’s help. With that duct blocked, my body is filling with toxins. Even if they gave me intravenous nourishment, the infections would eventually kill me.”

Mòrag sat, dumbfounded. Niall was too young for this. The Emperor was too young for this. 

Nolan smiled feebly. “It’s ironic, really. Here I am, king of the strongest nation in the world. I lack nothing. And yet, I’m slowly starving to death, like a common beggar...death makes equals of us all, in the end.”

He paused a moment, then continued. “I’ve never been very good at asking for help, Mòrag. And you of all people should not want to help me. But I must beg you...please listen to this dying man’s request.”

In that moment, any last fragments of resentment she had faded. She had sat with dying men before on the battlefield—souls she didn’t even know, or subordinates under her command. She’d listened to them and held their hand as they slipped into the afterlife; sometimes she even delivered their last words to their loved ones. If she could do that for a stranger, then she could hear her uncle’s last pleas. She slipped her hand into his and gave a gentle squeeze. 

“What would you have me do?” To her surprise, her voice broke with an emotion she didn’t quite understand.

“I will not ask your forgiveness. I have no right to ask it of you. If you bear any resentment towards me for the way I treated you, sobeit. My soul will carry that debt deservedly. But please, don’t let that resentment carry over to my son.”

“It doesn’t. It never will. You have my word,” Mòrag replied. Then her voice quieted. “I love him. I still think of him as my brother.”

Relief filled the Emperor’s eyes. “Good.” Then he took her other hand in his. “Then please, Mòrag, for his sake, accept the position of Special Inquisitor. Take back your nobility and be his right hand and his shield.”

“W-why would you ask this of me? Of me, who defied your wishes?”

A pang of guilt crossed the Emperor’s face again. “Niall will be the youngest Emperor in three centuries. He is wise beyond his years, and I know he’ll make a good king...someday. There is much he does not yet understand. And I know that there are Senators and courtiers within this Empire that would exploit that weakness. They would make a fool of him and try to take the throne for themselves. And I don’t want to die knowing that he’ll be manipulated on account of his age.”

“But there are plenty of generals in your service who are loyal to the crown. They could serve as the inquisitor just as well as I, if not better.”

“Those generals are mere military men. None of them have been trained in the ways of governance and kingship. You have. You remember those lessons, do you not?”

“I never forgot them,” Mòrag admitted. “I believe they are part of the reason I’ve been promoted so quickly—because I already knew how to lead and manage.”

“Then you can guide him like no other can. I know this is a lot to ask. But Mòrag, you’re the only one I can trust with this. Power corrupts. Those generals...they might use the position of Special Inquisitor to serve their own ends. But you...you’re the only one I can rely on to put the needs of the people first. Because you proved that to me seven years ago. You looked an Emperor in the face and defied him, all because you knew that serving as a soldier would do more good for Mor Ardain, because your conscience told you to. And if you can do that, I can trust you to resist the pull of that position’s power. Help him, Mòrag. Please grant the last request of this foolish old man.”

Mòrag paused; deep down, it felt right. In reality, she always hoped to attain the position of Special Inquisitor. She hoped for it out of spite, as a way to stick it to the Emperor by climbing the ranks of the military and regaining her nobility through sheer merit. And she always knew she could do it; everyone predicted she would (what else would someone expect from the Empire’s strongest Driver?). However, never in her wildest dreams would she have predicted that the position would be offered to her so early in her life (most Inquisitors historically gained the position in their late forties). And she certainly never expected the request to come from her uncle. For the first time, her interests and the Emperor’s aligned. And yet…

“You’re not expecting me to apologize for leaving, are you? In return for this position?” she blurted.

The words came out harsher than she intended, but they needed to be said. She would not be blackmailed into recanting her decision.

The ailing Emperor shook his head. “My only stipulation is that you protect and help Niall with everything you have. But there are no other strings attached.”

“Very well. I...I will do as you ask, provided Brighid has no objections. I’ll be Niall’s Special Inquisitor.”

A genuine but feeble smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Mòrag. Architect bless you for that.”

“Might I—may I ask something in return?”

“Name it.”

“I’m not really sure if I believe in an afterlife, or the myths about Elysium,” Mòrag admitted. “But part of me hopes there’s something more, some greater meaning to all of this. If there is some sort of great beyond, if you reach the other side, would you...would you please tell my parents I love them?”

Nolan nodded. “I’m not sure how the rules work, but I will. I promise.”

“Thank you.” 

The Emperor gave a long, gasping yawn. Out of the corner of her eye, Mòrag saw a concerned look flash across the nearest nurse’s face. 

“You should get your rest,” she said quietly. “If there’s nothing else pressing you’d like to discuss, I should take my leave.”

“Yes, I suppose you have much to do in order to make Hardhaigh Palace your home once more. You may go. And again, thank you. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

Mòrag rose to leave. As she stepped towards the door, she realized that in that moment, the colors in the room all felt brighter...and duller all at once. Brighter because these walls, these windows were home again. And yet duller because she couldn’t find the right words to say goodbye to the dying man within those walls. She doubted she ever would. 

“And Mòrag? One last request, if I may.”

She nodded, trying not to shudder at how sunken his profile looked from this angle.

“You are a woman who is pure of heart and strong in spirit. Your soul has not led you astray thus far, and I don’t believe it ever will,” Nolan explained. Then he saluted her in a weak but accurate military fashion, as a soldier would show fealty to a superior. “My only advice to you, then, is this: Follow your heart, Mòrag Ladair.”