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Chapter Text

The northmen’s stories didn’t do it justice. Nor his father’s.

While the blizzard had stalled in the daylight, past twilight it overcame everything in a relentless onslaught. The remnants of this one-great northern city became a frigid tomb beset with ash and decay. Stone buildings were torn asunder by rot, crushed under crumbling mountains of drained soil. Cobblestone roads seethed with man-sized tumors under old ashen snow, festering long after death. He had looked upon too many as of late.

Iskald, like the blight-ridden villages he passed through before, was a dead settlement. The jewel of the Glaives was nothing more than a forsaken memory.

Certainly not a place fit for mankind, nor chocobos for that matter. Yet the seeker and his white-feathered steed ventured forth nonetheless, through howling winds and snow-torn debris, bearing a shaky lantern to light their way through that dim tomb. A light born of his brother’s magic couldn’t be sustained in such a depleted land, so he improvised. The masked hunters he borrowed the lamp from wouldn’t mind… for too long.

Despite the black and crimson layers she was wrapped in, the white chocobo shivered and kweh’d, finding the only true source of heat radiating from her similarly garbed master riding atop her. He tenderly patted Ambrosia’s side with that warmth, promising the poor bird she’d be able to rest her feathers soon: When their search was at an end.

“We’re almost there.” Clive swore again. Maybe this time he’d finally be right.

At the northern edge of town they found reprieve from the elements, a castle gate pushed close by the unceasing wind. Whatever hid beyond was obscured by the storm. As Ambrosia was given a moment to settle, Clive dismounted. He recognized the gate, as if picturing the door in tales recounted to him. Stories he heard as a boy.

Her stories.

His lantern flickered in that cold nostalgia, struggling to maintain its glow. Clive was pulled further in by that familiarity, as if he had dreamt of the door amidst that never-ending snowfield surrounding him. In accord with such a notion, he discovered a gleaming in the dwindled lamplight.

It was a blood-tinged handprint beset by frost. The hand it originated from was far smaller than his. Far colder too. Clive himself was marred by a similar print. It grew colder the further north he dwelled. That familiar chill ruptured through Clive Rosfield touching the mark. Even without true confirmation, he knew where it came from. He felt her anguish on his breath. Clive’s certainty couldn’t be quelled.

“She’s wounded.” The trembling muscles in his arm tensed and buckled. Clive grasped his upper arm to massage hist stiff joint. From there a teal-blue ribbon had been affixed moons and moons ago. Despite the litany of semblances he faced since then, the token was stalwart in its attachment.

He was looking squarely to the print as that precious piece of cindered cloth fluttered with the wind’s chill. It changed course, howling against the shelter. Ambrosia grumbled whilst the frigid door rumbled from Clive’s added weight, cracking open. Despite the snow in his eyes, Clive was offered a glimpse of what was behind the gate, what had been hidden by the storm. His surprise aligned with the frost, blowing the lantern out.

The blizzard only intensified in their momentary respite. It swallowed the castle in a cloud of blustering snow and shadow. Dimension was impossible to assign as they drew nearer, it had consumed Iskald Keep into its howling jaws. Thankfully Clive and Ambrosia were not alone in that maw. As they hobbled further along, they could make something out in the storm.

A glint of orange amidst the bluster. Flame.

Coming nearer, the two stumbled across a smoldering blaze on its last legs, blighted wood burned easily within it, but nothing else would catch. Ambrosia didn’t mind, kneeling beside the flames with comfort. Clive relaxed pulling a piece of fruit from his pack. He bit it into it, mulling over the taste of snow and ash intermixing. He offered the bird the rest of it, not that she had any interest.

She was just happy as is and he couldn’t really blame her.

Just looking up, he spied a faint trail of smoke fleeing high up above the blizzard, shifting from a western wind. Clive recognized the burning trail in the twilight when the storm was weaker. Someone had left this fire, but he wasn’t sure it was the one he sought.

Given what he felt amidst their bond, she wouldn’t have been so momentarily thoughtful.

As his eyes trailed down, Clive found stone stairs beyond the blaze. They led further into a featureless wintery void swelling with shadow. No footprints were left behind, nor pawprints for that matter.

Relighting his lantern with a speck of aether, Clive bade Ambrosia to stay and rest. The old bird acquiesced, watching her master venture further into that cold place, his light vanishing into the dark storm. She cooed softly, eying those shadows with mistrust.

Treading those shadows, Clive’s determination remained despite his vexation. He overheard countless legends about the old northern castle (many from his equally outrageous uncle). In the stores it was mythically insurmountable. In contrast, Iskald Keep was very surmounted, little more than a collection of singed ruins underneath a never-ceasing veil of winter. The stone castle collapsed in on itself, perhaps even recently. Depleted by a litany of events he couldn’t even begin to understand. The snow hid far too much context.

At the ruins’ center was an old mead hall filled with rubble and ruined cutlery. A throne room, long devoid of light and life, now fully open to the elements. Just pacing through, Clive could tell the castle had been picked clean long ago by looters and worse. He found more of those cancerous lumps in the ground… dead men buried in ashen cloaks of white.

It was an image he struggled to overlook.

All the morbid of a position to find himself, struggling to detangle this horrid reality with those imagined musings of the one he sought. It was difficult to picture that once little girl running through these torch-lit halls with her mother’s ribbons in her silver hair. Not a care in the world beyond what the cook was making for supper that night (despite how unladylike that may seem).

She was always so possessed of her own will.

At the center of the ruined hall he found a stone throne forged from the ruins of their predecessors. Now it was as forgotten as the Fallen were, as all masters of Iskald were forgotten. None sat the throne any longer. This keep was as lifeless a place as any would find in the north. Certainly not attended to by Silvermane or his lady wife… nor their missing heir.

It seemed Clive was late once again.

“Get out of my house.” His daydream rumbled.

The seeker turned away, looking upon those ashen lumps in the ground. In a moment of vexation, he kicked one with his boot. The snow shook off easily and Clive discovered a dead man different from the ones he found in the town.

This one had died recently, frozen into the cobblestone.

He was clad in once lustrous armor with accoutrements colored like Clive’s eyes. Despite blue being one of the north’s many colors, it was also possessed by their southern neighbors. This was once a holy warrior from Sanbreque. A dragoon sent to slay the Frostmaiden to avoid a second Ever-Storm.

And failed, given that storm’s status.

“Carrion.” Clive rumbled, nursing that familiar grudge. His mother’s hateful promise was being realized even if she wasn’t present to contribute. Sylvestre Lesage’s General instead would enact Anabella’s will in her absence. And unfortunately, General Carrion was absent as his men died in darkness.

The frigid imperial was slain by own his spear.

Clive could assume who the killer had been, not that it’d matter. No doubt there’d be far more imperial legionnaires than this paltry lot.

The seeker would have stewed in that frustration longer; in that frigid loneliness he imposed upon himself… had it not been for the weakness that lingered still in his reasonably quaking body facing such never-ending cold. The lantern slipped from his grasp, the wick nearly flicking out. Clive knelt, discovering the torch had rolled into the stone chair.

For a moment, the light gleamed red, like it was put up against his mother’s rubies.

His hand settled at the base of the seat, trailing over a frigid red stain. More of the red ichor that ailed the gate. Two thin pools of it had frozen into the stonework yet it gleamed red all the same in the dwindled lamplight.

Staring into those crimson pools, Clive could have sworn he saw something looking back at him.

“I just didn’t want you to be right. I didn’t want to be an orphan.”

A chill ruptured up Clive’s back once more. The aching in his arms resumed, as did the billowing of that ribbon.

“She was here.” He spoke with certainty, was being the principal word.

The only hope he could find in that principle was fleeting like the frigid storm that surrounded him. As long as it lingered, she lived still. Meaning that when it ceased… No, he wouldn’t ruminate on such a thing. He’d hold onto that hope for as long as it took to free her from this prison.

Forevermore, if need be.

As foolish as it may seem, that belief was his choice to possess. It was a hope he gave himself. Even if he couldn’t see the star beyond that endless pall of black, it didn’t matter. That was his wish to Metia. So Clive would see it through, as she had done for him.

“I’ll find you, Jill.” His voice echoed out in that ruinous snow-filled hall. “I swear it. Just keep waiting a little longer.”

“We’ve been waiting a long time for this, Garuda and I. To finally meet you. To meet Shiva.”

“Our dear little sister."

Betwixt all Benna spoke of that night, those were the words that lingered still. They clung to the back of Jill Warrick’s ruinous mind when she was finally afforded rest in the rare security of numbers. Her new allies would make sure that she’d sleep unmolested.

To make themselves even more certain of that, affixed to her arm was a locked cuff lined with tumultuous vermillion crystal. It was meant to ease Jill’s aetherial burden given the state she was found in. Benna promised to hold onto the key for safekeeping. To ensure her recovery didn’t face any more pitfalls.

So for the first time in weeks, Shiva’s taxing presence was lessened, like that horrid woman’s voice rumbling in her ear. Instead she just felt cold, finally alone with her thoughts in the storm’s eye.

That promised tranquility was unsettling. As was the distant howling amidst the Glaives.

Jill’s rest wasn’t peaceful in the slightest. The shivering witch tossed and turned on the furry bedroll, unwell for a litany of reasons she couldn’t even begin detangling. Metia’s glare above the freezing campsite certainly did her no favors. But Jill didn’t bother offering any useless prayers or wishes. She had outgrown those childish notions much as her mother had. Both of them.

Instead she lingered on one painful detail still in her grasp.

Under that scarlet star she lifted her bandages, studying the painful pangs Benna left on her palms with that poker, meant to stem the bloody tide of Jill’s recklessness. The life-saving marks were shaped like a pair of uneven stars. Her reddened silver gaze was drawn in all the same. The marks had their own gravity like the words attached to them.

“We’re… sisters.”

She closed her grasp in a futile effort to resist that force. Yet the branded star remained just as visible in her mind’s eye, as the scarlet one above. Both equally inescapable.

And she didn’t yet know if she even wished to escape.

Daylight closed in on that shadowy crag as the royalist men broke their fast. It was accompanied with incessant chatter, easily perturbing their golden mistress standing vigil at the mount’s top atop the storm (eating in her solitude).

According to Gerulf they had much cause for celebration. A major milestone was completed with their king’s prize finally in tow. That very same prize now sat opposite their haggard ranks as a shoehorned outcast.

Theirs were a depleted lot in a strange land. As were the Imperial wolves doubtlessly stalking that endless blizzard, howling as her men jabbered on in its eye. They insisted on risking King Barnabas’s property, leaving Shiva’s Dominant undefended.

So it was for good reason that Benedikta Harman wasn’t one for unsanctioned jubilation so early in the morning.

With a dash of aether, she effortlessly dusted off her gloved hands and scattered the remnants of their fire to the howling winds. It wasn’t Benedikta’s way to be a prude with her gift. Nor was it her way to be prude with interrupting her men’s (now) dusty breakfast.

Thankfully most were accustomed to the taste of ashes in their rations.

“We make our way downhill and through the western pass to reach the bay. Anyone not pulling their weight will be left behind like the rest.” She barked with a closed leathery fist, ensuring everyone answered with immediate eye-contact and an affirmation indicative of their service. Only one head didn’t deign to reciprocate the gesture. A dull silver one covered with grime like the rest.

The head they arguably couldn’t leave behind.

Unlike Benedikta, Shiva’s Dominant was as stingy with her tongue as she was with her gaze, only opening her mouth when a response was demanded or when eating. As such, the flavor of ashes were an acquired taste she refused to acquire any further.

She softly spat them out like a prude. It earned some snickering from her dirty captors.

“The food at Stonhyrr will be far better.” Benedikta promised her whilst the wind finally settled and the men tore down camp. Apparently Jill had that to look forward to.

Gerulf did what he could to look after the new arrival. As Benedikta Harman’s second in command, it was his duty to ensure Jill Warrick understood their mistress’s intent.

Without wings, the journey to that frigid bay was an arduous days-long-trek down these treacherous mountains, yet the mute girl was unbothered. Punishment seemed second nature for her at this point. It didn’t matter whether she had company or not. She’d tread their path to lower ground regardless, not yet a believer but not totally a fool.

The silver girl’s will was frayed and tenuous… shaken like her quivering hands. Perhaps she feared a golden reprisal, or perhaps her curiosity needed to be sated. Either way, Gerulf’s mistress was tentatively satisfied how easy Shiva’s Dominant made her job for the moment… even if she was also a little disappointed by that lack of will. Perturbed even.

Benedikta was promised a challenge from their liege… she didn’t realize it was a test in staying awake.

To make it all the more tedious, the fettered ice queen didn’t deign her with any thought nor attention since their introduction. That gilded olive branch Benna had offered her was left blowing in the cold howling wind. Sisterhood was difficult, it seemed.

Being unarmored and unarmed, Just-Jill could keep up at least, even with the supplies she was made to carry (such a task she didn’t even question as that would require communication). After weeks of climbing, she was adept in traipsing through the narrow trails of her ruinous homeland. Even without her Eikon, the dominant could resist the biting winds and morose snowfall that plagued them far better than Benna’s own men. Yet unlike them, Jill’s gaze was eternally downtrodden. Lifeless as the graying horizon.

Except with one thing.

Given the surrounding deadlands, Benedikta had little choice but to conserve her aether. She refused to appear powerless in the face of an enemy nor her own followers. The auspicious weapon hanging from her belted left thigh was evidence of that will. The sword’s accented guard was black as onyx, hilt gilded with a line of gold shining like its wielder’s blowing hair. It easily resembled her dark leathery form.

Jill watched her cling closely to it through those passages, especially amidst the sound of distant howling.

“It’s adamantite.” Benedikta informed that glimmer of silver eyes. Jill intentionally looked away, not react. Yet Benna still saw that intent to not be impressed, to not be anything. So she’d give Jill a better example to strive for. “’Twas a gift from my liege. Crafted for my hand alone.”

Her powerful fingers flexed and the weapon unsheathed easily, revealing a two-edged grim-steel blade half her height, inlaid with that line of shining gold. Remarkably clean, unused as of late (it’s only use currently was for catching snowflakes). The brief undulation at the end focused towards Jill dithered, steel and gold intertwining like gilded flames.

The blade was remarkable, and no doubt very painful for who and whatever it was intended to skewer. Thankfully Benedikta lacked a target, for now.

Jill had never seen such a weapon in her life. Nothing from any Rosarian smiths could comparable to the craftsmanship before her, even the blades forged in Mt. Drustanus. Ashen steel was legendary for a reason. The adamantite blade Benedikta Harman held was a symbol of status.

“I s'pose given your upbringing, my grasp of it may seem… unladylike.” Benedikta suggested with an edge of discomfort, “I may have even agreed with such prudish notions, once.” Her eyes furrowed on her mute speaking partner.

The girl’s lips didn’t quiver, even with a sword drawn on her.

“King Barnabas called it my Gilded Talon.” Her hazel eyes glimmered with golden pride, as did the sword in the ailing sunlight. “A fitting name, is it not?” It relaxed in her hand.

Jill’s focus remained insular at the mention of the King of Waloed.

Odin’s Dominant.

As Garuda’s new sister, Shiva would soon serve the same master. So perhaps that made Odin her new father.

“Our King is very wise.” She added with reverence. “His Highness found me, gave space to spread my wings.” Literally, Jill assumed. “He’s done much to cultivate my gifts, my potential, my station.”  Despite the land they traversed, that power remained very solid in Benedikta’s intelligent grasp (even if her stance was a little shaky).

Jill’s cuff rattled with the wind as she watched that tamed steel flutter with the breeze.

“Given enough time, I’m certain His Highness can do the same for you, little sister.”

Jill’s bandaged hands jittered.

Despite Benna’s honeycomb shaped words, Jill was put off (and it wasn’t even from her repeated error). There was a flickering uncertainty in her new associate, in how she held that blade… studying Jill. It was as if Benna was preparing herself to be wrong, even if it meant her king was wrong.

Did she want him to be wrong? Did Jill want that?

What did Jill want, anyways?

“Would you like to hold it?” With frivolity, the sword was offered to the confounded prisoner.

For a beat, Jill’s ashen eyes glimmered like the blade like a moth to a flame. She reached for the offering. But the bandaged hand froze in place, catching stray flakes of snow instead. They melted on the crystal fetter.

It lowered.

“Oh don’t be such a prude.” Benna scoffed, eyes rolling while Jill’s were entrapped like stubborn boulders. The frustrated wind dominant prepared to stow her weapon when the mute finally spoke, countering the offer with a query.

“What would you have named it?” Jill wondered, disrupting her warden’s rhythm. “Were His Majesty to afford you the choice?” She very unsubtly corrected Benna’s language.

His Highness was a term intended for royalty of lower status than the ruling Monarch. Though perhaps the people in Waloed have queer customs, Jill would imagine her mother saying.

In her frigid curiosity, Jill was answered with consternated vexation. A question of agency seemed to linger easily in the back of this stranger’s mind, intentionally ignored. For a brief moment, Jill saw a glimmer of something else in Benna’s stare. Was it a smirk born of a challenge?

The blade waggled like a quivering flame, like there was an expected response for insolence. Yet Jill was left remarkably un-skewered. The weapon returned to its sheath and Benedikta moved on into the snowfield, decidedly grumpier (if that was somehow possible).

“As I said, our King is very wise.”

The next time Jill would see that blade drawn, it was midway through the neck of a wretched retching goblin.

When Gerulf doubled back to warn of beastmen stalking the blizzard, his mistress took that personally. She’d handle it as such (without Garuda’s strength nor her men’s). She forbade any interference, her followers needed to ensure their charge’s protection. Benedikta also preferred having a captive audience.

Yet Jill was not captivated by what she saw behind the safety of Gerulf’s anxious axe.

In her roughly eight and ten years of life, Jill had never seen a goblin and was left profoundly disappointed from decades of buildup. They were diminutive, thoughtless creatures with excruciatingly strained vocal chords that made the listener wish they were deaf or dead (whichever came first). Jill had thought it mere hyperbole spun by Rosarian Shields, but now she too had that wish. Like the prior ones, Metia certainly wouldn’t grant it.

Jill wasn’t that lucky.

Even when slain, hobbled air continued to escape the goblins’ malformed lungs. All the more frustrating when Jill discovered Benedikta’s followers had ear plugs prepared. Gerulf surprisingly didn’t. He and Jill were meant to suffer together, it seemed. Especially in the face of Benna’s shoddy swordsmanship.

It wasn’t that Benedikta Harman wasn’t skilled with a blade, the squealing corpses proved otherwise. But amidst her wild swings, Jill saw much in her posture that seemed… lacking,  presumptuous while somehow also unprepared. Beyond lacking in those fundamentals, knowing the goblins were approaching already stole urgency from the moment.

So instead Benna was letting off steam, playing with her kill like a child did with toys. It was like watching a seasoned actor at the Firebird willfully winging it on stage.

Infront of a bored audience.

“She’s not very… graceful, is she?” Jill murmured like a gossip hen in the Duchess’ court. Gerulf didn’t answer but the neck of his axe twisted amidst the death cries. “I suppose Garuda is quite useful in that regard.”

Was Jill smirking? It felt like she was smirking. Had she forgotten that feeling so quickly?

“Lady Benedikta had a hard life before Garuda.” Gerulf whispered like a stern parent. “As did we all, before joining His Majesty’s service. You mustn’t look down on her for it, my lady.” He chided Jill, her smirk diffused.

“Lest she take it out on the rest.”

With bitterness Jill turned back, noticing the full focus of the royalists. Many appeared prepared to join in at a moment’s notice if Benna were to struggle in her endeavor (despite her expressed wishes). Jill saw the condition of them, disrepair and exhaustion in equal measures.

Was Benna doing her men a favor taking this riffraff upon herself? Or was she simply proving herself powerful so none would think to defy her? And why did Gerulf seem to worship the ground she walked upon despite her incessant abuse? Jill could recall him gladly tasting ashes amidst his mistress’s outburst.

“Lord Gerulf… How long have you known Benna?”

The man was apprehensive at first, but did answer.

“Five summers, give 'r take some moons.” It was only in the last few years that they had fought alongside one another as the King’s Royal Intelligencers. He didn’t delve on what Benna did before that, however. “Though I’ve never had the pleasure of knowing her by that name.” He admitted. “Few in Ash have had that distinction.”

“Who else?”

He didn’t immediately speak to that, of the topic of Benna’s friends she alluded to once having. “Perhaps that is a better conversation for you and our Lady to have on more solid ground.”

Gerulf’s mistress roughly deflected a blow, the goblin collapsed from the cliffside. Its horrifying squeal echoed out into the frigid abyss. The rest covered the ground around her.

Benna smugly sheaved her dirty steel, her quarry brutally eviscerated. She proceeded to bark out orders for the others to get a move on, calling them a wretched pack of layabouts. Jill however remained planted, forcing Gerulf to linger a while longer.

“What’s it like? Your homeland?”

Such a question had lingered on her mind all day. Yet Gerulf didn’t require as long to answer it. He watched the mountain trails they were walking with vexed nostalgia. Perhaps the goblin bodies helped with that.

“It’s not that different from Storm, truly.” He mulled. “The Ashen people are guided by the same laws of the realm, same constants, the Crystals, the Blight, the Accord. War…” Jill knew much of that from her schooling, same as she knew how much of Waloed was hidden in secrecy. Only some rumors managed to escape into open air like aether.

“I heard horrible things about how Waloed treats its bearers.”

To be born blessed by the crystal in Waloed was a death sentence. At least the Ironblood had the mercy to kill a bearer at birth rather than drawing their suffering out.

“You have a kind heart… but your ears heard a story, my lady. Imperial propaganda.” Gerulf told stiffly. “In truth, our nation treats the common man just the same as it does any branded one.” His certainty surprised Jill, even if she could feel an unevenness to his mutterings.

“Truly?” She struggled to believe that. Gerulf was adamant.

“Lady Benedikta knows that better than anyone.”

At nighttime the Waloeders built their camp along a slim cave where the storm didn’t reach. Perhaps the beastmen from earlier had used it, given the bones they found. Regardless, it’d be easily defendable, putting the group at ease. More men sat around the fire, enjoying their supper (Jill heard murmurings that the goblins from earlier looked fresh).

Gerulf was further off in the camp, tasked with cleaning their weaponry. Benedikta’s sword was the worst of it, stained in ashes and goblin blood. The smell of the Gilded Talon alone made the distance a requirement. Jill proposed helping him, but Gerulf refused. He was particularly stubborn when it came to following his lady’s orders… even if they were reprimands for speaking to their prisoner.

Jill didn’t partake in the men’s meat stew, she wasn’t feeling that hungry. Beastmen had a way with spoiling one’s appetite. It was a struggle to get warm so she sat close to the fire. The cuff was supposed to help her resist Shiva’s chill, but instead she just felt numb and dirty. She didn’t need a mirror to know that.

So Jill had taken to cleaning her grimy hands on the hem of her rugged skirts. As her bandages frayed, she gently undid them, left with those stars on her palms. They didn’t throb as they had last night… but the marks gleamed redder in the firelight, especially as she wiped them clean with ashen spit.

Her casting hand slowly took to tracing the edges of those stars… drawing intersecting lines. Absentmindedly she traced a diamond amidst that distant howling. When she finally recalled a resemblance, Jill’s empty heart heaved and she closed her hand.

How much she selfishly wished Torgal was with her…

The easterners were in higher spirits that night, they’d be on solid ground soon. Most were happy to trade swigs of ale they had acquired from the locals (who Jill had you to see). With looser tongues, came even looser eyes, Jill saw many glancing her way from across the flames.

She could tell immediately what ailed them. It was what ailed most men she came across in her later years. No amount of grime could deter that.

“The north tastes like home.” One gawked. “I wonder if the lasses taste any similar.”

“I certainly hope not.” His associate jabbered in a hushed tone. “One bitch is enough as is.” That earned a smidgen of hidden laughter. The third however didn’t laugh, his eyes stayed planted on their ashen tag-along. Far too nosy for his own good. Too drunk.

“I heard she was betrothed.” He murmured, eyes reflecting scorched silver. “Pretty little thing like her… You think her intended ever-”

Jill’s chaste stare tightened and became more overt. She emulated that dog she missed so dearly (with a small degree of growling). Her steel eyes churned like grinding stones trapped in a burning crucible.

He shut his gab and hurried off with his supper. The others followed, thankfully getting the hint. Jill was almost satisfied with that reaction, when she realized it wasn’t she they were running from. It was the bitch kneeling right beside her.

“Where we hail from, it’s flattering to stoke such rampant interest.” Garuda’s Dominant was taking an inexplicable seat at Jill’s side like she were a confidant, all she missed was a glass of wine. “Especially considering how they met you standing amidst the freezing bodies of their dead comrades.”

The ones Benna left behind.

Jill didn’t recall anything of that sordid meeting, but she knew stoking drunken lust was hardly an improvement. She had ventured too far already to escape such banal thinking.

Perhaps Storm and Ash weren’t so different after all.

“Such looks can be useful. Desire is a powerful tool if you know how to wield it.” Benna mused with intrigue. “Sharper than any sword, stronger than any shield.” Her nostalgia made it the more worrisome considering their closeness in age.

More of her royalists distanced themselves from the pair. Deterred by something else.

“Desire is silver but fear is golden. A silver carrot and a golden stick.” She chuckled.  “When used separately, they’re brittle. But together they’re far more lasting. It simply requires the shepherd has a deft hand.”

Jill could see it, how Benna’s men looked at her like Gerulf did. That paradoxical combination of fear and desire intertwining. Loyalty forged from that disparate bonding.

“But if you’re not interested, you needn’t worry about them.” Benedikta shrugged as Jill continued watching. “They’re well-trained dogs most of the time. They’ll leave you be, little lamb, or Gerulf’ll feed their sorry sacks to a coeurl.” She answered with glee. Perhaps she’d use the Gilded Talon to geld them, poetic justice at its finest.

Jill remained stone faced in spite of Benna’s laxed tongue.

“I’m not interested.” She answered succinctly.

Benedikta was left disappointed, apparently Jill couldn’t help but be a bore.

“Fine, be a prude then.” She chipped at Jill’s stone façade with rolled eyes. “But I suppose that is your gift to squander.”

Meaning there was a gift that Jill apparently couldn’t squander.

Benna faced the fire instead, not for warmth but for something else just as basic. She plugged a dry sausage onto a metal rod. As it responded pleasingly to flames Jill was infuriated by how wondrous that smell was. She hoped to the Founder it wasn’t goblin.

“Though now I am curious. What does interest you?” Benna glanced sideways, dark eyes reflecting flames. “What could possibly interest Princess Jill Warrick, Daughter of Silvermane, The Southbound Ward, Dominant of Shiva, The Frostmaiden—?” Those titles rolled off her tongue like a slithering snake discarding scales, yet Jill wasn’t certain what Benna actually thought of them.

“And beyond that… What in the whole wide world could interest Just-Jill, I wonder?” She luxuriated in that unknown, intrigued. “Besides my supper, of course.”

“…” Jill’s focus on the cooking sausage ceased.

Going off of context clues, Jill had a feeling she wasn’t going to like this conversation.

“Certainly not your own life.” Benedikta answered with snark. “After all, I’ve yet to receive a gracious Thanks Benna for rescuing you from those imps and savages… And I afforded you quite the lenient grace period—”

Jill’s mood continued its downturn.

“I didn’t ask to be rescued.” She answered pointedly, hand feeling that cuff. “Same as I didn’t ask for your providence or you and your king’s wisdom or whatever else you’re offering—”

“I have a feeling you never ask anyone for what you want, Jill.” Benna noted accurately, earning a heavier scowl. “Perhaps your issue lies more so there then it does so with me. That unending humility must be so very taxing.” Jill hated these mind games. Ironically, Joshua loved them. It made him feel all so clever. Benna was of a similar mindset.

Perhaps they’d be better off as siblings instead.

“How exhausting it must be… eternally settling for scraps.”

The flames in the younger girl’s eyes twitched, they rumbled with irritated understanding… refusing to surrender ground.

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“That’s up to you.” Benna whistled. “This is a negotiation. Your opportunity to ask for what you want most, Jill.” She offered that silver carrot without smugness. “Whatever is in my power to grant, I’ll consider.”

Jill’s wrist rumbled, the cuff jingled a noisy sound like unfastened chainmail flapping in the wind. Benna laughed at Jill’s prop comedy. They’d need to tighten it later.

“Within reason, your highness.” She amended their one-sided agreement. “The cuff will come off when you earn it.” Jill rolled her eyes. “So then… if we’re being reasonable, what do you reasonably desire?”

It wasn’t as if Jill hadn’t considered the possibilities betwixt her sorrows.

With their king’s approval, surely she could remake herself as a Lady of Ash like the woman before her. Jill could rebuild House Warrick in whatever shape that suited her… into something that could never be torn down like her father’s house had been. She’d be safe, secure, powerful, even. If she wished for it, perhaps she could even arrange to have her mother’s head brought to her in a box. It wasn’t like Anabella would have any need for it given the endless list of enemies she’s created. Jill will be doing her a favor. And not just her…

Perhaps Jill could even venture south with an adamantite blade like Benna’s and collect that head herself. As a curtesy.

Those were also the thoughts that worried Jill the most, especially now, knowing they all didn’t come from Shiva, but herself. That quietude the cuff pushed into her… it was like she was looking clearly into a mirror, and what she saw was terrifying.

Monstrous.

Jill shivered again and returned to those flames, briefly considering something far simpler, a childish notion, a promise someone made to her. It was especially evident amidst the glare of that star in her hand. But her grasp closed, Jill was too cowardly to desire it ever again. Too unselfish.

“What I want, you can’t give me.” She lamented to the flames. “No one can.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that—“

“Well I am.” Jill shot back with bitterness.

Because the truth was she had everything she wanted. She was selfish desiring more. Then along came Shiva and that woman, and suddenly here Jill was, profoundly deeply desperately alone. Benna coming here with her fancy sword and sausages, saying they were family didn’t suddenly make it better. Because what could compare to what she lost? What could compare to losing Joshua? To losing Torgal? To losing Cli—

“This monster, this thing, she… it took everything from me.” She glared at the red star on her palm. “I have nothing. Nobody.” She clamped her hands together. “You want me to be grateful for saving my life? You didn’t save anything, Benna. Without them in it, my life it… it has no worth.”

She wasn’t just Jill, she was nothing. A caged creature. A monster not unlike those goblins. So now here she was, talking to another monster. One just as caged as she was, suggesting how nice the bars would be if they were gilded.

Jill eyed the blaze in sorrow, prepared to be done talking for the rest of her life. Yet Benna stayed beside her, watching with an indiscernible gaze.

“Your mother’s dead, isn’t she?” Jill scoffed, about to say that was none of her business. “That’s why you returned to that castle. Hoping someone would be there, to make you feel safe. Feel loved. Feel less monstrous.”

Jill raised an eyebrow, as if her mind was being read.

“My own mother was taken from me when I was still very small.” She admitted. The rod jittered in the flames but her leathery hand solidified amidst that memory.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Jill answered out of conversational obligation.

Benna didn’t react.

“You needn’t be. I’m merely suggesting how wretched it is… to be perpetually alone in this wretched world. To never belong. Afraid that after all your rage, all your sorrow and heartbreak… that in the end, no one was ever listening. No one at all.”

The flames crackled between them, as Benna watched the fire, imagining a tempest within it. Jill was unnerved, but somehow intrigued.

“Your king then…” Jill whispered. “Does he listen?”

“No.” Benna answered swiftly, unnerving her guest. “None of them listen.”

Barnabas Tharmr acted as if he lived on another plane of existence. Knowing anything even resembling a lesser being’s plight was beyond evolved men like him. It was beyond the calling mandated from the heavens. Meaning Benna had no choice but to live on the world below, with the rest of the mortals.

Another god cursed to be human.

“But I do.” Benna looked upon Jill intently, golden flames following her gaze.

Jill shivered. For the first time in weeks it felt as if she was looking upon someone who understood her.

Or rather, someone who understood herself.

“Fuck me…” Benna grumbled quietly, pulling out the rod to find her supper scorched in a pall of black. She glared behind, knowing some of her men smelled the burning. Probably snickering between swigs of that terrible ale. She’d need to get her sword back soon, reaffirm dominance.

“What did you want, then?” That mousy voice murmured. Benna turned back to Jill’s trembling curiosity. Her silver eyes flickering like the fire. “When you were in my position?”

The Waloeder was taken aback amidst the northerner trying to hide her trueborn curiosity.

“Me?” Benna rumbled. “I just wanted to be safe and free.” She laughed like those were easy things to attain, such disparate concepts. “And I didn’t want to go to bed hungry ever again.” Not unlike Jill, surprised by such an answer.

“Really?” That couldn't be it.

Benna stood, tapping the edge of that rod against her hidden palm like an imaginary lash. “We may be dominants, Jill, but we’re not that different from the rest. Beyond orders of magnitudes, the shepherd is hardly any different from the flock.”

Providence notwithstanding.

“Deep down we’re all still just as marred by compromise.” She mulled on those last words oddly, reaching for a necklace she didn’t wear.

Before Jill could ask more, Benna lunged, thrusting the rod towards her begrudging pupil like she intended to skewer her. The girl panicked but the stick never made contact. Jill was faced instead with a burnt sausage.

The sadness from before was replaced with confusion.

“In the past I’ve settled for scraps, but I suppose I’ve lost my appetite.” The woman prepared for the drooling prude to be obstinate. “It’s not goblin, if that’s what you’re worried about-”

Jill’s grimy hands took the scorched lump without a second thought, not even worried of getting burned. She bit it into that blackened meat like she hadn’t eaten in days. Benna held back any show of surprise as the starving girl scarfed it down like a rabid little creature.

It seemed the northern princess from Rosaria wasn’t as prudent as Benna thought. In fact she saw much of herself in the display, even in her bashfulness.

“It’s really good…” Jill answered her with an awkward gulp. “Th-Thanks, Benna.”

She truly meant it, surprising them both.

Jill’s effusiveness was awarded with sisterly chuckling. Benna’s pale fingers gently pushed through her messy silver curls. She considered straitening them like one did with a pet or a loved one or even a doll. Jill accepted the brief petting, did she like it? She couldn’t hide her embarrassment and Benna found that absolutely precious.

They’d have to make the girl some more when they reached their supply at the Skald.

“Now was that really so hard?”

While imperfect, Jill’s sleep that night was far more restful. Relatively peaceful, even. The blizzard engulfing the Glaives still raged. Despite the Frosmaiden’s semblance of peace, another’s sleep wasn’t so composed. The safety of numbers did nothing to quell that… to quell the Wind Warden’s own troublesome storm.

Amidst that distant howling, Benna dreamt of dry tears blowing off of her face in the aftermath of a horrid twister. At the end it left behind only bodies and silence. The quietude irked her the most. Potential for things to be worse was always terrifying.

Eventually the silence was broken up by footsteps through the newly rustled dirt. In that arrival came an old fear Benna kept buried, hidden from her masters. Yet he didn’t judge her for that, he refused to be like the others. His blurry form knelt beside her, imparting the one thing she never had: Safety.

“It’s alright.” He took her small hand in his. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”

Benna woke at her bedroll with wet eyes, finding nothing in her gloved grasp. She was alone now. Safely alone.

It was infuriating how that imagining continued to linger. Infuriating how easily she could long for that presence, yet be betrayed in its absence. In his absence.

“Why must you haunt me still, Cidolfus?”

Benedikta walked the ashen campsite like a Fallen automation, tired eyes looping between her resting men and those keeping watch at the cave’s edge, surveying the storm. She caught Gerulf’s eyeline but he looked away. Nothing to report, yet.

Her footsteps were a quiet breeze as Benna settled on the cavern’s innermost sanctum, the dwindling fire.

It was there that she found her new pet, asleep in that light. Serene beyond the occasional murmur. She knelt over Jill’s blanketed form, her restless arms over the fabric were stuck to her center, trying and failing to keep themselves warm. The blanket did absolutely nothing for her.

Likewise, the fire seemed to only exist as a vigilant night light. A hollow reminder of what the girl lost.

How strange of a creature, Shiva’s Dominant was. It almost made Benna laugh… if she wasn’t so prepossessed. In the light of those flames, her Talon gleamed. Grasping the hilt, she looked down on Jill Warrick with that flickering of golden intent.

As always, the Warden’s mind was abuzz with considerations, variables… an equation performed in her head anytime Benna was faced with something new and unexpected.

Typically dangerous.

“I’ve seen hints of her, wandering that frost…” Her liege murmured weeks ago upon her exit. “Hair silver, flowing white like snow.”

“She is quite beautiful.”

Looking under all that intended plainness she indeed was a beauty. More than that, she was desirable, something to be coddled and protected. She was a fragile little thing not unlike the fire beside them. So easy to snuff out with the lightest stroke of intent.

With Benedikta’s intent, the gilded blade spilled from its scabbard, bathed in a golden orange.

Certainly King Barnabas would be disappointed, but who could say whether they was his true intent all along? They had been shown repeatedly how dangerous a former ally could be, why bring that upon themselves again? Betrayal was an inevitability of their wretched world, a slow dagger that required only two things to make its strike. Time and a willing target.

Benna knew that better than anyone.

Jill was a heavy sleeper whilst that steel nearing her precious little neck. From her nostrils came a thin fog drifting onto the blade, vanishing only to be replaced in an instant.

Perhaps she’d be doing them both a kindness if she acted now instead of awaiting that tortured disappointment. It wasn’t as if the girl cared very much what happened to her anyways. She never asked to be saved.

A fragile creature like this could never survive what awaited her. Benna knew from experience. She could barely survive the unraveling of her own life. So what hope did this coddled creature have outside her cage?

That contemplation of kindness overtook every consideration. Even her jealousy.

Before she could make the choice, the girl’s dirty hands jittered. Was she awakening? Benna realized it was just another shiver. Her messy bandages in the midst of unraveling. They’d need to be replaced in the morning.

In the sword’s reflection she found the girl’s brands. They shined in the firelight, soon the reflection began to shake, Benna’s grasp flickered and failed her. As she tried to solidify it, a murmuring came from the girl. She whispered something her subconscious had been suppressing.

“C…Clive.”

It was the name of Rosaria’s Marquess. The girl’s intended. The warden surmised that absence weighed heavily on her, even as she chose to ignore it in her waking state. Even now it lingered still, marking against her intent to ignore it. It compromised her.

“How pitiable.” Benna lamented. With that same pity she stowed the weapon.

Instead she knelt in closer, settling on pushing stray hairs out of the girl’s dirty face. Growing up as she did, this was grime that Benna knew very well. It made her nostalgic. Odin’s Teeth, she was getting attached, wasn’t she? Garuda’s Dominant swiftly refused that notion.

No, if Jill Warrick was to die, she could at least earn that death she apparently desired so dearly.

Benedikta saw the color Jill Warrick’s dim hair took in the firelight. Not unlike the Gilded Talon. Briefly her lips creased upwards, resembling a smile. It was as if she was looking upon someone else, who she knew very well.

The shadow of dawn passed quickly and without incident, as did the royalists. Like her men, Benna seemed chipper. They’d reach the ground layer soon and could continue through the western pass at a faster pace. Apparently there had been agreements of their allies preparing chocobos for their party. A good change of pace, given how the storm marred their passage.

Despite being intrigued, Jill was more curious about these purported allies in the west. Benna was evasive with offering further clarification. She wouldn’t be a very good warden otherwise.

Perhaps Jill could earn that information as well.

In the afternoon that mountain-sized shade still covered them as the group was moving through a narrow passage running underneath ruinous Fallen rubble. It overlooked a north-facing abyss of weather and nothingness. So naturally they were shimmying across with their backs to the cliff-face, feeling the occasional tremor. According to Gerulf, it hadn’t been there in the company’s prior journey. But then the blizzard following them hadn’t been this strong either.

“The blight moves quickly… I wonder if there could be any remaining floods within these mountains.” Jill had avoided such troubles given her climbing in the south. “I’d be surprised if they haven’t run dry.”

“I’ve never seen an aetherflood. Have you, Lord Gerulf?”

“Aye. It’s a very common occurrence in Ash, my lady. Buggers our mining operations.” He glanced further off, to their mistress leading them across a gap to solid land. Benna had allowed them to begin crossing when she lost her patience and abused her powers to simply jump across.

When she landed, Jill noticed how the woman smirked to her. Jill nearly mirrored her face.

Perhaps some sadistic part of herself enjoyed the challenge of overcoming this obstacle without cutting corners like her new companion. Gerulf’s comforting presence also helped.

“Not much adamantite to go around because of it. Mines are drying up because these days you’re far more likely to find akashic and beastmen than ore. Sometimes both.” He grumbled, the begrudging son of a miner. “Branded can stand it for a while, but after a point, everything turns. Not a very lucrative line of work these days.”

Jill oddly understood that, despite having few lessons in Rosilith about aether. Then again, it wasn’t like anyone understood anything about aether. Akashic were also something she knew too little about... mostly just old ghost stories about dead men gorged on aether to the point that nothing henceforth could ever sate them. Luckily Rosaria seemed to not have any aetherfloods, unlike their neighbors.

She had heard mumblings about akashic in the north. Vel and her friends seemed very weary about that topic. 

“I suppose your kingdom has great need for canaries then.” She murmured at the distant sight of Benna’s golden hair, it made her stand out at the head of the pack. “As long as you can tolerate the incessant singing.” Gerulf meanwhile seemed impressed.

“We do, actually… how did you know that?”

Jill looked away, glancing back east, where she came from. She could no longer see what remained of Iskald or her family’s ruined castle. But with her mind a little clearer, it was easier to recall more.

Sadly she didn’t remember more of her mother. Just the musings of some mean old servant.

“Lucky guess.”

Amidst that distant howling, the mountain rumbled again… greater than before. Jill nearly fell from the walkway when Gerulf pushed her back into the wall. Instead she and her protector watched as three Waloeders fell.

Two fell actually, Benna dove in to catch the one closest to her, a green gleam of aether shone in her grasp as she pulled the man back onto the ledge. More rock continued to sputter down, nearly taking off Gerulf’s head.

“That can’t be the mountain.” Jill murmured, ears attuning to the sound of howling. Benna cussed up a storm, ordering everyone to move faster to safer ground, their rush was answered with even more overt rumblings.

Something seeking to bottleneck their progress.

Benna saw them, goblins snarling through the storm. They brandished weapons trained for her men, but she was too fast, and far too impudent with her gift. The wind followed her will effortlessly.

Within moments, the invaders were blown off the mountainside, and the storm behind Benna vanished. Jill glanced a distant shadow lurking in that fizzled frost, Benna sensed it too… as did her shocked men.

They saw as a massive wooden club the size of a battering ram smashed into the mountain, missing Benedikta’s screaming head by inches. More aether drained rock tumbled as they saw its owner stepping out of the receding storm, something far larger than a mere goblin.

“GIGAS!” The man Benna saved called out.

Jill who had never seen a goblin until yesterday, was frozen with awe by the enormity of it. The troll stood taller than two maybe three Gerulfs. Its round fleshy face snarled with the cold wind billowing through haphazard layers and clothe stolen from dead bodies.

As its great spindly hands flexed on the wall, it squealed with discontent. It was followed by more goblins, snarling wretched little toadies. Unlike its brethren, Jill could tell this thing ate well. And it had settled on its next meal, perhaps in a sense of divine retribution for the slaughter of its kin.

“I fucking hate this continent.” The Gilded Talon’s wielder grumbled as the sword was drawn forth. From her casting hand came a build-up of green aether. Her eyes lit up with it.

Jill witnessed the distant dominant propelled forward by that energy, diving under a swing of that rotting club to thrust her blade into the troll’s leg. Amidst that strike she pushed him back and blasted away more goblins. The melee vanished into the returning storm overtaking the mountain. Those beside Benna followed that tempest, assaulting the goblins with Ashen war cries.

With Benna preoccupied, it came upon her second-in-command to ensure the others reached safer ground… which unfortunately was where the invaders were currently dwelling. But given more and more of the prior path collapsing with the blight (Especially after Benedikta’s battle began), they had no choice but to follow.

Jill thought perhaps to pester Gerulf about removing her cuff (despite knowing he didn’t have the key), but decided against it as the man caught another of his falling comrades. Benna howled in the distance, like a siren song to these fools.

“Keep moving forward, our lady needs us!” That conviction filled every fiber of his being. And Jill was not immune to that display. Despite her dulled senses, she moved faster, intent on not being a burden, heart thumping like the quaking mountain.

Jill was ahead of Gerulf, following behind as others got to solid ground. Gerulf insisted on being the last out. Jill was there helping men jump a gap when she heard the clashing in that storm. The hammer rocking the mountain again and again.

“FUCKING… FUCK!” Benna screeched, the wind howling harder with her will. Amidst that aethereal echo the walkway beneath Gerulf crumbled.

Fucking fuck indeed, Jill’s mind ruptured.

Without thinking, Jill dove in grasping at Gerulf’s hand. She caught him, but the safety was fleeting as her bandages easily unraveled in his grasp. A familiar pain shot up her palms. Gerulf would have released but Jill refused, managing to pull his hand up to something more solid, Her crystal fetter. Huge mistake.

“AGHHH!” She howled, as her wrist was ensnared in that same pain that followed her palms, intertwining with that dull numbness the cuff created. If not for that, she might have let him go.

The man’s weight was enough that Jill’s inflamed wrist nearly dislocated, but she refused to drop him. Thankfully others were there to help pull Jill in like she were a human rope. A grateful Gerulf used that leeway to swing, catching the ledge with his axe and lessening the burden on the Dominant.

She almost smiled, seeing Gerulf safe (relatively speaking). It hurt to smile.

The frown returned when the ground shook again, in beats suggesting the rhythm of footsteps. Jill and Gerulf turned on an offbeat, where a royalist who helped save his commander was swiftly turned into a rotting piece of the mountain by the great troll’s hammer. Jill’s hair was stained with his remains… and her terror.

The bloodied Gigas stamped out of the storm, its ruined cloak billowing as if it were emulating a freezing tonberry. Dead goblins covered the ground, as did many of their own dead and wounded, but the Gigas remained very alive and still hungry. Jill and Gerulf were motionless as the creature raised up its hammer, preparing to strike down on the two of them… had it not been cut off by the Warden of Wind’s aim.

The Gilded Talon erupted from the storm like a spinning sickle, the creature only briefly turned when Jill flinched. Goblin blood erupted from its cloak, staining her again.

That golden sword was imbedded in the troll’s heart.

Its tremorous steps slowed, the blow it prepared was left unfinished. The hammer tumbled from its grasp, quaking the ground and slipping into the frozen abyss below. The monster soon followed, but not before Jill’s unshackled hand reached for it, grasping Benedikta Harman’s gleaming sword. Through sheer gravity it unsheathed from the departing troll.

Despite Jill’s terror, it felt light in her grasp.

Given the arena, the Gigas was more of a challenge than Benna would care to admit. Enough blood pumped through her ears that she couldn’t hear anything beyond that ringing. Vision was also difficult, as a smattering of blood eased down her temple. That concussion was followed by a scarlet line tricking down her bruised jaw. So Benna spat more out.

The storm’s eye finally calmed and she saw amidst the survivors was blood-covered girl standing there with that precious shining sword. Benna felt a tinge of uncertainty, especially in how Jill looked at her.

A girl prepossessed.

For a moment, Benedikta considered whether she should have slit her neck last night. Especially as Jill bolted forward with an impossible speed, Talon in hand. Benna froze, unable to react as the blade neared her and—

.

..

…

It didn’t skewer her.

Jill didn’t lunge into Benedikta but past her, off into the snarling storm.

Benna fell to a knee, grasping her temple… head still rumbling from the troll’s abuse. Slowly, her hearing came back, as she stumbled back into that frigid fog… hearing whimpering and ragged breath. That breath soon turned pained, inflamed with feeling.

Shock, Benna recognized.

Coming nearer, she found a shallow pool of blood collecting in the ashen dirt. But it wasn’t troll or goblin… nor human. Its source came from that blade heaved into the belly of a starving wolf. Jill’s hands were bloodied, suddenly cradling the creature. Despite her serene calmness, her stained limbs were shaking, stroking its head as if she knew it.

No diamond of white fur was present to catch those blood drops, but Jill refused to overlook that resemblance… especially how much it sounded like Torgal amidst its whimpering. Briefly she wondered if this is what he had been like when those imperials—

Jill couldn’t help but stroke its head like it were him. She could feel nothing but its pain in that moment, that suffering, staring up into her. Yet she offered it no tears. She couldn’t cry any longer.

She heard more snarling out in the distance, like she heard from this creature. Jill looked up, finding more outlines of the wolf’s kin, a pack of them… the very pack they heard earlier across the mountain.

Some even with diamonds on their heads. Shameless dead ringers for her lost companion.

As Jill’s teeth chattered, her hand grasped the blade’s handle again. The dog winced and they didn’t come nearer. The animals ran off with tails between their hinds, vanishing into Jill’s storm.

Given all that had transpired in the last months, Jill knew for certain that she had killed before. But this was the first time she had been solely responsible… not Shiva. And somehow, that was just as terrifying. So naturally these creatures were terrified. Scared of the monster.

Jill continued soothing the whimpering dog, her breathing slowed as its ceased. So she kindly laid down its head and closed its eyes. It was no longer in pain. Unlike her comrade.

“I fucking hate dogs.” Benedikta uttered, limping on the cliff wall. She knelt down, finding something Jill had cut from the creature in her strike, a weathered old collar. The creature wasn’t just tracking them, it was human trained. “Our northern allies warned us about goblins being here… but not their wolves.” She studied a familiar symbol branded into the leatherwork. What it could mean was anyone’s best guess, but Jill didn’t care.

She didn’t feel anything.

Benna was feeling much, however. Some of it even positive.

“I didn’t realize you knew your way around a blade.” She spat out more spoiled blood. “There’s a good chance you might have just saved my hide. Will the surprises never cease, little sister?”

Her words tapered off, begging for a response. So Jill gave in.

“Some nights when I couldn’t sleep and nobody was watching, I’d train in the bailey… Only the Moon and Metia could see me.” Sometimes Torgal was also there to bear witness.

“Seems the training paid off.” It also seemed Jill Warrick wasn’t as prudent as Benna thought.

Jill paid her praise little mind, plucking the sword from the carcass. More of that coagulated blood dripped from it. It rumbled in her grasp, slowly solidifying as Jill accepted what had occurred. What she had done. All of it, not just the dog.

She hand the blood-soaked Gilded Talon off to its proper master, no longer watching the ground.

Her gaze was shattered, but Benna swore she could see something in Jill’s ruinous stare. An odd feeling of understanding, acceptance. There were flecks of yellow in the girl’s silver gaze. No longer supplied by flames, it was propelled by her own forlorn will. Just-Jill was finally accepting her own power, just like her sister had.

Now they could finally begin.

“Gold suits you.”

Chapter Text

Deep within the Glaive mountains lied a spidery network of never-ending tunnels unaffectionately called the Under-Glaives. A vast collection of empty mines picked clean long ago by mankind’s forebearers. Whatever ore remaining after the First Collapse was warred over by the northern thegns for centuries. By the Second Collapse, the mountains had nothing left to give but shelter until that gave out as well.

Such is the way with unchecked avarice, decay always seeped in.

Blight rendered the hollow mountains increasingly unstable. The Under-Glaives were filled with dangers stemming far beyond the typical footpad or cave-in. Wolves and goblins and giant frost-spiders dwelled in those caves, as too did other creatures driven mad by decay. Most northmen knew that gambling one’s life with the Glaives was a fool’s errand. Unfortunately, there was also no faster method of traversing the western territories unscathed, given one had the proper guide foolish enough to sniff out the way.

Luckily for these northerners, they had two.

Vel took point beside their four-legged guide, holding out a lantern to light the dog’s way through pitch-blackness.

Of all strays to see a merry band of Jaeger take on, a frost wolf seemed the unlikeliest given their history. But then the day was still rather young (at least Vel assumed it was day). As a fellow stray herself, Vel was nothing if not accommodating to new experiences. It wasn’t every day a rabbit would find herself following a wolf.

The dog had been a blessing given the trepidation slowly freezing into their bones.

“I realize I didn’t know her for so long… but the princess didn’t really seem like the tunnel-treadin’ type.” There was a filtered twang to her speaking, brought on by the mask.

For whatever reason, their other guide was vexed (perhaps hiding her own boredom). Despite being a storyteller, chatter was a momentarily difficult proposition.

“I’m certain she isn’t in these tunnels.” Her weathered voice echoed. “Our guests from Ash would know better than to test their luck and the princess’s safety with the Glaive’s innards, especially when—” She paused, sniffing the air much like the dog. “Take the left path.”

Everyone obeyed her direction, no questions asked. The last thing they needed was to wander into a flood. Just one of the many reasons their guide didn’t wear a mask like her companions.

“Right, they know better.” Vel grumbled “And we know better than them.”

“We do, as a matter of fact.” Darun’s fox masked face answered beside Fenna, clutching another lantern. “It’s simple tactics, Vel. Cape Nepto ‘round the surge is unstable, no vessel can land along the emerald coast, and nothing can linger in the Graceless Sea without summoning the empire’s notice.” Whatever rumors everyone’s heard about Waloed, Odin’s Royalists weren’t that suicidal. “Leaving the Bay of Frost to the west as the only place safe for the royalists to go. Except they’ll be wasting time climbing, so when they depart the mountains, we’ll be there first.” He boasted.

It was one of Darun’s better plans, though it came with one major caveat, it lacked an endgame. Their speed came from their meager size. None of them were the greatest of Mateo’s hunters or even the cleverest. But what they lacked in strength they easily made up for in… something else.

Vel still wasn’t quite sure of that last part.

“Okay. We’ll be there first, and do what? Exactly?” Her masked face somehow glowered. “Just hope that we’ll somehow catch the royalists and their friends unaware? Take the girl and run back into the mines hoping they don’t know better?”

While lacking true confirmation, Mateo and the rest of the Jaeger had a good idea of who occupied the Bay of Frost. If Odin’s men were in the north, it came only from their obeisance. That along with the roving imperials created three problems. Four if one considered the Frostmaiden’s will as a factor.

According to the weather raging on outside, it most certainly was.

Vel imagined Darun’s face scrunching up like old snow behind his mask. “It’s a-a plan in progress. Progressing the plan’s development is also part of the plan.” He tried to sound clever like his brother, the chieftain, yet Vel wasn’t so easily moved by that word salad. Nor their comrades.

Torgal noticed the company slowing down, the adrenaline from earlier days had begun to sputter.

Darun tried his hardest to stay optimistic. “We’ll work out the issues later.”

“As long as they do get worked out.” Vel sighed.

She wasn’t a pessimist, but jumping from haphazardly killing wild Fafnir to rescuing a winter-torn ice queen from the followers of Barnabas Tharmr seemed well out of the typical Jaeger’s repertoire. And Darun had yet to explain why that wasn’t the case.

As the meager group took a break, Vel knelt down beside Torgal, opening one of her bottles. It was leftover honey from the other night, which the dog happily lapped up. Vel also noticed a snag in her face, one of the straps of her mask was coming loose. She’d need to repair it. “Of fucking course.”

Vel was caught off by a dreary shadow overtaking the mask, Fenna’s. The hood did her no favors in seeming friendly. “If Darun’s worried about me being mad at him… tell him I’m fine, everything’s fine.” Vel lied in the shade.

Fenna was indifferent.

“He wasn’t worried. Nor was I. Just checking on the runt.” Whilst inspecting Torgal’s bandages she affectionally scratched behind his ashen ears. That tail wagged sweetly. “My ancestors would be flabbergasted how spoiled he is.” She surmised, whilst spoiling him. He licked handfuls of honey from her fingers like a pup.

The younger hunter smiled a little.

“It’s hard to believe Jaegers really hunted his kind. Sweet as he is.” She recalled that old rivalry between the Jaeger and the Fenrir. Long before either of their time. Fenna had many stories about it.

“Jaegers were very stuck in their own ways back then. Not that the Fens were much better.” She didn’t wish to reflect on that ancient history, not with such pleasant company. “Our mother had one just like him when we were little, very sweet and beloved… even if at times she was quite the scoundrel.” Fenna seemed surprised to remember that, as if the memory had just returned in that moment. “She had passed by the time I was grown.”

Not that Fenna had been there to witness her passing. Or the dog’s.

“I’m sorry.”

“We musn’t underestimate him.” She droned. “Sometimes the greatest of dangers can come in the darlingest of packages—” The hood glanced to Vel’s mask, “Not unlike rabbits, I suppose.”

She held out a hand, wishing to look at it. Vel acquiesced.

The mask was a blackened mishmash of old wood, metal and leather with eyeholes made from a see-through glass-like material (found in Fallen automatons). It had wooden ears meant to resemble a hare hidden in the snow. Like most Jaeger masks, it was lined with a layer of moondew.

Despite the various shapes they came in, these masks had a purpose. They were based on old Fallen relics found after the First Collapse, meant to filter ashen air in deadlands. The masks were a sacred tradition, passed down among familial generations like a chain. Each generation would modify their ancestral mask.

As a stray, Vel had to forge the first link by herself. And it was admittedly clunky. Fenna’s gloved hand trailed an old crack in the right eyehole. “Karl helped me make it… helped me fix that too.”

“He’s the coeurl, right? Garl’s brother?” Vel nodded. “What about the chocobo boy?” Fenna always knew them as a trio. It had practically happened overnight when they found Vel and she somehow became their leader. Fenna had watched their nonsense from afar for long enough to get a good vibe on their dynamic.

“I mean… Jasp was there, but he mostly just sat around eating jerky and running his gaff.” Meanwhile Karl was putting in most of the work, above and beyond the call of friendship. Fenna was preparing a snarky comment about him being awfully sweet on Vel, but decided it wouldn’t be polite conversation. Certainly not for Torgal’s innocent ears, or Vel’s utter cluelessness.

“That’s a blueblood for you, either has something to prove, or nothing at all. No in-between.” Fenna knew that from experience.

Vel snickered like a child, and Fenna saw it, how much those two lingered on her companion’s mind. She missed her friends dearly, counting the days they’d been apart. Separation was never easy, whether for men, wolves or even rabbits.

“So of all animals, why did you choose a hare?”

Vel’s blue eyes scampered down.

“Well no one else had. And I’ve not seen one in forever, alive, at least.” Vel shrugged. “They’re fearful creatures, always so anxious…” Vel’s hand on the lantern rumbled, so her other one caught it. “So I figured, if I was the last rabbit in the north, then by virtue of that solitude, I’d be the cleverest one, the strongest one. Most dangerous, most fearless—”

Of course that’d also make her the most fearful one, but Vel’s new friend didn’t dwell on that. This was also someone who could connect to the idea of being the last of their kind.

“And you’d also be the kindest one.”

Vel scoffed yet Fenna was entirely sincere, especially as the dog pawed the (now) empty glass bottle. It gleamed interestingly in the light.

Kindness was in short supply in the north, something Fenna knew only too well. 

“I realize this isn’t an easy task ahead of us, and Darun is busy being himself.” Fenna lamented. “It’s alright if you have concerns. But I’d rather they be heard, rather than be kept bottled up. Festering—” She offered Vel the empty bottle. “Especially when we’re this close. When she’s this close.” Despite Fenna’s intention to dissipate Vel’s worry, all it did was reveal her own. A fear she had no hope in hiding without a mask.

Taking back her bottle, Vel struggled to be kind in that moment.

“I’m not saying we should give up, but… She’s been gone for over ten years, Fen.” Vel lacked so much context of the girl Fenna knew, but the one she saw in that cabin was so forsaken and fearful. Like another lost rabbit without a tribe. “You didn’t see her like I did. Are you even sure she’ll remember you?”

Fenna’s shadowy eyes didn’t react, yet Vel saw the mask shake. That fear solidified itself into a sordid acceptance. As far as Fenna was concerned, she didn’t deserve to be remembered, and that was acceptable. Agreeable, even.

“Memory is irrelevant. As long as she’s safe… that’s all that matters. Not the pride of some unworthy clan-less thrall.”

“Fen—”

“The dread will pass, I promise you.” She answered in her stoic Fenna-way, putting those walls back up. “It’s best that we don’t let it kill us before our enemies are afforded the chance.” She offered the mask back. “Alright?”

The young hunter sighed and split the difference, taking it back.

“Well, coming from a fellow stray, who is also very prideful and just as worthy, it’d be a damn shame either way.” She nodded with eye contact, trying to force a smile from Fenna. As the woman’s walls threatened to simmer, the mask suddenly leapt from Vel’s grasp, rolling on the rocky ground like a stray piece of gil.

Torgal was sniffing the mask when he nearly collapsed. Peering back to the humans he, discovered the other hunters were stumbling. The ground rumbled something fierce. Fenna thankfully had Vel to lean on. She stood solid as a stone.

The tremor lasted longer than usual, especially as ashen rock collapsed and dust was kicked up, dirtying their air. The determination on their masked faces turned to rampant worry. The Under-Glaives were quaking nonstop, accompanied by feverish barking. The dog fled, running down the thundering tunnels with utter-disregard. The Jaegers had no choice but to follow.

Someone needed to light Torgal’s way.

There was no answer to Clive’s plea within that dead castle, so he did as the storm did and moved on.

Upon his departure, the dim snow-filled landscape came alight with beacons shining like stars in the sky. Interlopers stalked the storm, their distant voices were familiar, filtered through masks. The Marquess fled in haste, knowing better than to test his luck with the locals any further (especially as he could easily presume what brought them to this place. If the journey to Iskald was a peaceful venture, then the western trip through the Glaives stood in stark opposition.

Even in the mountains, there were many creatures riled up amidst those flurries.

Ambrosia strode rapidly through endless trails delving seemingly into the sky, her master weary of losing inertia (and looking back/down). As his father had effortlessly explained, trekking through blight riddled mountains on choco-back was a dangerous proposition. Clive was equally dangerous, dangerously stubborn. As steadfast as that bitter storm he chased.

Her storm, he reminded himself.

Despite that inherent connection to the weather, that intrinsic pull on Clive was lessened, surreptitiously severed. It was not unlike what he felt when his brother was taken by the Sanbrequois at Phoenix Gate. He now felt a numbness in the frigid mountain air.

Was Jill still in pain?

Something else lingered in the wintery havoc, moving like the eye. But Clive struggled to place it. That uneasy feeling drew him in all the same. Ambrosia was drawn in by extension.

“Kweh.” His noble steed snarked at the trail’s end, the bridge they sought to cross crumbled with the ruined mountain. They had passed many that day.

“I know, girl.” Clive squinted, eyeballing the distance from the opposing crags. It was workable. “Let’s mind the gap.” He patted her side, the bird steeled herself with resolve befitting a feathered Shield of Rosaria.

With a running start, Ambrosia courageously flapped across the divide betwixt that endless sleet. They landed without issue… other than the new ground crumbling ‘neath the chocobo’s trunk-like talons. Clive throttled his weight forward, giving Ambrosia momentum to find purchase on safer ground. She returned to the trail in a trot, clucking pridefully.

Clive soured in contemplating the crackling ground behind them. Only the Founder knew how dangerous the return trip would be. Yet his heart reasoned that problem was inherently preferable given the circumstances. Desirable, even.

All it took was finding Jill. Everything else could be fretted over later.

As nighttime extended over those endless stormy peaks, the path ahead broke off into crumbling ashen heaps. Even with a lantern in tow, finding a new trail in the chaos was dodgy. Clive was no stranger to improvisation, but improvising in sleeting darkness was a fool’s hat put upon another fool’s hat (and he had been plenty foolish enough that day).

They’d little choice but to occupy a nearby (conveniently empty) cave to wait out the coming night. Thankfully, not in too much luxury. Despite looking like one, Ambrosia was not a very comfortable pillow. Even if Clive could sleep anywhere, these nights he struggled.

Scowling at a fire that took too long to prepare, his restless mind lingered on Iskald. The hallowed hollow halls he treaded the night before. All gone. Like its heir. Rather than the destination, the castle was now just a mere stepping stone on his journey.

Making Clive little better than a tourist.

“She shouldn’t have been alone in that place.” He told the flames like it were a secret, the teal ribbon on his arm rustled with the same breeze that fed the fire. “I should have been there to protect her. Facing it together.”

He kept feeling that stray piece of fabric, childishly afraid it’d slip away again.

“Kwerh Eagh.” His slumbering companion breathed evenly under his troubled head. Clive pretended she was rebutting him, as Joshua or Jote would do in that moment. He needed that, it kept him somewhat sane. Somewhat.

“I know she’d never blame me. Leaving was her choice. Like staying was mine.” In truth, it was likely the only decision Jill could make in that moment. Clive was no different. Still as much a victim to circumstance. Despite that paradoxical reality, he was here now, at least. If only that was all that henceforth mattered.

“Kwee.”

“I realize that, Ambrosia… I suppose I have a lot to make up for.” That was another thing he could look forward to fretting over. Her. Rather than the other way around. Clive was glad Ambrosia couldn’t really talk. Beyond knowing his nonsense was safe, it made her an excellent listener.

They had that in common.

The struggle to nod off continued for a handful of hours, consumed with imaginings of dusky ashes. Eventually Clive was overcome by a convenient excuse to stop trying, a snarling in the storm. Ambrosia was groggy when he pushed off of her towards starving silhouettes spilling into the cave’s mouth.

Wolves. Perhaps he occupied their den and mistakenly brought supper as an apology. Some even looked like Torgal, but it was only superficial.

Bubbling with burning aether, the Marquess grimly plucked the Burning Thorn from the fireside. The crack of the sword’s flat pulled a whimper from the lunging hounds, as did the chaotic pulse of light aether shining through the rest (he intended the flames of the Phoenix, Bahamut had other ideas). It sent his guests scattering back into the ashen thicket.

Yet the Marquess stayed vexed, studying that buildup of Sanbreqouis light in his grasp.

The Blessing of Bahamut…

When Dion Lesage spoke of never splintering his gift with interlopers, Clive believed him. Hence his surprise after their fracas. It dwelled within Clive now, regardless of the Prince’s consent, certainly regardless of the Marquess’s. He didn’t think one could stomach the will to hold more than a single blessing. Shiva’s gift was a welcome boon, but to possess three? Ludicrous.

Clive opted to look the gift chocobo in the mouth. Shiva’s blessing led him north in the first place and Bahamut was extra power added on top of the Phoenix’s proverbial cherry. He needn’t complicate his quest with superfluous mysteries better left with Joshua to parse through (which he swore he would do). But now he struggled to detangle these powers, to properly wield them. He couldn’t maintain any wisp of magic to light his way which was a damn problem considering one of those elements was light itself. Clive was hence-forth forced to rely on a dingy borrowed lantern that was far weaker in will but was at least dependable.

And then there was something else, his father and the Eastpoolers saw a third Eikon beyond Bahamut and the Phoenix. A second Dominant of Fire existed but Clive didn’t bear witness. He only recalled waking on the beach of the Greensheaves. Everything that occurred between his taking of Bahamut’s Blessing and his confounding awakening was missing, glimmered only be-twixt hazy dreams.

Was that because he—

No, no it couldn’t be. What Clive considered was impossible. Beyond ludicrous.

And yet, in crossing paths with Sanbreque’s prince for a last time, Dion made a private utterance. It was the same word Clive heard in the rumbling static that precluded his deep sleep. That name lingered in the back of his mind throughout this venture, left intentionally dormant. How monstrous a thing he had envisioned, that others witnessed… like that mural in the Apodytery:

A horned devil with burning wings.

“Ifrit.” He swallowed, remarking upon his shadow on the cave wall.

Ambrosia was uninterested in his self-reflection, preparing to nod off again. Beyond the campfire, a silhouette clung to the edges of Clive’s shallow vision. The visage of a lone holdout wolf at the cave’s frigid maw, bewildering Clive with its distant stare.

How long had it been politely watching him sulk?

“Go on… flee like your friends.” Clive raised the gleaming sword pedantically. The snow-torn dog didn’t react one bit to that gnashing of teeth beyond the cocking of its shadowy head.

Clive was dismayed in that mocking, growling a few steps closer until ceasing with uncertainty. The flickering firelight revealed a pattern of fur on the beast’s head. Was that a white diamond he saw?

“Wait—” Clive softened like his footsteps, “Torgal?”

That rampant interest seemed enough cause for the dog to take its leave. ‘Torgal’ ran off like his new friends. With sudden disregard, Clive escaped the campsite and gave chase. Ambrosia was abandoned with the fire as her master wandered into the frigid darkness.

The bird was left utterly perplexed. “Kweh?”

“Torgal!” Clive called out endlessly, wandering downhill into that dark stormy nether. “It’s me boy! Come back!” Yet the distant dog didn’t obey his master, he didn’t allow himself to be perceived by the light of Clive’s lantern. The dog was always so willfully obstinate, very much like his master. So Clive clung to his own will to continue forth.

The last time Clive witnessed the hound, he was in the grasp of the Frosmaiden. When he woke, Joshua said the dog vanished with her storm. That could be no coincidence considering their closeness. Torgal departed Rosilith to be with his mother. Yet that supposed providence did little for Torgal’s father, pushing himself further through those ashen drifts. If only Clive had possessed Garuda’s Blessing to ease this horrid wind. Or a better control of Shiva’s gift.

Or even daylight. He’d settle for that. It’d make it far easier to find Torgal’s seemingly invisible pawprints.

In the face of that unceasing rill, Clive slipped and nearly stumbled headfirst off a cliff. More ground crumbled as he tumbled downhill. His eyes couldn’t find anything beyond blinding ash and shadowed sleet.

When he ceased, there was still no sign of Torgal.

“Please—” he shivered and coughed. “Please come back…” Clive had fallen back in a slump. He struggled to get back up, to push forward.

The lantern was certainly not enough.

Eventually the snow beside him rumbled, Ambrosia was coming upon him. Yet Clive lacked the will and energy to get up, even to open his eyes and face the bird’s pity. It might have been the hypothermia speaking, but the snow was somehow more comfortable than her feathers. “Not now, Ambrosia… let me just lay here, for a little while longer.” He shooed her away with a flailing hand.

There was no “kweh” for him to misinterpret, the footfalls drove past. Followed by more seemingly stepping around him. Clive suddenly remembered what was also on the mountain with him and finally shot back up.

He wasn’t alone.

Before Clive was not a chocobo but a wolf beside his mistress. She was observing the dropped lantern. It was a young woman with porcelain pale skin cloaked behind dark garments. Her face was shrouded with a tight hood, a cloak that touched the ground but left no trails. They were untouched by the lantern’s light or even the snow.

“Jill… T-Torgal.” He heaved and stammered. “How is—is that truly you?”

After a century of contemplation, the woman’s mouth opened to speak, but Clive couldn’t hear her beyond her first word.

Ifrit.

An impossible pain shot through him like a burning knife in his back. Beyond a mere migraine, every sinew in his mind heaved as if he was being struck by lightning. Like in his joining with Dion Lesage’s mind, that static flooded everything.

“No… no not now—" He heaved in pain, tasting something… an unquenchable rage bubbling in his head. He imagined that creature again, the winged devil bathed in flames.

It cracked in his mind. Enthralling him.

The fire inside Clive was unilateral, raging unnaturally, until suddenly… it ceased altogether. A hand on his cheek, tender if frigid, the stranger’s. It caused the static to end and the rage to dissipate. Clive was left behind, shivering in the snow, somehow even colder.

“What?”

Her hand left just as quickly as it came. A cold finger slipped from her pale knuckles, pressing to her shadowy lips. She shushed him with a sly smirk, placing the lantern back in the snow. She turned away to depart with the dog. Clive struggled to get closer, reaching out a hand, begging for them to stop.

“Stop, please! I don’t understand!” If that wasn’t the understatement of the century…

Jill, or whoever she was, paused without a word. Another century passed as she finally rolled her shoulders, glancing back to nod her head slyly, in a ‘come on, then’ kind of manner.

As they wandered out of sight, Clive’s shiver receded, replace with direction. By chance he heard Ambrosia from behind. She was cawing out in the storm with confusion and concern. He reached her quickly.

“She wants us to follow—” He reascended Ambrosia’s saddle with haste, determined to catch up. “So we’ll follow.” As his foot dug into her side, the chocobo steeled herself to pace through the tempest. Led only by her master’s instinct, as the bird couldn’t see any of what Clive thought he saw. The ribbon he clutched certainly didn’t point that way.

They’d find their rest elsewhere, it seemed.

They wandered onwards with strangely renewed vigor. No longer relying on the lantern but Clive’s obstinate eyes peering through sleet. Every once in a while he’d see her dark shadow or find a glimmer of the wolf looking their way. He’d lose track in mere moments and then rediscover them impossibly further ahead.

For Ambrosia, it was that old Rosarian adage of being led by the blind. Not that she could give voice to it. Her willfully unseeing master certainly wasn’t in the mood to hear it. At least the mountains didn’t impede their progress as it had the days before. Nothing bothered them, surprisingly.

Dawn returned amidst their pilgrimage off the beaten path. Clive paid that milky-sky little mind, riding ragged in its shade. Like in Sir Crandall’s journeys, the quest came first, but what an odd place for the quest to lead them…

Within hours the rocky path smoothed out, revealing a ruin of magicked masonry sequestered between the crumbling Glaives. It was a Fallen airship, originally wide in stature but now cleaved into disparate pieces strewn across those craggy peaks. In the rampage of blight the lopsided vessel sunk into the heightened ground, swelling with natural stone as if now a part of the earth itself. Confounded by the surrounding blizzard’s rage.

“What is this place?” Clive asked nobody in particular. Nobody answered, not even that blasted static. Their guides were seemingly long gone, man and chocobo were left to their own devices. All they could find was an opening, a bleak cave cut into the hollow conjoined mountain. Their only path forward.

No doubt left by whatever mankind’s forebearers called themselves after they fell.

The innards of the cavern was surprisingly warm, it became impossible to keep Ambrosia outside. She shared Clive’s stubbornness and that classic Rosfield trait of wanting out of the cold. Clive lit their way, studying those smooth granite walls with curiosity. They were perfectly cut, even down to the corners. Much like the Apodytery at Phoenix Gate. Unlike that place, the craftsmanship here was only harmed by blight and erosion… and a lot of dust.

It reminded Clive of the stories of those who entered the Mothercrystals the first time after the Fallen had abandoned them. Knowing something had been there first was a universally unnerving feeling. Like the feeling one was being perpetually watched.

Despite that inclination, the lantern revealed little they hadn’t already seen in the north. Ashes and rubbish (bones, fur, rotted wood, arrowheads) covered the grounds in small piles, none of it befitting mankind’s forebearers.

“If the Fallen truly had built this place… they didn’t stay for long.” Nothing had been living there for a long time. The most interesting thing they found was a meager pile of long decomposing wolf pelts (that added to the smell). They had been falling apart for so long, they stuck to the wall, under markings that first looked like gibberish. Observing closely, Clive realized it was faded writing carved into the wall.

“RØTTER MED TENNER—”

It looked a little like the Iron Islanders’ language, not that Clive was well versed in that tongue if at all. More seemed to have been written, but the wall was too weak from blight and crumbled away. A damn shame even if he couldn’t understand it.

Ambrosia was further down the cave, her echoing squawk sapped Clive’s focus. He realized she was facing a hole in the wall. At the cavern’s end was a bottomless shaft of darkness, where the heat and putrid odor was approaching its apex. Its origin point must have been at the hole’s bottom.

There was more rubble at that opening, rotted wood and magicked stone that seemed placed intentionally to block the hole to hell. Clive stared down the hole with the lantern, making out the faintest glimmer of Fallen stonework. A fragment of the airship. Clive realized this opening was where the top end of the wreck had linked to in far earlier days before the blight sunk it down.

“I suppose they were displaced around this range, trying to regroup.” Hence the existence of the finely cut cave. Yet that didn’t explain the smell or the heat. It also didn’t solve the more important questions:

Why was Clive led to such a place? And why was he so damn curious?

If only he could get a better look at the wreck…

Clive enveloped his hand with more aether. “Come on then, Bahamut. light the way.” He focused his grasp, but light aether didn’t flow. A ball of pristine ice formed, was dropped, and vanished into the surly darkness. There was a chipping sound, as the ice rolled off the ancient stonework and departed fathoms below. They heard a plunk sound. Water, perhaps.

Neither man nor bird were fond of swimming.

The bird backed away slowly, as if her master’s curiosity would have to remain as is. But she knew him far better than that. He was too busy eyeballing the distance, judging the fall to the airship’s hull to be maybe thirty feet. It was workable. And unlike the Fallen, they had rope.

“Let’s mind the gap.”

With one rope end attached to the bird’s saddle, Clive carefully rappelled down that dreary darkness. He landed perhaps a little too hard, as the ruins rocked under his introduced weight. It stayed in place. He kept a hand outstretched, holding the lantern amidst that long piece of stone imbedded in the mountain. With a careful step he hugged an upright corner of the architecture, clinging to that rope for safety.

“Just look at this—” Clive felt that fine perfect stone surface. He had seen Fallen materials before, but nothing this well-kept besides from the Apodytery. That was a closed system by intention, this place was closed by coincidence. A piece of an airship trapped in a hollow cavern for over a millennia.

As he carefully paced the top of the hull, he found an opening and delved deeper, finding objects sequestered within the structure… ancient empty containers holding only dust (they were caked in it too). The ship had been picked clean by the Fallen or whatever came afterwards.

From within he noticed the break in the airship’s lower end, assuming more materials probablly fell into the lower caverns (ironically). Maybe it led into the mines Clive remembered Joshua jabbering on about.

“KWEE!” The rope rumbled, coddling him. Yet Clive insisted on refusing the bird. He could make out the continuation of the cavern (also out of alignment with the bottom of this fragment), reaching it just required he slide down to the opening and jump the gap… though it’d probably be a struggle to return, the rope wasn’t that long.

“Stay put, Ambrosia!” Clive released it, surrendering himself to gravity. He slid down the stonework, gaining speed. The jump came and Clive performed it on time… he just misjudged the distance, heavily.

In freefall, Clive heaved inwards, drawing forth his aether. Hoping his luck would hold.

“Phoenix!” He called out, and vanished, bathing in flames. Moments later Clive re-appeared, rolling haphazardly on solid ground. His lantern slid further, but Clive made it somehow.

He could figure out how to get back later.

“KWEH!” Ambrosia shrieked in the darkness.

“I’m fine!” He called out, hoping she didn’t follow. “Mostly…” He groaned, staring down the hole, where he could see just the faintest outlines of the cavern’s end. That putrid odor was far worse. He could smell it in two directions, the abyss before him and the caverns that continued downwards (he imagined they led to the same place).

Clive tried to reach for his light but missed, it rolled into more rubbish. Human rubbish.

“By the Flames…”

Clive found a grim skeleton attached to a rusted axe. Its leather armor was stuck to the floor like the pelts from above. Past it were more such remains, people trapped in this cavern. Maybe three in total. No skin left, just ashen bones. The clothes were tattered and frayed. “These people must be decades old… if not centuries.”

Long forgotten.

In the axe man’s other hand was a cracked mask, not unlike the hunters from the Crestwood. It was made from metal and rotted wood, with that same filter attached, but the paint had chipped away. Whatever creature it represented before mattered naught… now it was just another dead mask in a dead land. The dead man didn’t face the hole, but a carving on the cave’s wall. Clive realized it was the same language from above:

“JEGERE ER IKKE TRELER”

Despite struggling with pronunciation, Clive recognized that word, Jaeger.

His father spoke of them once, bands of northern shut-ins with zero political capital. They didn’t serve Silvermane or anyone. They just hunted monsters and whatever else struck their fancy. Apparently the last time he’d faced their thralls, the Archduke and his shields had just found Torgal abandoned in a snowfield.

So then what killed these Jaeger? Certainly not wolves…

“There was a fiend.” Clive reckoned. “They came here to hunt it… and that didn’t work out so well. So when the hunters returned and their entrance was missing… all they could do was make the plunge, or wait here for the inevitable.” Clive lowered the mask, respectfully reapplying it to the hunter’s face. “Did she lead you here as well?”

Nobody answered.

He steeled himself with uncertainty, looking down the cavern. Whatever this creature was… perhaps it had been here when the Fallen crashed into this place. Could it still be alive in the blight?

Clive had a feeling he was about to find out.

The tunnels delved further down into a rotting (yet perfectly cut) stairway, leading to the abyss’s bottom that the skeletons overlooked. Hefting that light, Clive found himself treading an ankle deep pool, a shallow pond of scalding blighted water. There were islands upon that pond, severed pieces of the Fallen airship. Some were upright, sunken into the ground like jagged pieces of glass.

At the center Clive saw more broken statues like the ones at the Apodytery. Fallen Echoes, destroyed long-long ago. Around them were a small collection of those containers from the airship. These ones were closed, likely to entice whoever came and wasn’t put off by the smell. Trinkets of the fallen being used as bait… like this was some false dragon’s demented horde.

Amidst that putrid smell, there was something else Clive sensed. Aether, faint but very real, far down below. He also felt a breeze of air accompanying the bend of the cavern. Air led out somewhere…

There was a slim exit, only barely visible looking amidst the reflecting water.

But if there was a way out… that would mean something kept the hunters from escaping. Something they couldn’t kill.

Approaching the end, Clive heard Ambrosia’s distant cry from high up. The burning wick in his lantern began to rumble, softly and then wildly. At the last moment he rolled away through the muck as wet blighted tendrils rose out of the water, blocking the passage.

Suddenly Clive knew exactly what he was dealing with.

He stood up from the water, drawing the Burning Thorn as something rose from the swampy stone floor, hidden in the Glaive’s ashes. More graying vines wrapped from the ground, swirling… a putrid monstrosity shot forth, far taller than Clive could ever hope to be.

It swelled with a mass of blighted decaying roots lined with centuries of discolored teeth.

No eyes.

Such a creature Clive had only faced once before, in Stillwind. And this one was twice as large, to the point that Clive might as well be fighting Titan for all the difference it made. He could also reckon this thing had no aversion to blight whatsoever. Perhaps it had moved beyond that evolutionary hang-up.

It merely gawked, and the ground rocked again, beneath Clive, again. The Phoenix answered his plea again and Clive escaped the maw as a similar creature failed to take a bite out of the Marquess. It joined the side of its companion… very hungry.

“Two Morbols… this far north. In the fucking dark.”

This wasn’t fair at all.

The Morbols were unconcerned with such chivalric notions, and lunged at the whinging Marquess with disregard. All Clive could do was run. The air ran foul as they unleashed their breath attacks, flooding the unseeable arena with their filth. Clive briefly collapsed in the water, tripping onto a Fallen metal island.

Ashen tendrils followed shot from both creatures and Clive chopped through ashen limbs like he were a gardener. But whatever limbs the creatures lost joined the muck and were promptly regrown in some sort of vicious blighted cycle.

These creatures must have been festering here for a millennia. Did they devour the Fallen?

Within a moment of that query, a tendril from the larger Morbol snatched at Clive’s legs, hoisting the Marquess up. It bent in ways to keep him from cutting back at it.

It was far smarter than the creature he fought at Stillwind.

The Marquess tried to use the Phoenix’s blessing to escape that grapple, but nothing came through, no magic at all as the creature rattled him through the air.

The Burning Thorn fell away, clanging on metal. The lantern joined it, going out. Clive was promptly surrounded in darkness. He could only barely make out the faint outlines of the beast’s teeth opening up, more of that breath filling the air. The Marquess was overwhelmed, and then… a slow calm came over him. Was it intentional on the creature’s part, knowing he’d be tastier with the fight drained out of him? Or maybe it just hadn’t eaten in a while and wanted to savor this feeling.

Hanging upside down, Clive embraced that calm. He dug in deep, finding that certainty he always used in the past. He was Clive Rosfield, First Shield of Rosaria… and he refused to fall here. Not in the jaws of an overgrown weed.

Sir Tyler would have expected far more from him. Wade as well.

Clive called upon Bahamut one more time, and the damn drake finally answered.

A blast of light rocked past the melee, becoming a false sun that had Clive nearly blinded. He wasn’t the only one. The creatures squirmed as the arena lit up and that ancient vines around Clive’s leg weakened.

They were sensitive to light, he realized.

With that gleam, something else fell from the sky like a flapping stone. Clive feared the airship, but instead a chocobo slowed her descent by crashing a talon through the larger Morbol’s back, mounting it like it were a jockey. It throttled its weight forward, pushing the Morbol onto a piece of jagged debris, rupturing it in place. Momentarily trapped as its ashen body quickly healed but stuck to the rubble in the ground.

Clive was finally released, and Ambrosia caught him in her saddle… utterly surprised.

The bird was absolutely unbothered, as if this was a normal day. He couldn’t really blame her.

“At least now it’s an even fight.” He growled, plucking his sword from the isle. “Let’s not have any more scary falls, alright?”

“Kweh.” Ambrosia agreed. Not without him.

In this stage the Morbols became far more unrelenting, as if never having such a challenge in centuries. Especially with the larger one stuck. Ambrosia was similarly unrelenting at her master’s side, biting and bashing through tendrils, dragging her talons into the monsters’ tendrils. She held them down to allow Clive chances to chop and release magic into them. They did not enjoy such a thing, especially as Bahamut continued to visit them. Yet they kept healing…

The smaller one wasn’t at such a disadvantage, it was also especially fast. Hungrier too. It released more poisonous breath, Clive closed his nose as Ambrosia ran from the stinking cloud, that attached rope trailing behind her in that blighted water. As Clive followed that up with distant pot shots of light aether, the swamp creature pulled inwards, as did the larger one beside it. The poison suddenly dissipated, as did any air around the chocobo and rider.

That force was enough to drag Clive from the saddle.

He was nearly eaten had he not grabbed for the rope attached to the suddenly distant chocobo. He hung on for dear life as Ambrosia paced behind the larger Morbol as leverage. Their combined weight was enough to trip the creature, pushing it further into that jagged rubble. It screeched loud enough that one could hear its wail throughout the Glaives… Clive presumed.

The second one jumped for Clive, so he let go of the rope, building aether into his sword. With Joshua beside him, Clive shot through the creature, burning it grievously. Ambrosia was throttling the larger creature further into that spike as the second one went down. Yet their tendrils continued to heal and return.

Clive made a swift calculation, realizing that these blight addled tentacles were far weaker, like blight. He wondered how weak they’d be if he froze them.

“SHIVA!” He called out, calling on Jill’s gift.

Jill acquiesced.

Clive pummeled back into the wet ground, summoning a wave of blighted water that froze in the air. It froze the Morbols into the frigid marsh. Ambrosia jumped to an island at the last minute. The creatures wretched, winter fully returning to the cavern after a millennia.

With that coldness came structural weakness, the mountain rumbled and rocks fell. The walls of the cave began disintegrating into dust. Gray light bleared in, dissipating the false sun. Clive squinted, hearing a cracking as more and more of the mountain broke to dust as Fallen metal came raining down from above like the largest hailstorm Clive had ever witnessed.

Ambrosia lunged at Clive, willfully taking a hit as the ruined Fallen airship crashed down past them, into the giant Morbol and the ground below. Clive was saved from the initial impact that eviscerated the monster, turning it into an ashen stain. The remaining grievously wounded Morbol and a litany of those boxes collapsing past him down into the darkness. Its frozen tendrils failed to stop its fall.

Then the ground underneath Clive gave way. He fell, only able to grab for the dwindling rope in the last minute… but it required he dropped his sword into the abyss.

That thread weakened, and Clive could see Ambrosia’s distant form was bloodied. Her stance was wobbly, trying to pull him in, towards the exit. But he realized she was too weak, and resigned herself to fall with him. Something Clive could not abide by.

They were too much alike.

“Forgive me, Ambros—” The rope fractured whilst the bird heaved, as if she understood him entirely. “Go home, find Jill and go home.” He breathed a final time, letting the rope slide from his fingers.

The weakened chocobo shrieked as Clive Rosfield faded off into the darkness.

If he was Ifrit, this would certainly be the time that he’d make himself known.

.

..

…

He didn’t.

When Clive came to, he was in a state of profound wetness. Immersed in an achingly cold lake shrouded in cerulean light. The surrounding cave was lopsided, covered in that blue gleam. It was somehow calming, Clive felt as if it had mended his hurts.

Aether. He had smelled it before from down below. This was an aetherflood.

Clive crawled like a cold baby onto land, none of it ashen like the water (no doubt the gestating remnants of the Morbol’s lake). The cavern was littered with Fallen wreckage, the statues shattered and the wreckage sundered by a second cataclysmic fall.

Thankfully Clive had only undergone one… to his knowledge.

The skyline was an endless pall of black, the hollow mountain seemingly stretched on for an eternity. “AMBROSIA!” His voice echoed for an eternity, receiving no response beyond wet squirming from nearby.

Within the rubble was the remaining Morbol. Much of it was shrunken, shattered into ash like its brethren, pinned under the rubble hissing faintly. Further off from it was a gleaming sword, the Burning Thorn indented into the stonework. Clive drew Joshua’s sword roughly.

He proceeded to stab the Morbol repeatedly. Harsh flames followed his strikes, far more volatile than the phoenix’s. Each subsequent attack became heavier than the last as that mass of blighted vines stirred and wretched. When satisfied, Clive didn’t bother to watch it die.

He simply moved on.

“Jeggery ar ikka trellar.” Clive spat incorrectly, having no idea what those (poorly pronounced) words meant, but he liked how he felt saying them. He hoped the monsters’ demise would give their centuries of victims some modicum of respite.

With his legs threatening to buckle, Clive leaned on the sword as if it was that damned cane. Yet it wasn’t like the weakness his body underwent at Rosilith. Clive just felt out of sorts, momentarily sapped.

There was a reason most didn’t tread in aetherfloods…

His eyes trailed the grounds, noticing those Fallen containers, broken open from the force of the fall. Clive’s curiosity blossomed for a moment and immediately he spurned himself for that. No mere trinket of the Fallen could make up for losing Ambrosia.

How could he find Jill now? He certainly couldn’t chase the storm from within a damn mountain. And if Ambrosia was in danger up there…

He took a few more steps, stumbling on something in that wreckage. Despite being horribly dented, his stolen lantern somehow survived.

Against all odds.

“This fucking place.” Suddenly Clive’s childhood self wasn’t so upset his father never brought him on his northern expeditions.

His mind aligned with a shift in the aether telling Clive to turn. He did so, extending the Burning Thorn towards a diamond-headed wolf. The beast was seated, staring up with unreactive clouded eyes.

Not Torgal.

From behind he sensed someone else, the woman from atop the mountain… She was looking amidst the Fallen trinkets but Clive lacked the strength to face her. He lacked the strength to do anything amidst the sound of that static. The sword clattered to the ground and its owner followed it. Every sinew of his mind enflamed, trying to reject these supposed ghosts that haunted him.

But whose ghosts were they?

He struggled to form words, that ache in his head blurring his vision.

“Who-are you?” He refused to believe it was Jill, she didn’t even try to answer that question. Perhaps she was unknowable, a mere figment. Yet Clive wasn’t so certain of that. She seemed like a looming presence he had always known. “Where is Jill?”

The apparition looked upon the trembling ribbon at Clive’s arm, but didn’t deign to touch it.

“She’s lost as you are.” The wraith whispered politely. “In need of a guide to find passage from the storm.” Her accent was tenuous, stiff and upper lipped. She both sounded like Jill but also not. He finally caught a glimpse of her gaze under the hood, her cryptic eyes were sky-blue, glowing like the aether surrounding them. “You’ll find her soon. I promise that, Ifrit.”

She swore with a concurrent feeling of warmth and dread.

Clive’s own blue eyes shuddered at that name’s utterance. He felt his consciousness threatening to vacate himself. He felt as if he knew this person, somehow.

She certainly knew him.

“Who is… What is Ifrit?”

The hood lowered contemplatively.

“They say he is the most cherished of the composer’s melodies. For he is the song’s culmination, its completion. Its ending.” She answered cryptically, tenderly grasping Clive’s heaving shoulder.

Frankly… it reminded Clive of his mother in earlier days. Or how she looked upon him in the last.

“Like pathos, Ifrit begets the final verse.” She whispered in his ear. “He begets—"

His mind rumbled in that static, hissing down his spine, replacing whatever she sought to say.

“sohtyM.”

Clive’s cold breath turned smoky in reaction to such a confounded word. For whatever reason, his mind refused to hear it. And perhaps she knew that. So she spoke in a tongue Clive struggled to hear regardless.

“Den allmektiges siste trel.” She tenderly recited that language from the carvings pristinely, Clive only recognized one word.

“Trel.” He murmured. What did that word mean?

“Skulle han vil det.”

The cloaked stranger took her leave. The dog indifferently followed from behind. They faded from the chamber as Clive heaved, vision blurring. Aether compiled in his burning thundering heart. Was what he witnessed simply an effect of the flood? His mind coming up with nonsense in his final moments as he went akashic?

It was minutes later when his consciousness completely faded, he glimpsed shadows erupting in the darkness, approaching him. A flashing of aether ruptured from one of them and voices expelled but he couldn’t understand anything beyond that horrid static. One smelled oddly familiar, and for a moment, Clive’s heart was raised, uncertain if it was the ghosts from before, or anything real.

Clive didn’t care in the moment to know if there was a difference.

He breathed Jill’s name, thinking he saw her face. Only darkness followed.

Was he dead?

Swelling in those shadows, Clive was painfully aware of how often he had been faced with that question. Not because he desired death (far from it, he finally realized), but because death was the only thing that made sense. He was a soldier, trained to know the innerworkings of a battlefield. Taught to know the value of each life he’d command. Hence his insistence to put himself in harm’s way at every opportunity. Practically courting his own demise to safeguard the lives of others. In taking this quest upon himself, Clive had taken the tenants of chivalry to its natural conclusion.

Honestly, this kind of behavior was exactly what drove Jill away (among other things).

So then… why wasn’t he dead? Things would be far simpler if that were true. Things would finally start to make sense.

Going akashic by his lonesome inside a blight-ridden mountain seemed oddly fitting, a weirdly poetic ending for Clive’s confoundingly confusing life. The existence of the flood was an insurmountable obstacle, that claimed the lives of both peasants and kings alike. No amount of chivalric bluster could overcome that. So it seemed proper, given the levels of unfettered arrogance Clive had put forth in the prior months, nay, years… nay, lifetime.

The swagger Clive wielded in those bouts with Sanbreque’s prince could shatter mountains. Today it had. He had now just battled a pair of thousand-year-old Morbols with an overgrown chicken and won. And then proceeded to fall down an empty hole and still survived with nary a scratch. Even without the Eikon he still didn’t know if he believed in. And now he was faced with an aetherflood? What’s next, fucking Odin?

It couldn’t just be that he was lucky. Nobody was that lucky.

Honestly, his mother’s inferiority complex made total sense in that context. Nothing else seemed to make sense around Clive, and he was (privately) getting rather tired of things not making sense. And he already couldn’t find the time to sleep. Besides now, of course. If he was dead.

So of all things being considered… why was Clive still alive?

That last phrase amongst the voices he heard in his head, rambling nonstop like that static that overtook him. It seemed endless, that stream of consciousness babbling through his head like a brook, still not slaked. And coincidentally, he felt wet?

Eventually he had no choice but to confront his confusion. And the results were just as confusing. Because when he asked if he was dead and this was hell… someone actually answered back.

“Hell’s not supposed to be so cold, ain’t it?”

That was a fair point Clive hadn’t considered. If things were supposed to make sense, hell being oppressively hot was amongst them. So if he wasn’t in hell—

“As good company as I am, I don’t think you’re dead either.” That voice in the darkness added. She, it was a woman, was oddly cheery. Possessed with a sunny nature that seemed at odds with the dreary north. “Though if smell could kill, we’d both be dead as we speak.”

Clive didn’t think he smelled that bad, the voice begged to differ.

“I ‘spose it was Morbols then? Flinging from a nest right into an aetherflood… That’s rotten luck if I’ve ever seen it, though our healer would suggest the opposite, considering you somehow hadn’t gone hollow when we found you.”

By that time Clive realized that despite that darkness, his were indeed open… they were just adjusting to those shades of dithered blacks. There was a distant light, betwixt two shades conversing. There were others too, keeping their distance. Clive realized he was seated on the ground, propped up beside a furry pillow that was far more comfortable than Ambrosia. Familiar too.

He was in a cave, not unlike the rest of the Glaives.

“Wh-where am I? What is…” Clive tried standing. How long had he been down here? Where was his sword or Ambrosia?

“Easy there.” The shade answered, gloved fingers firmly pressing him back down. “You musn’t rush it. Aether sickness isn’t overcome overnight.”

“It’s still day.” A filtered voice murmured away from them.

“Really?” The shade paused, as if that detail mattered (it did not). “Sorry, ‘spose I’m just going mad down here.”

Clive was similarly mad, realizing that pillow was also pushing him down.

He discovered a light nearer him, allowing his eyes to finally assign detail. Clive looked upon a gray dog with a white diamond on its head. It’s waist was covered in milky bandages. They overlooked a familiar trio of white dots near his hind. And he barked affectionately.

He was the reason the side of Clive’s face was wet. He kept licking it like he was covered in honey. Perhaps he adored the taste of dead morbol guts.

“Is that really you, boy?” Clive forgot the sword, heaving as if he hadn’t seen that dog in years. Torgal was much the same, wagging his proud tail and practically collapsing onto Clive with affection. “What a fine hound, indeed!”

Clive heaved with enough laughter to bring himself to tears.

“You’re acquainted.” His new caretaker noticed.

Clive realized she was a shorter woman, maybe a few years his elder. Her sandy hair was braided into a bun, overlooking a bright grin somehow befitting the off-putting rabbit mask hanging at her leather shoulder (unlike the others who didn’t take their masks off). A bow hung from her back where she also wore a collection of well-restrained bottles. The others didn’t look so different from the dead raiders he saw in the Morbols’ lair.

Were these Jaeger?

“Hours ago the Glaives above were rumbling and Torgal led us to you. Has quite the nose for heroics, that one. I suppose he could smell you from a mile away.” She sniffed jokingly. Torgal barked in agreement.

“You found me, boy?” Clive couldn’t be more overjoyed, looking upon the dog’s grinning yellow stare. Especially seeing that he’s made friends so quickly. “And you know his name?”

Torgal’s new friend shrugged.

“Let’s just say there’s been some interesting goings-ons here, friend.”  She sighed, exasperated. “They call me Vel. You can too.”

So Clive would.

“Fuckin’ hells Vel, don’t tell him your name!” The shade from before complained. Clive gave him more thought, seeing a leather armored man with a fox mask. In his hands was an awkwardly held Rosarian longsword, at his back hanged a well-kept axe. “He’s probably a spy. A Rosarian spy!”

Clive’s clothing certainly didn’t help dissuade that notion.

“If he were a spy he’d at least dress the part!” Vel answered with rolled eyes, apparently she couldn’t help but be trusting. “Don’t mind Darun, my lord, he’s not too tolerating of strangers, ‘specially south-bound ones dressed as you are.” Clive suddenly felt awkward wearing his father’s winter clothing. He looked especially Rosarian in a land with very complicated feelings towards its southern neighbor. “He’ll warm up to you soon enough.”

“I’m Clive.” He insisted. “Just Clive.”

Vel’s similarly blue eyes bubbled, murmuring that name as if reminded of something she couldn’t quite place. Ultimately she just settled on remaining hospitable.

“Welcome to the Under-Glaives, Clive.” She offered a hand. He shook it, only for the woman to immediately yank him up to his feet. She was remarkably strong in spite of her shorter stature. “We hope your stay is pleasant and brief.” She clearly wished that for herself as well.

“I appreciate that, Vel. And everything else.” Clive’s free hand rested on Torgal’s jittering head.  The dog was busy walking in short circles, indescribably joyful for this reunion. He nuzzled into Clive endlessly.

“I didn’t do much of anything ‘sides lugging you.” Vel admitted, embarrassed. “Aether is terrifying for the uninitiated. She did most of the work.” She pointed behind.

From the shadows came a cloaked woman taller than Vel. Despite Darun being their ostensible leader, she seemed in charge. For a moment Clive was worried to find himself confronted with that entity from the flood, but the color of her clothes was wrong (like how Torgal was different from the other dog). She wore graying white furs, unarmored with a beaked hood over her face (no mask like Darun and the others). A satchel bag hung from her waist, where Clive heard the jingling of crystals. Was this a witch of some kind?

There was a regalness to her, a stiff upper-lip that reminded Clive of someone else. Much of her reminded Clive of someone else. But Clive knew it wasn’t Jill. Much like how he knew the woman from above wasn’t.

“This is Fenna. Our resident… Sage? Shaman? Mystic? Crystal-Healer-Lady?” Vel awkwardly flexed her hands, unsure of what to do with them. Darun was annoyed at Vel’s insistence of discarding their procedures. Fenna overlooked it. She seemingly wore too many hats at this point to care. “She’s great.”

The stranger hovered before Clive, bending down to scratch Torgal’s fluffy neck, as if they were already quite familiar. Full of energy, the dog nearly jumped on her when she stopped him mid lunge like he was a mere puppy.

“I suppose this runt is yours, then?” Her voice was rugged, weathered by time. Clive realized she was his father’s age. “He’s been quite a boon these past few days.”

“He hasn’t been mine for a long while.” Clive admitted, uneased. This woman seemed just as upright and rigid as he was. “Thank you for helping him.”

“I’ve no need for thanks. He’s repaid his debt tenfold.” In her stiff grasp Clive spied a familiar lantern. It was dented to high-heaven. Arguably ruined.

Unlike you, however.

“I um… found that.” Clive stiffened himself. The woman’s hidden eyes glimmered humorlessly at his lie.

“Did you?” Her unknown gaze twinkled. “Darun recognized it on one of his brother’s men from down south. He said it wasn’t so damaged then.” She pointed out a scrawling, a name written on the heap: Garl. Clive didn’t notice it before.

Thankfully this “Garl” was left in a much better state than his property.

“I apologize for that. Though I did intend to return it. When my quest is good and complete.”

“A quest?” She was almost playful, like the tone she took with the dog or children. “Then I suppose this meeting isn’t sheer coincidence. Did you come here as another thrall seeking the Maiden?” Her head cocked, needling through Clive’s intent. Vel blinked, as if suddenly thinking on Clive’s name again. She kept it to herself for the time being.

“I am a Shield of Rosaria, sworn to the duchy. Nothing more.” Clive grew stiffer in that utterance, weary of saying more. He had a brief staring contest with the woman’s hidden eyes as she looked upon him, giving Clive nothing to go by. Eventually she relented, or rather, the lantern rumbled in her hand.

“I’d hate to see you with an actual shield.” She scoffed. “Jaegers love their hand-me-downs, but this is intolerable.” It jangled, pieces inside coming unstuck.

“I apologize.” He repeated. “I have some coin, if that’ll ease your people’s burd”—

“Gil is little better than ash here. Same for your paltry apologies.” She mused indifferently like a cranky old crone. “This wasn’t just a thing, it’s a familial keepsake passed down between generations. Its living memory, far more precious than a thieving blueblood like you could ever know.” Clive struggled to believe that, or that Fenna did for that matter.

For a moment he wondered if this was actually about the lantern or something else.

"Blueblood?" His eyes narrowed.

“Given this was your error, it’s beholden upon you to repair it and repay your debt.” For emphasis she pressed the lantern into his stubborn chest.

Despite Fenna’s tone, Clive saw this as partially a performance for her people, a showing of tough love in accordance with their practices. Her companions watched him curiously, wanting to see if he could cooperate like a proper Northerner or if he’d be a stubborn Rosarian heel biting his rescuer’s hand. So he begrudgingly accepted, taking the lantern.

He wasn’t a blacksmith by any means, but Clive could certainly figure it out… allegedly.

“I’ll see what I can do, my lady.” Glancing to Vel, he realized that was the correct response, even if Fenna stayed displeased.

The snarky witch grumbled “my lady” and marched off. She returned with something in hand, the Burning Thorn snatched away from a grumbling Darun. In a show of actual goodwill, she roughly shoved it towards Clive (who remained remarkably un-skewered).

“Given our aims momentarily align, I reckon this’ll serve us far better in your grasp… if we’re to be traveling companions on your quest.” She surmised, hidden brow crinkling. “I trust that such an arrangement suits you.”

Clive realized their trajectory was narrowly aligned. They sought the Frostmaiden as he did, which excused Torgal’s presence. They no doubt tended to his wounds and earned his trust. Besides from Fenna, these were seemingly good people. Clive certainly wouldn’t be alive otherwise.

Meaning Clive owed these Jaegers far more than a flimsy lantern or a dead morbol.

Clive slowly took the sword, reaching an accord with Fenna. “For now it does.” When they found Jill, that could easily change.

Vel and Torgal seemed pretty pleased with that outcome. Darun was rather satisfied to see Clive being chewed out and the others were subdued. Yet this woman remained the most curious to the Marquess. She simmered down only a little. The dog’s presence helped.

“I do apologize for coming off so discordant. I’d wish it under differing circumstances but it is somewhat of a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance—” Fenna murmured, bowing her head so slightly. Clive glimmered in the blade a reflection of familiar steely eyes. Her gaze glanced past the burned teal ribbon hanging from Clive's arm towards his confounded scarred face. His eyes were as blue as his father’s. “Lord Rosfield.”

In that utterance, Clive reckoned this wasn’t a pleasure in the slightest.

Chapter Text

In the shaman’s utterance, a pin could drop in those tunnels and Clive would hear it. To out a Rosarian noble amidst a band of hardened Northerners already seemed turbulent, to out the son of Elwin Rosfield to his conquered detractors was an act inviting anarchy. So it was surprising how composed his new companions remained… at least most of them.

“H-how did you know?” Clive asked breathlessly, looking upon the hooded woman.

“Even if you weren’t dressed like him, you resemble Lord Elwin to a fault.” Fenna’s shrouded eyes squinted. “Besides from the scar.”

That same scar twinged.

“You know my father’s face. You’ve met the Archduke?” The sword he was re-bestowed teetered with confusion.

“We crossed paths once,” She didn’t deny it. “In a previous life, when I went by a different name.”

Before Fenna could go any further, Darun’s surprise was overcome with vexation.

“So it’s true then, Clive.” His beady eyes squinted behind the dark fox mask. “You’re a fucking Rosfield.” Members of the group murmured amidst each other, as if discussing a viper. “Just what we need, another southern interloper.”

That was the oddest part of all this, how these tribesmen had come upon a Rosarian Prince in a damned aetherflood with nobody beside him, not even a sworn guard. That is, unless they were lying in wait.

“Darun…” Vel whispered, frustrated with his thick head but Clive’s was equally thick. He realized he wasn’t going to like this conversation.

“You forget yourself, friend. After Manus Fields, Elwin Rosfield and the Silvermane were allies. I came here as such.”

“Yeah, well some friend you are. You should’ve come years and years earlier, before Geir Warrick was slain in his smoldering keep.” The mask barked. “We Jaeger never acquiesced to his authority, nor the Fens ‘fore him for that matter.”

They were the stubborn holdouts of the north, unconquerable in spirit. Unenthralled and eternally a nuisance.

“You said you had a quest… what is it then, to invade us?” The axe hanging from his back seemed larger as he drew nearer to the marquess. “As a friend?”

“I didn’t come here on my father’s orders, nor even as First Shield… I ventured alone.” He was already exasperated. “My task is to find Shiva’s Dominant and bring her home to Rosaria.” He struggled to stick to honorifics, to hide his intent.

Darun cared little. He was too busy nursing a grudge.

“Right, you’ve come all this way to kidnap our princess, again.” Clive shuddered as Darun came closer, not at all scared of the sword facing him. “This is Jill Warrick’s home, in case you haven’t remembered… and despite what your father, the self-titled ‘Conqueror of the Northern Territories’ says, you don’t own us. Or her.”

Clive was easily perturbed, his father’s accomplishments being equated to those of a tyrant when it had been Lord Geir’s raids on the duchy that began this chaos. But Darun clearly had little interest in redressing the past in any way that alleviated his grudge. He was using Jill’s northern honor expressly to prop himself up.

Torgal was quite upset by this display, clenching his very sharp teeth at the northerner threatening his long-lost master. Clive thankfully did need to copy such growls.

“My father has never said any such thing, nor I… but you’re free to think whatever you want of me or him. Just as long as she’s safe.” Clive relented, nudging for Torgal to do the same.

The dog stayed agitated, and Darun lost his confidence, instead just looking to the members of his band of masked misfits.

“We should just wipe our hands clean and send this lordling on his way, maybe Mateo can host him.”

Clive was about to contest that, when someone else answered, his recent caretaker.

“A sound plan… had he not ‘ready been sworn to us.” Vel eyed Garl’s broken lantern attached to Clive’s belt, gleaming like the sword did. Somehow it was still functional. “Fen’s shrewder than you give her credit.”

Immediate calculations rumbled through Darun’s thick head, turning to his hooded old friend who had been quiet for much of the standoff.

“She’s right. Young Rosfield is a thrall now, indebted to the Jaeger until his debt is repaid.” Fenna mused indifferently. “Nothing can be done about it. We should move on.”

In announcing that, the members of the band simmered, slowly coming around to the conclusion that Clive was now their newest unlikeliest ally. Clearly that had been Fenna’s intent in not speaking to his true s true identity until he was bound to them. Or perhaps she wasn’t fully certain until seeing Clive accepting that name like a well-worn glove.

“Fen…” Darun murmured with a hint of betrayal, shakily grasping his mask. “Y-you know who he is. Who his father is.” Pain ruptured in his filtered voice, not just for himself but for her, his friend. “How can you be okay with this? You know what their brood did to our kin. What they did to yours—”

“That’s enough, Darun.” She raised her voice only once, briefly affected.

As a moment passed, Clive noticed her shrouded face shuddering, facing him again. Her hidden eyes lowered, a finger raised in alignment.

“That is a token of the princess, is it not?” She pointed to the teal ribbon hanging from his arm. The burnt piece of cloth billowed with the cold cavern much like her white hood. “Which she received from her mother?”

“Yes… how did you know that?” Clive was befuddled, but she moved quickly to the next idea.

“Meaning you’re indebted to return it to Jill Warrick.” He shuddered hearing that name from this woman. “You came all this way to see that task completed?”

The sword in Clive’s hand tightened, affixing to his oath. “Yes… I swear it. Wherever her storm goes, I go.” In that utterance, Clive noticed the woman heaving. Her composure returned.

“Then that is enough for now.” The others nodded in solidarity, accepting her verdict. Darun was dejected, but hid it with his mask. “You have much to prove, Rosfield. And very little time.”

She walked past him, following the breeze.

“We’ll speak more later. Come now, runt.” She snapped her stiff fingers and the dog sidling beside Clive happily moved past him, following the cloaked woman in the gladdest of moods. He seemed to like that name. She patted his diamond head briskly, whispering a tsch sound whenever he bent backwards to bite at his bandages.

As the others moved on, Clive was left utterly perplexed by this band of raiders. Vel was nearby still, watching him in the darkness. The filtered rabbit mask clung to her shoulder curiously.

“I guess Torgal knows who’s in charge.”

“He’s always been a good follower.” Clive sighed, thinking briefly of Ambrosia. How odd it was, to lose one friend and to immediately reunite with the other amidst a pack of strangers. As one of them, Vel had the oddest vibe, like a concerned older sibling looking after everyone.

“And you?” She cocked her head, dark hairs flexing in the dim light.

“Much less so.” He sighed, drawing sympathy.

“I’m sorry about the others. Far too much has been going on these days.” Clive easily scoffed in agreement. “I’ve come to realize one makes all sorts of strange bedfellows when an Eikon is involved.”

“Speak truly.” Clive steadied himself. “What do your people want with Jill?” With Fenna and Darun’s demeanor, this seemed too personal for a mere band of scavengers. “Because if you seek to imprison her, to make her your pawn…” He didn’t go any further as that sword re-tensed in his grasp, but Vel wasn’t bothered.

“Your concerns are warranted… but we aren’t like the thegns if that’s what you’re worried about. Jill’s not our thrall any more than we’re hers.” Clive raised an eyebrow at that strange word they kept using.

Thrall. Jill had used it too, like it was the northern version of a soldier. But then these people seemed to hold much dislike for the word, besides from the shaman, at least.

“I can’t speak for the others. But I want Jill back where she belongs, with her people, her tribe.” She steadied herself, as a fellow stray. “Right now, I suppose that’s you and Torgal.”

Clive noticed that, how Vel looked upon him in the darkness, how she spoke of Jill. She spoke like she knew her.

“You met her.” He realized. “That’s why you knew Torgal’s name.”

She smiled politely. “Truthfully, you’re not quite what I expected, Clive.” Her answer evoked an odd familiarity with his name, like Fenna with Jill’s. “I only knew her for a few short hours, tending to her wounds… but she had a lot to say.” Some even about him. “That’s why I’m here, like you are. It’s also why Fenna’s here.”

Clive squinted, accepting Vel’s worry. He stowed the sword into his back scabbard, comforted by that clink. “Then I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Vel pulled her mask on, bidding Clive to follow. She had quite the story to tell.

With the wolf, the troll and the troll’s kin dead, royalist chatter along the mountainside dried up. There was a brief moment of recuperation (which Benedikta surprisingly allowed), tending to those wounded (which Jill avoided being a part of) and bidding farewell to those lost (which included an awkward measure of Gerulf picking the bodies for valuables).

They were low on supplies so they took what they could from the wolf. Gerulf led them down the mountain with its pelt slung over his shoulder. Jill could feel its dead gaze on her amidst every step of their descent, yet she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

A golden twilight reigned as the royalist company reached the mountain’s base, finding a ruined old campground arranged around a broken Fallen gate. It was fenced with gnarled rotted wood from the bordered dead forest. A layer of stained snow covered all, including any trails left by disorderly creatures fleeing the mountain.

Supposedly, their allies were supposed to be here with mounts and rations, but the group found the camp empty and unguarded. If nothing showed up, they would have to go further along the western pass on foot with emptier bellies. Gerulf excused their absence, suggesting how finicky they were around these hollow mountains. Jill however, struggled to believe these allies were even real.

It wasn’t Benna’s way to make friends.

With a whiff of will and aether, Benedikta culled the blizzard, shunting off the snow and bluster to allow her men reprieve to set up camp. They could relax for a moment, recuperate, try to see what Gerulf could cobble together for their supper (Jill surmised it would probably include wolf in it).

There was a marking on the dead dog’s collar, a haphazard stamp of a splintered diamond cut into diagonal halves. It seemed oddly familiar to Jill. She had taken to tracing it in her palm, memorizing the movement of her fingers to recreate it from instinct. Amidst that repetition, Jill realized she had an onlooker.

A dark bird was perched atop a spindly dead tree, black as onyx. Unbothered by the weather.

“I thought most fowl had fled the north. Is that a crow or raven?” Jill had long struggled to discern the difference between those two birds. It was far easier to lump them together.

“It’s a stolas.” Benedikta informed her in the snowfall, and Jill suddenly could make out a dark gem affixed to the owl’s head.

A black stolas.

The abandoned child inside Jill Warrick shuddered, knowing countless wives’ tales her mother warned about such creatures being an ill omen, a sign of coming darkness (perhaps literally, it was sometimes associated with Odin). Sometimes a precursor to a sighting of a tonberry or some other fiendish horror. They were especially rare in the twins, as rare as they were beautiful.

Was it wild?

Benna was unbothered, more focused on the issue at hand… tending to Jill’s wounds.

Despite her concussed wound from the Gigas, Benedikta insisted on wiping down Jill’s bloody wrist with water and some old vinegar. Once the blood was wiped away, Benna extended her aether, closing the wound ever so slightly.

She wasn’t as practiced a healer as Jill’s brother but at least she didn’t need stitches (given her swordsmanship, Jill imagined Benna was far worse with a needle). The mute girl flinched with pain but didn’t voice anything, knowing this treatment was much better than Benna using another hot poker. This came from her own stockpile of aether, a damn commodity this far in deadlands.

The new bandage tied around Jill’s arm seemed tender in preparation, even if still haphazard. The cuff rested over the binds quite snugly. “I think that makes us even.” Benna decided.

“I hardly did anything to earn such care.” Jill grew bashful. “You bested the troll. And that wolf was… nothing special.” Honestly Jill would rather not think on it. She spent far too much time reflecting already.

Benna refused her humility.

“I may agree but Gerulf told me you saved his life. I think that’s a debt worth repaying.” Her hazel eyes connected with Jill’s, the closest she’d come to actually saying thank you.

Gerulf was that important to her?

“He seems like a good man.” Jill saw him from a distance, handling his comrades with care. It remined Jill almost of the Archduke or Lord Murdoch… fitting, considering how complicated their legacies were. Gerulf was probably similar in that vein.

“Sometimes.” Benna shrugged. “But at least he listens.” Jill noticed that.

“Regardless of whether they are hewn with gold or silver, he seems to hang on every word.”

“Tread so carefully, sister.” Benna murmured. “I enjoy you, but not so much.”

Jill almost smirked but stopped herself. Her fingers trailed the bandage. The mark underneath wouldn’t easily fade.

“Here in the north, scars are a validation of a warrior’s valor. Their legend increased with each mark accumulated.” She flexed her arm, feeling it bustle under the bandage and the cuff. “My father had so many, I struggled to count them… though my grasp of arithmetic wasn’t very well at that tender age.” She traced her arm. “I wonder what he’d think of this, knowing I didn’t receive it from taking a life but protecting one?” Her mother would certainly be proud of that, the one that wasn’t Anabella Rosfield.

It made her think of another who had also been scarred in protecting someone, his father.

“We have something similar in Ash.” Benna shared. “Wounds are teachers, so each scar earned is a lesson learned.”

Jill didn’t doubt that, seeing the two decades of hard living Benedikta Harman hid under her voluptuous facade. “I wonder how many scars you—” With Benna’s mood she suddenly knew better than to pry, “—y-your King has?”

The older woman’s gaze lightened, but not by much.

“Just one.” She answered brisk like the air. “It hailed from a traitor’s blade. At least the coward had the dignity to strike from the front. Or our Liege had the foresight to see it coming.”

She spoke as if she had been there, and it troubled her.

“What happened to the traitor?”

Benna didn’t respond, her free hand simply mulling about the Gilden Thorn’s pommel. Briefly she glanced up, eying the black bird watching from high above. It didn’t react to her harsh gaze.

Jill had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to pry any further on that either.

“Despite his faults, King Barnabas is very resilient. He’s a survivor. Like us.” She eyed Jill intently. “Like Silvermane.”

Jill hadn’t thought about that, wondering how similar Geir Warrick and Barnabas Tharmr seemed from a distance. Both uniting their peoples to battle their oppressors. Only Barnabas actually won. Geir simply gave up and abandoned his child to her fate. And then he died, as all men are wont to do.

Also betrayed, though Jill imagined it was in the back. If she still believed in Metia, she’d pray that he didn’t perish in the fire. Or maybe that he didn’t perish at all.

“Was.” Jill sighed. “My father was a survivor.” She trailed her wrist again, fingers tensing in the blurry memory of Geir Warrick holding her hand. “Now he’s just gone.” Oddly fitting that Jill found herself treading through a land scarred by her father’s absence.

“As his heir, I suppose that makes you quite the warrior.” Benna surmised, turning over Jill’s wrist. “Especially considering the state of your very bare hands.” Those bandages had gone missing in the attack, Jill now saw those searing marks from the poker, only a little more faded.

“Wounds you sustained in battle with both the Phoenix and Garuda.” Benna tooted her own horn even if it was sheer semantics. “Being an Eikon killer himself, I’m certain Silvermane would be very impressed… perhaps King Barnabas as well.”

Jill scoffed, those trembling stars rumbled in her strained memory.

“I didn’t get these from Joshua.” Jill half-confessed and half-realized. Benna didn’t perceive that self-reflection. “Nor did I kill him.”

If she had, Jill imagined she probably wouldn’t be alive. Self-hatred could only go so far in resisting self-obliteration.

“I’m just teasing… if you’re gonna get pouty I can redress the wounds—”

“No.” Jill whispered. “I’d rather see them.”

For a moment Jill felt like she had control. Knowing she made a single difference somehow stemmed that tide of guilt. More than that… she felt useful. Such a feeling Jill hadn’t felt in a long time. Certainly not since she had wounded her hands in the first place.

Perhaps Benna clocked that too, Jill accepting the lesson.

“As you wish, little sister.” Jill’s gaze didn’t flinch away in that utterance.

As Vel spoke about her encounter with Shiva’s Dominant, Clive was astounded.

“A Fafnir? She fought one?” He sounded almost impressed, imagining the girl he grew up with battling such a creature. “Jill fought a Fafnir?”

Knowing she survived made the recollection almost exciting, like the tale of a hero.

“After falling from a Glaive!” Vel exclaimed. “When the beast woke it practically chased her and the runt out the Crestwood ‘fore we stopped it.”

When Clive had reached that wood he had seen all those ruined overturned trees. The Jaeger there seemed rather pleased about their kill, especially the man he took the lantern from.

Perhaps Jill had softened it up for them.

“We found her in a pretty bad way. Still, we did what we could for her… but more was clearly going on than we were prepared for.”

Clive remembered that bloody handprint on Iskald’s gate, the one he was marred with himself.

“I thank you for that.” He offered sincerely, even if Vel was too bashful to accept it. “I’m sure she would as well.”

“Before the Shiva-thing happened… She mentioned you.”

In that uttering, Clive’s heart thumped too hard. He couldn’t bring himself to ask what Jill might have said. Even now it was too painful, as it was the day Joshua told him she left.

Thinking herself a monster…

“A-Are your people certain it was royalists who took her?” He looked past it, like the handprint.

“As certain as your pup. We combed that place; it was either them or the imps. If it was the latter, there wouldn’t be a storm leading us anywhere.” Despite that grimness, Waloed was the more liked option.

“But what of that Frontier group everyone keeps mumming about?” Clive remembered the hushed whispers he kept hearing about them, a pack of wild men ravaging their dying homeland with abandon.

“It’s not them.” Vel answered with that same consternation. “Not yet at least.”

It was an odd history Clive had stumbled upon in the north, information that had never reached Rosilith. He struggled to understand how it was possible for what to have happened in Iskald to have been hidden for so many years. “If my father had known… he’d have done something—”

“I don’t mean to offend, but I doubt that.” Vel answered briskly. “Your people were barely finished warring with ours when Clan Warrick collapsed, and the north was already emptying out then. Now there’s nothing or nobody left here that’s worth doing anything for. Besides well… you know.”

“Besides Jill.”

Clive thought of Cidolfus Telamon, or Carrion’s Imperials, now these Waloeders. The only reason anyone came here was for Shiva’s Dominant. The North’s dominant was the only thing it had left to give.

That and death.

It didn’t take much effort for Clive and Vel to catch up with the rest. The Under-Glaives were a straight line at the pace the tunnels had collapsed in the passing decades. It was for that reason Clive noticed the Jaeger treading carefully, even Darun.

Nobody wanted to test the whims of the mountain any more than Clive had already done so with his gifts. They were certain to bring that up because Fenna had sniffed out the unusual aether on Clive, like she had from Torgal. It seemed the Phoenix’s blessing had a peculiar scent, at least better than morbols. He’d need to be more careful going forward… losing one friend was trouble enough.

With Clive’s presence, the chatter would have slowed to a crawl had it not been for Vel, seeking to ease the tensions with their new member. She was nothing if not persistent.

Clive was faced with icebreaker questions about Rosaria, the wildlife, the people, his family. Despite avoiding touchy subjects, he did what he could to answer truthfully, build a rapport. It worked for some (even Darun seemed curious in hearing about the wars for Drake’s Breath Clive had fought in), but the inevitable discussion of Shiva’s Dominant soured their unofficial leader. Especially as Vel asked Clive point-blank if Jill had been betrothed.

Rather than hear the Marquess’s flummoxed answer, Fenna decided that they could play the quiet game instead. For that, Clive was grateful.

On the plus-side, shutting them up put the group on high alert when Torgal barked up a storm, not from quakes but because of creatures looking for a meal. In this case, raptors. Bipedal lizards the size and consistency of chocobos, but with no feathers nor any other likeable trait. And like their prey, they were starving.

Clive’s sheer presence had a way with attracting trouble.

The creatures sprung down from above, one even pounced directly onto Darun, struggling to bite through his mask. Clive was fleet as flame and chopped through that one, bringing down his blade onto another. Darun begrudgingly accepted the help, even if he didn’t need it. Vel also assisted him with her bow but didn’t receive such consternation. The third went down without much trouble, beyond the dog biting at its giant ankle allowing Clive to pierce its cold-blooded heart. Anything remaining had simply run off.

At that point new adversaries made from ice-like flames had burst through the cave-walls, rumbling the mountain. They had impossible grins that no amount of water could ever quell.

“Bombs.” Darun groaned, he hated bombs.

Before one could detonate, Clive had saved Darun with a shaky ice wall stretching between them… astounding the fox mask. Vel helped him up whilst another bashed through the wall, pushing into Clive like a moth to his flames. Or maybe he was the moth.

When the time came for it to explode, it hadn’t. It stalled and sputtered, as if it was unable to channel its own aether to detonate. Something was constricting its magic.

Torgal clawed it, expelling it from Clive and bringing it to the ground. Darun lunged, swinging his axe and cleaving through the creature. Nothing useful was left behind in its dissipation… hence why Jaegers didn’t like hunting bombs.

Especially as their kills were incinerated into charred corpses.

“Fucking sore losers.” Darun swore, kicking a pile of spent bomb ash. Vel bottled some up.

Despite much of it being ruined, the group was impressed by Clive’s ability earning their dinner… all except for Fenna, who was stiffly cutting open a dead carcass with an uncaring efficiency that Clive had never seen down south. It seemed the role of butcher was another of her many jobs. After bagging the meat she tossed a slippery bone for Torgal to chew on.

Clive noticed that the crystals Fenna used to chill the meat looking well-spent. A couple of them were even red, hailing from Drake’s Breath. Others were colors he’d never seen before. As expected, there wasn’t much usable meat to collect, but Fenna told Clive it was better than nothing. Darun and Vel were pleased, however. Raptor meat tasted almost as good as chocobo. Clive was somehow grateful that Ambrosia wasn’t around to hear that.

The mountain continued rumbling, more tunnels breaking apart and urging them to move on. Fenna wasn’t so different, smelling aether in their path. She wasn’t in the mood to find another wayward prince, but the collapsing tunnels stole their options. The only path forward was through an  aetherflood and Vel was unnerved by that. Fenna promised she could keep them protected as long as they moved quickly through.

She also stressed that they be quiet.

Clive paid close attention as the tunnel opened up, revealing that other-worldly cerulean light, aether pooling into the ground like power-stained smoke. No misshapen monsters awaited them, the cavern was empty. With crystals in hand, a similar light formed at Fenna’s grasp, covering the others in a flickering shimmer. Like a glamour of some sort.

She truly was a witch.

“Seriously, Fen. Where did you learn to do something like this?” Darun scoffed. “Someone could fetch a pretty penny with skills like that.”

“A trade secret.” She mused truthfully. “It’s good you’ve no need for money.”

Vel had a superstitious notion that if she breathed one lick of the aether air, she would immediately turn blue-eyed. So behind that mask she held her breath and ran… Torgal followed, thinking it was a game. It might as well have been, considering how fast the others were, treading through the flood at breakneck speed. Besides Clive and Fenna.

It wasn’t that Clive didn’t recognize the dangers of the aetherflood, but after his run in he felt oddly… secure. He caught those sky-blue embers in his grasp. They blew away, not unlike snow. There was that lightness at the top of his head, but Fenna’s magicks stalled it, lessening the amount. It felt as if she had found a way to channel and redirect aether. Despite the blue light, he could tell none of it came from the crystals. It was all her… like with the bombs earlier.

The gems were a decoration, in case anyone uninitiated saw her magic. Bearers were careful like that, even in the north. Careful in a way Clive took for granted. He was beside her, making sure to help should she slow down. Not that she needed it. She acted as if she never needed help from anyone.

“I’m not infirmed, you can run along, Rosfield.” She stressed. “Go play with the other children.” Yet Clive would do no such thing. Curious as he was.

“Pardon me milady, it’s just… I’ve never seen magic like this before.” He was astounded by it, the creativity, even if he didn’t understand it. “I hardly understand my own gifts… but you, this is remarkable. You should be very proud.”

Darun was right. If a bearer could wield their magicks to resist the tide of aether, that would make them inordinately valuable. Clive found it astounding to discover one wandering the north as she did, only hiding behind a hood. He was oddly reminded of the mysterious woman from before with the dog.

But Fenna was very real.

“Hn…” She crowed, perhaps curious of what Clive had been saddled with. But she resisted it. “I’m no Lady, and this gift is nothing to be proud of. It’s my own debt to pay.”

The hood billowed with the breeze as she moved on quickly, frustrating Clive to no end. Especially as that breeze caused the ribbon to point to Fenna’s departure. He had no choice but to follow.

Past the flood was a pathway that led out the mountain into a soot-stained blizzard. Despite the deepening darkness, Darun recognized this place in accordance with his map. They were on the southwestern side of the Glaives, practically turned around in the storm.

“We’ll have to take a bit of a detour, but we’ll still reach Caldsan in a few days… probably.”

“Probably?” Vel questioned him.

They were interrupted by Torgal’s growling. The dog was flummoxed, accompanying a squinting Clive, pointing into the storm. They weren’t alone.

There were silhouetted figures in the distance, hovelling through the snow and bluster. They moved weightlessly, pushing forward through the snow with abandon. It was a collection of animals, monsters and menfolk alike, all with vacant cerulean eyes. Clive prepared to unsheathe his sword but Darun caught his elbow like he was a fresh recruit.

“Hold up. Seems we’ve stumbled onto a herd.” The others shuddered at such a term, even Fenna. “I thought we were just lucky, seeing how empty the floods were. But I guess the hollows are going the same way we are.”

“They’re akashic?” Clive widened.

Amidst that group he noticed some of the creatures from before, raptors like their supper.

“That’s what happens when a whole lot of folks leave a place. Less spears are left to plunge int’ things wandering int’ floods.”

“Fewer.” Vel corrected him, Darun ignored that.

“So if nothing ends them… they just keep going. Festering forever. Thralls waiting for someone to forgive their debts.”

Clive recalled hearing of the occasional akashic that reached Phoenix Gate. But nothing of this number. There were tens of dozens of them, maybe hundreds, stiff will-lacking bodies pushing through snow. Some clutching weapons.

It seemed unusual to find them collecting in a singular direction. But times were unusual.

“So if we fight them, we’ll have to fight all of them. And there’s no telling how many more are coming and going.” Clive summarized.

“Now he gets it… but luckily, they’re like us and can’t see shite in this storm. So we just have to find a place to hunker down and wait them out.” There was a rumor that akashic weren’t fond of daylight, not that Clive had ever seen it proven… or an akashic in general.

Some rest wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, Presuming these fiends didn’t murder them in their sleeping bags.

“And you have such a place in mind to hunker down?”

“It’s not like I wear this mask for nothing, your Lordship.” Despite not seeing it, Clive could tell Darun was grinning.

That night, Jill’s prediction about the wolf going into their supper came to pass, but nobody was deterred. The others were too busy saying goodbye. Five of their intelligencers had been lost on the Glaives, and Gerulf took a moment during their supper to honor them… and not just them. The ones lost in Iskald amidst their battle with the imperials… and probably Shiva, Jill imagined (not that she recalled what occurred).

Jill felt like a stranger sitting amongst that procession. They spoke names she had yet to learn and would never have the chance to know. None of her companions eyed Jill with any scorn or bitterness. One even brought her a bowl when she didn’t have supper. She politely refused him, instead drawing in the soot, making that diamond symbol she kept thinking of.

“From ash we all rise. To ash we all return.” Gerulf raised a cup. “And in the meanwhile, we revel in ashen memory!”

The others answered in kind, giving a hearty “Hear, hear!” That same response came to each of Gerulf’s calls, it was enough that Jill began to join in (despite lacking a cup to clink with anyone). It reminded her of the feasts at Rosilith after a battle. A celebration of those lost. She imagined it was also like that in her father’s hall.

It seemed Storm and Ash weren’t as dissimilar as Jill thought.

“A toast, then.” Gerulf announced to camp. “To our indefatigable Lady of the Wind… and the King!”

The men cheered, despite the fact that Jill saw neither Benedikta Harman or Barnabas Tharmr in attendance to accept such an accolade. Still they gave it nonetheless. Jill did as well, sucked into the moment. She didn’t even need ale for that.

“And also…” Gerulf paused pensively, looking upon Jill in the firelight. “To the founder of our feast, who saved both my life and our mistress’s.” His eyes twinkled with gratitude. “A toast to our new Lady of the Frost, Lady Warrick!”

“Hear, hear!” The men around her belted and cheered, enough for Jill to nearly jolt from where she sat. She had to calm herself immediately, accepting that praise. Jill nervously waved to the others with a polite smile. Unnerved like she had been at those feasts in Rosilith when her nuptials had been arranged. Except now it weirdly felt easier to smile.

“Thank you. You’re all too kind.” She quietly disposed of her drawing in the soot.

The men continued speaking about those lost, grieving together with their memories ‘round the fire. But Jill lost her nerve to remain counted among their number. She decided she’d turn in early, only to find herself staring up that dismal tree. The dark owl remained vigilant, not even poking at its feathers. In the flame-hewn darkness, the creature was practically a void, looking down on her. Not even fading embers or reflective snowfall could light it up.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s yet to move an inch. Pretty sure it just lives here.”

There was an unruly shade skulking the outskirts with a lantern. Her eyes flickered golden in the ashen light. For a moment Jill thought she was about to be murdered by a ghost.

“Benna!” Jill caught her leaping heart, tugging it back down into her stomach. “D-don’t do that.” She winced childishly.

Benna grinned darkly; Jill smelled something on her breath.

“Apologies, Lady of the Frost.” She bowed slightly, earning a further pout. “I decided I’d keep vigil since Gerulf and the rest of his layabouts couldn’t be asked. But night watch in deadlands is horribly dreary, so then I had a far better idea.”

Jill saw something in her other hand, a musty old wineskin.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

Moments later, Jill found herself sitting on a piece of weathered Fallen gate where Benna was also leaning. They were facing the firelight, where Gerulf and the others continued to converse like a pack of stars. Briefly Gerulf saw them and nodded graciously. Benna didn’t react, watching Jill struggling to down a single gulp of that northern ale.

She coughed it up immediately. Far worse than what she had tried before in Grotten.

“Gerulf told me after a while it’d stop tasting like piss… but his tastes are far too accommodating.” Unlike hers, which Jill imagined to be quite refined. “Sometimes I think he just likes piss.”

The smell wasn’t too far off.

“Where did you find this? It’s so sour.”

“Stole it from some funny merchants trying to swindle us. I have a feeling we’ve only done them the favor. If I had the time and aether to spend, oh they’d be sorry. Nothing puts the fear of the gods in you like an Eikon on your frosted doorstep.”

Jill laughed a little, feeling the slightest hint of a buzz. At least the piss-flavor brew was doing its job.

“Do you prime that much?” Jill asked out of curiosity.

“A few times.” Benna shrugged. “Given my position doesn’t require me battling Eikons nor armies, I save her for special occasions.” Jill turned cutely, hand pointing towards herself as a question. “No, I didn’t need her to beat Shiva.” The Talon’s black pommel gleamed proudly in the light.

Jill playfully pouted. “I guess there’s always next time.”

Benna smirked. “Hear, hear.” Jill repeated that, smiling a little. Wait, why was she smiling?

“This is horribly irresponsible, you know?” Jill sipped again, keeping more of it down. “Drinking with your prisoner while on guard duty? In Rosilith they’d have you flogged.” Waloed’s army was supposed to be far better. Odin’s legend was as brutal as black iron. “Or… or was it Rosalith? Rosilath?” She wasn’t quite sure anymore.

“Well, it’s good that you’re not my prisoner, Jill. Nor am I a guard.” Benna smirked. “’sides, I’m not expecting anything to intrude upon us tonight. Wolves know better when they can smell the flesh of their kin as kindling.”

Jill suddenly recalled why she didn’t like the smell of their fire.

“I wish not to be a nag, but you didn’t eat… if you’re expecting more burnt sausages, our supply is quite limited—”

“I’m just not hungry.” Jill confessed, mind feeling fuzzy. It was remarkable she could hold onto as much ale as she could on an empty stomach, but she was distracted.

It was perturbing, looking across to the fire where the men were burning the leftover parts of their feast. That included much of the pelt which was flea ridden (as was Jill at this point). She watched the flames swallow it amidst the men’s musings. “Didn’t look that appetizing anyways.”

“It most certainly isn’t.” Benna admitted, having not partaken either. “Don’t ask me why I know that.”

Jill asked something else instead.

“You said that creature had an owner?” Her northern allies?

“I did.” Benna answered.

“Will they be angry, knowing that we’ve ruined their property?”

For a brief moment Jill thought of her little brother. How would Joshua react to knowing of Torgal’s fate? How would Cli—

“They’ll get over it.” Benna shrugged, knowing Jill certainly hadn’t. “If you feel troubled about what happened, don’t. It was either us or it.” She grew more pointed. “It wasn’t like it had much of a life in the north, anyways. You practically did it a favor.”

All Jill saw was the flames burning away till naught remained.

“Now it’s just a beautiful memory.” Looking down, Jill saw those red stars in her hands, glimmering with the flames that swallowed the wolf. She traced the symbol again with dirty fingers. It hurt but Jill was used to that pain, she welcomed it.

The marks especially stung when she slew the wolf.

“I never killed anything before that.” Jill sighed, “Just me, not… Shiva.” She did everything she could to put up that difference in intent, like it still mattered. “Does it always feel like that?” Like Jill was killing her beloved childhood dog? “Like I’m hurting myself too?”

Benedikta was puzzled for a moment, sipping more of that horrid ale and handing it back.

“No… you’ll get used to it.” She promised. “It’s like I said earlier: all scars teach. But you have to let them… or the wound’ll fester. And there’s nothing worse than a scar with no meaning.”

And then it was like the dog had died for nothing… like Torgal.

“Who told you that? Your king?”

“No. I learned that a long time ago.” Her gloved hand flexed, like it usually did when Benna nursed a grudge. So Jill saw her do it a lot. “Long before Garuda woke up.”

“Around the time you lost your mother?” Jill suggested.

“Around then, yes.” Benna turned downward.

Jill waited an appropriate amount of time before asking about her mother. Asking what she was like. Benna saw those silver eyes upon her, and she sighed. Unable to say no to them.

Benna’s family wasn’t a noble house like Jill’s, her mother was no lady of high esteem. Worse, they were poor, dependent on the rare kindness of strangers. That was until… Benedikta couldn’t find the right words. Perhaps she recalled her own family as Jill recalled hers, very sparingly. Especially her mother, who was extremely normal from Benedikta’s vague estimate.

Clearly they had been separated when Benna was quite young.

“Is she dead?” Jill asked point blank, before pausing, realizing how loose her tongue was. “I uh… you don’t have to answer that.” She panicked.

“Well, that’s good. Because If I’m to get into that, I’ll need a lot better ale than this swill.” She scoffed, wiggling the wineskin, noticing Jill had imbibed a decent amount. “She is dead, though.” Benedikta added with relief, before downing more.

“I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be.” She grimaced. “Now that I have Garuda and our King, I’ve no need for her. I’ve little need for anything that holds me back.” She prided herself. “Some of those scars are just better off forgotten. They’ve served their purpose, so now they can fade.”

Jill was unsure if Benna really believed that. It sounded like a lie someone told themselves to feel strong. But perhaps that was because Jill was too busy holding herself back. She was too busy telling herself the truth to make herself weak.

On the topic of scars, Jill found her mind treading back into someone else who was horribly wounded, wondering what kind of lesson he would gleam from it. As much as it pained her, she hoped he’d learn to simply look away. To let his scar fade and move on.

Like she needed to.

“You make it sound so easy…”

Darun had outdone himself, rediscovering Fallen ruins their merry band could sequester in for the night as the akashic horde trudged on. It was an end-piece of an airship that had splintered off its hull centuries and centuries ago, becoming an artificial cavern for squatters (like them) to hide in. The Marquess wondered if it hailed from the same one he had trodden so carelessly that morning.

Now it had slowly became something resembling a home, with sleeping bags arranged and people relaxing by the fire (that Clive had managed to build it without Joshua’s gift, not that Fenna seemed to notice). It had a way with making the frigid stone edifice glimmer, ice crystals sparkling before melting away. Many took of their masks, no longer entirely on edge from Clive as an outsider, especially as he offered some apples he still had on himself (Ambrosia had the rest). They had grown used to him. Besides Darun, of course, who refused an apple on principle… not unlike Fenna.

Whilst their supper was roasting, Clive had found a curious mural, a child’s drawing of a pale imp creature with an oversized red pom at the end of its head. Under it was the scratched-in word: “Kupo.” The penmanship was erratic, childish, but it was far more inviting to look at rather than the drawing of a hooded, green-skinned beast-man with ochre gleaming eyes. In its hand was a very red knife, the exact same scarlet shade as the Moogle’s pom.

Thankfully, Clive had yet to bear witness to such a creature, unlike the artist.

“That was here last time I was.” Darun shrugged with a flask in hand, seemingly an authority on all things decrepit. “I was with Mateo and our pop. The landscape never changes. Just us.” He mused, as Clive sat down beside the mural (accepting a belly rub from the group). He was finicking with the broken lantern. “Mateo’s my brother, in case you didn’t know. Our chieftain.” He added nonchalantly. “He’s a pretty big deal.”

Clive had heard of Chieftain Mateo, he wore an owl mask. No doubt a sign of wisdom, unlike his fox-faced brother.

“I have a brother.” Clive offered genuinely, biting into an apple. “He’ll be Archduke someday.”

“Don’t care.” Darun scowled, extending the mask to sip from his flask. Rather than face Clive he peered out a narrow opening in the stone wall, resembling a window. Sleeted darkness extended before them, the herd of blue-eyed husks continued to wander along the tide of winter, shambling through with abandon.

Despite Clive and Fenna both making an offer, Darun had resigned himself to handling night watch with Vel. He couldn’t risk trusting the newcomer with it, or denying their sage her rest. But there was something awfully boring about it, looking out that endless nether. Monotony realized. But at least he and Vel could be bored together… imagining Moogles floating in that frost, freezing their poms off.

As supper was finished and consumed (Clive would admit it was pretty good), Darun was a little playful, glancing to Fenna observing that mural. “Fen, you wouldn’t happen to have any bed-time stories about Moogles, would you?”

Darun’s friend practically glared at him through her hood, not unlike the yellow-eyed tonberry visage beside her. Thankfully, she lacked a knife.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that, Kupo.”

Coincidentally for Clive, Moogles had been a decent part of his childhood stories. Woodland sprites that played games with animals and tricks on menfolk. An eternal curiosity in the twins. Moogles were a beloved myth that Moss the Chronicler adored. As there were for someone very dear to him.

“When I was younger, I once heard a story about a Moogle named Mog that made friends with Cavall, Sir Crandall’s beloved hound.” He padded Torgal’s diamond. “They had accidentally absconded with the one and only Excalibur…”

With the tribe’s interest peaked, Clive weaved a haphazard tale a child had told him about the duo traversing the twins, battling legions of goblins and beastmen and ending an Ever-Storm. Along the way they saved a silver-haired princess named Yorda. When the journey was over, the Moogle became human so he could marry her. The story ended with Sir Mog joining Sir Crandall’s lauded round table as a knight. Yorda also got to join.

Despite the story being absolute rubbish in construction, it was entertaining. Vel and the others enjoyed it immensely, even Darun cracked a smile behind his mask. It was adorable, what with Clive acting it out and treating Torgal as a stand-in for Cavall. In its conclusion, Clive earned a good smattering of applause.

The tribe’s resident storyteller, however, was far less enthused. Only liking its brevity.

“What a load of trite nonsense…” She scoffed, taking a personal affront to that story. Fen never liked stories that lacked purpose, no meaning at the end.

Worst yet, she felt as if she had heard it before.

“Where did you hear such a fable, if one could even call it that?”

“I honestly don’t recall.” He lied. “I admit, my recollection isn’t perfect… If you’ve got something better, the stage is yours, Milady.”

“My Lady…” She soured and grumbled. “Of course I have something better.” What she had in mind was an actual fable. A northern myth of grand proportions.

Sadly, it had no Moogles in it.

Long after the First Collapse, the north was whole, ruled by a benevolent king who could wield the unfeeling tides of ice. He was the warden of Drake’s Eye in Frostburr. It was he that banished the wights of the Crystalline Orthodoxy from the north and warred with the Motes of Light and Flame to keep his homeland secure. He didn’t have a name, only a title, the Ice King.

Despite his cold demeanor, the Ice King had a tender heart for his loved ones. It was said that his bride was a gift from the heavens for his steadfastness, a silver haired maiden, nameless as he was. She was beloved but had sacrificed her mortality to be with him, and soon her life reached its twilight. She died in childbirth, taken by the moon’s companion Metia to her resting place among the stars. Broken hearted, the Ice King swore to never take another wife. He’d father no sons but instead embrace what his departed bride left him, a silver-headed little girl that resembled her wondrous mother. In his heartbreak, he saw this crying child was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon. So precious and perfect. She was his.

So he shouted to the heavens that this child was brighter than any star in the nighttime sky, including Metia. Brighter than even her mother’s shining memory. And none could part them, not even the heavens. The Ice King would keep his child forever, she was his morning and evening star, his dearest treasure. And he’d sooner let Valisthea turn to ash than be separated from his gift.

In the years since, that wondrous child had grown into her mother’s beauty and beyond. She had many suitors and courtiers, but the Ice King could never allow her to take a husband, to be taken away from him. Such a thing would dilute her, sully her shining splendor. And then one day, an unruly northern lord encountered his daughter. He was blue-eyed, southern born and of little renown, but he was struck with an impossible lust. Knowing the Ice King would never give his daughter’s hand, he decided to dishonor himself and steal the princess away in the night like a common cutpurse.

When the Ice King entered his daughter’s room that morning, he discovered his child missing with a black stolas perched outside her window. It told him what transpired. In the Ice King’s rage, a frigid storm swept the entirety of the twins, a never-ending blizzard that lasted for months or years with no end in sight. Fiends went wild, crops and cattle froze, babes were born and consumed in that dark storm as the Ice King grieved for what was taken from him. That was how the twins learned truly what the cold was, a pall of frigid death with no end.

The only thing that could save the realm was for the blue-eyed thief to return what was stolen. The heavens instilled that it was his duty to repair his mistake. But when he presented the Ice King’s daughter to her father, his greatest betrayal was made manifest. The girl’s virtue was taken, she was damaged beyond repair. Tarnished, like snow stained with soot. Even her hair began to lose its luster. For that crime rendered against him, the Ice King decided that he was owed the man’s life.

He would have claimed it, had it not been for his tear sullied daughter falling to his feet, weeping as she had as a child. She revealed it had been her design all along to depart her father’s side. The thief hadn’t taken her maidenhead, she had given it freely. If this was a crime made against her father, then they both had conspired in the act. If he sought retribution on the thief, she would demand the same be done to herself as decreed by the heavens above.

In that moment, the red wishing star shone brightly behind the storm, and the Ice King saw the tears his daughter wept to be the same brilliant scarlet color. And so, he wept himself, realizing all along that this was a challenge that the heavens had foisted upon him for his willful arrogance. Despite shining dimly ‘neath those arche clouds, Metia had always been watching.

Thus, a compromise was struck. The Ever-Storm would end, and rather than taking their lives, the Ice King bestowed an insurmountable debt upon the blue-eyed thief that his daughter would share. The thief would forgo his name and titles to marry the princess and sire her children. But he would not be a king, prince nor even a consort, for he would be branded with the tail of a wyvern and stricken of his will. He would become the Ice King’s instrument, he would be his trel, his thrall. Which in the Iskaldi tongue meant indebted one. A punishment his bride would also gladly share. Even while the nameless thief’s will was no longer his own, he found great happiness with his starlit bride, and she with him. And especially with their silver-haired children that shined like her dearly departed mother.

To ensure that his family would never be plundered ever again, the Ice King decreed that the Ever-Storm would only rage in the season of the sun’s death, to remind the realm of his might. That season became winter, and he promised it would harm none that prepared their hearths for its coming. For they would know it’s approach when Metia shines brightest in the nighttime sky.

From that moment on, no matter the season, the family all prayed to the Red Star Metia for guidance, even the Ice King, forevermore her steadfast and willing servant.

As the story concluded, Clive watched the others politely applauding, but with none of the energy they had in reacting to Clive’s childhood nonsense. Which was odd, given how far more impressive Fenna’s tale was. Despite knowing it, Clive had been absolutely transfixed by the telling, even Torgal seemed to listen.

Clive had many curiosities by its end. Surprisingly, Fenna answered them.

“So was the King a dominant of Shiva?”

“Perhaps.” Fenna shrugged. “According to Moss, the story actually predates the Frostmaiden’s myth and the Continental Accord… some actually interpret that the daughter was Shiva.” Though that would obviously overcomplicate the text if the daughter possessed the power all along yet submitted to her father’s will at the end.

“And… what of the musings of his wife coming from the stars?”

“Given her ashen hair color, most believe it a metaphor, that she hailed from the remnants of the Fallen civilization. Many of the silver-head clans share in that ancestry.” Odder to Clive, seeing that none of these Jaeger had silver hair. “The legend actually came from their Iskaldi forebearers. It probably shouldn’t be taken too seriously.”

It was a myth summing up why winter existed. It wasn’t something Clive imagined to be accurate in any sense of the word.

“And, the ending?”

“What of it?”

“That was… a happy ending?” As he said that, the other Jaegers looked at Clive with shock (apart from Vel). “I mean… the thief was enamored with the princess and she seemed to reciprocate it. They got to be together at the end, have children, it sounds relatively positive.”

But he wasn’t sure it was a happy ending. Brands had that kind of effect.

“Plenty of northerners would agree with that reading. They’d gladly accept a greater will over their own. They’d rather be indebted like the thief, knowing they’d be taken care of.” Fenna shrugged. “But the Jaeger are especially—” She tried to find a better word but couldn’t, “willful.” Several of those Jaeger groaned.

“Paying debts is one thing,” Darun answered, “but surrendering your own self-determination to some royal cunt is an entirely different kind of compromise. Same for cleaving one’s name and becoming clanless. Northern traditions dictate thralls as a subject who services their thegn, but most outsiders know them better as a slave indebted to a master… as we do. No better than a common bearer.” As he said that, Fenna looked away. “Sorry, Fen.”

“It’s why we Jaeger don’t have thralls like the rest of the territories.” Vel added. “We serve none, and none serve us. All are made equal under the mask, even bearers.”

Modernity brought layers of complications to the text, especially considering the thief was branded like a modern bearer. Such was the punishment for stealing a gift from the heavens as the thief did.

“But honestly, the story doesn’t make a lick of sense in retrospect.” Darun groaned. “Had the thief just killed the Ice King, the Ever-Storm would have ended, and winter would never return.” He crossed his arms. “And the tradeoff was far worse, ‘specially for everyone.”

“Not dying to the Ever-Storm is a bad trade?” Vel questioned his logic..

“Pretty much. The Ice King was a tyrant, turning the whole of the twins into his hostages because he couldn’t keep his daughter in her cage. Sure the thief got the girl in the end, but it’s ‘cause he lost his spine and now shares her cell. Worse yet, she lost her will too in that bargain. Two thralls for the price of one… plus whatever children they have.”

Such a concept sounded weirdly familiar to Clive.

“And what will had she to sacrifice?” Vel answered him. “The Ice King was unbeatable; nobody was killing him, not even Metia. The heavens sent him a bride? That was an act of entrapment intended to teach him a lesson… Meaning everyone else in the story might as well have been a teaching tool.”

“Oh come on, Vel—”

“I’m serious. That blasted star planned it all out… everyone had a role to play and did exactly what the star needed them to do. No will required. The only one who had actual agency was the Ice King, and that was why the star went after him in the first place. To put him in his place.”

Clive had a feeling Vel knew this story better than even Fenna.

“So then why spare the lovers at the end?” Darun asked. “Why not just… say fuck it and freeze the world to spite the star?”

“Because the star knew him better than he knew himself. It’s why Metia took his wife from him, to make him love his daughter even more so that when the time came, he’d get in line. Because at least then he could live in a world where he wasn’t so alone. Where his child didn’t entirely despise him. Where he could see his grandkids. That’s why the Ice King was rewarded for his obeisance, just like the thief. At the end they were equals under the heavens, they were both thralls.”

Vel and Darun continued to debate the merits of free-will (with Vel saying free-will was about as real as Mysidia was). Amidst it, Clive couldn’t help but notice Fenna refusing to look at him.

Perhaps Metia intended that as well.

The sisters continued sitting for the longest time, simply enjoying each other’s company in the orange darkness. Benna broke the silence finally, seeing Jill with that wineskin, not hearing the sloshing of liquid as much. How much had they both had?

“Pardon me, but you don’t really seem the kind for cakes and ale.”

“I’m not.” Jill shrugged. “Well, cake is one thing, but ale… ladies of the court have to be a lot more careful. Unlike the men.” Thankfully, she enjoyed plenty enough cake to make up for that, until that too was deemed un-ladylike.

“Right, they wouldn’t want you losing your virtue, be sacked with Limpdick Lord Humperdick’s bastard.” Not that Benna could ever imagine Jill’s thin hips capable of widening enough to manage such a thing. Yet it was enough to earn Jill’s laughter. “Not when you were expected to birth the next generation of silver-haired Rosfields.”

Jill’s gaze lowered, the distant fire not seeming as bright.

“I suppose that ship has sailed then?” Benna asked.

“And then some.” She set down the wine pouch, no longer in the mood. Jill pressed her hands together, fingers delving into her wounded palms. “That life is long gone. Not even your king can change that… unless he can traverse the realms of time.” Even then she probably wouldn’t accept it.

It was a different Jill, she kept telling herself; one whose life had ended. There was no point in being sad about those spent ashes. Yet that sentiment washed none of her sorrows away. Neither did the ale.

Benna was disappointed, but not for the reason Jill was.

“It’s a shame. Knowing the state of the duchy’s succession, there’s a high chance that your betrothal to the Marquess could’ve made you Duchess someday.” Benedikta lamented her loss of station. Naturally she could only read Jill’s actions as an alignment with ambition. “Quite the shrewd move, entrenching yourself in the southerner’s court like that.”

Jill wanted to groan but lacked the energy necessary.

“It wasn’t a move.” She said simply. “No matter what you may think, I’ve never harbored any grand designs to be Rosaria’s Duchess, nor even a lady of high esteem. If I hadn’t been betrothed, I’d be sent away, and I’d never see home ever again.” She sighed, admitting her guilt.

Her real home…

It was an easy concept she had pictures for years, not that Benna could. Growing up disliked in a palace was still growing up in a palace. But she could understand an effort being made to resist change.

Her old friend loved complaining about such universal notions.

“So you arranged your nuptials to keep your hoity toity little world together.” she grew playful in the distant firelight.

“What are you getting at?”

“You feel guilty for wanting to protect yourself. When truly you did the most human thing imaginable. Compromising yourself, choosing a patron to protect you. To empower you.”

Jill scowled, imagining herself having a patron. Like she belonged to a pleasure house.

“I didn’t want power. I don’t want power.”

“Sure, you can keep saying that.” Benna shrugged. “But it sure would be nice to also be a Duchess or Marchioness of Rosaria, wouldn’t it? To not live a hard life as a courtesan in a brothel or a broodmare for Lord Humperdick.”

“You are unbelievable.” Jill groaned.

“I’m not judging, Jill. For women in our position, sometimes the best we can do is to compromise. We all want to be free… but ultimately, what we need is safety.”

“But isn’t safety just compromise?” Which was bad, right?

“No, safety is power. To feel shame for it is compromise.” She spoke with eerie certainty. “A refusal to learn from that scar is an even greater one.”

In Benna’s eyes it was no wonder Shiva came out like she did. Perhaps in that moment, Jill realized she’d never be safe in Rosaria, not with that woman hanging over her neck. So now here she sat, in the north where she most certainly wasn’t safe either. Chatting with the lonely dominant who kidnapped her on a whim.

“So that’s what I need now then? For you and your king to make me safe?” She felt that cuff on her arm, noticing it already imprinting into the bandage.

Benna struggled to find a satisfying retort to Jill’s questioning of her motives. Jill simply overlooked it, finding a different axe to grind.

“I didn’t arrange my nuptials to protect myself. I did it because…” She watched her wounded hands again. “All I’ve ever truly wanted was to keep him safe. To keep Clive safe.” Her fingers shook in willfully saying that name. “He was always so brave and daring, spending too much of himself defending others… so I thought if I could shoulder some of his burden, that’d be okay. There’d be something left of him that I could protect, something that’d be mine.”

She heaved nostalgically, wishing to look upon the moon... but it was missing.

“Because if he was alright, I know I’d be as well. I’d survive the night. The dawn would always come, and him with it.”

With him, she could weather any storm. So of course, in that endeavor she failed spectacularly.

“Perhaps I’ve said too much.” She whimpered. Yet her new associate didn’t judge her.

“You and the Marquess,” Benna breathed, “it was a love match. Wasn’t it?” Such a sentimental concept she didn’t think existed in real life… especially for nobles. A silver haired princess of the north matched with a son of fire, from the Phoenix’s own brood. The overlooked firstborn. It was like a fairy tale. The kind the twins was practically drowning in.

“It was.” Jill grieved in pain, catching snowflakes in her wounded hands, they refused to melt. “Not anymore.”

Her vision of the flames blurred, yet no tears escaped. The storm did all the weeping for her.

As her magic sobbed, an uncertain hand reached for Jill’s shoulder. It was shaky, as if hailing from someone who rarely interacted with others in this sentimental way. Especially women. Jill was still as her captor made contact, trying to ease her sorrows. There was a fear in her, in that show of vulnerability.

For the moment, Jill wasn’t entirely repulsed. Even as Benna spoke, uncertain.

“I suppose you never know how much you love something until it’s taken from you. Even we Dominants are powerless against that sentiment.”

Jill winced as Benna said we dominants.

It was ironic, Jill had lost everything because of her Eikon, meanwhile Benna had everything to gain for hers. Everything she was had been built atop Garuda’s gales, while Jill had been sunken down Shiva’s frigid waves.

But then, clearly Benna had lost something because of Garuda. She was just too proud to say.

“I suppose that’s the real curse. Being just as human as everyone else. Just as wounded as they are.” And Benna was most certainly wounded, Jill could see that. She didn’t know where the marks began, but they were very real. “Just as marred by compromise.” She repeated those words, affected.

It was surprising for Jill, how alike she and Benna truly were.

Here she was, Geir Warrick’s abandoned daughter, in deep contemplation with a child of Odin who seemed just as scarred as she was (even if Benna was far better at hiding them). Two scarred daughters of Storm and Ash, lacking mothers with absent fathers. What an unlikely pair of sisters they made.

“You were left behind… weren’t you?” Jill asked, seeing her clearly. “Like I was.”

Benna’s ochre eyes lowered, gloved hand on Jill’s shoulder still shaking. She thought to say a name, but that wound was far too young, and Benna was far too cowardly. Too wounded.

He wasn’t ready to even consider fading, just yet. Cid was obstinate like that.

“I cared for someone as you did… and he abandoned me.” She confessed. “Like everyone else does, eventually.” Even like her king might, should she fail him… again. The shepherd was hardly any different from the flock. But they weren’t shepherds, just black sheep. Both branded and left to roam the wilds.

“I wonder how he could have done it… if I wasn’t enough for him to remain. If I could never be enough…” She trailed off, before remembering someone was still with her, still just as awake. “Perhaps I’ve had too much to drink myself.” It seemed Benna had become too accustomed to the taste of piss after all.

Jill chuckled falsely to try and absolve the tension. Benna accepted it, not caring whether it was genuine or not. She instead turned away, back to the fire. Their comrades’ activity had concluded, nothing of the wolf remained. Gerulf would handle night watch for the rest… meaning the sisters’ watch was at an end.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Jill.” She whispered after a while. “I’m very sorry.”

The Ice Dominant nodded, staring on the distant fire, fingers tracing her closed palm. Perhaps Benna was right. In time Jill knew she could learn from that scar… maybe even find some way to let it fade. To let him fade.

But not yet.

“You needn’t be.” She released the tension in her hands, her silver head nuzzling further into her golden sister’s orbit. Benna was surprised at first, but accommodated quickly, allowing Jill to learn on her, to let herself be held. As someone had done for Benna a long time ago. As odd as it was, none of it felt wrong.

For a brief moment it felt like they really were sisters.

By the time Jill was tucked into her warm sleeping bag, she stopped fearing the black bird staring down at her. Jill was too old for such childhood fears, too wounded to fear another sting of talons. At least she knew that pain would be replaced with a never-ending headache in the morning. She had that to look forward to.

Morning would have to wait a while for Clive and his new companions.

As Darun and Vel’s argument went well on into their night-watch, Clive was more than happy to get some rest, as was Torgal, allowing himself to become a pillow once more (as Clive had once been for him). There was a sweet tenderness in them finding each other again. Clive hadn’t realized how much he missed his beloved hound.

He was half asleep when Clive stirred, feeling a shadow on his face. That hooded woman was knelt over him in the firelight. She patted the dog’s soft head, her other hand trailing the teal ribbon hanging from Clive’s arm. Unlike the tonberry in the mural, Clive didn’t glance yellow but silver eyes looking down on him. Ones he somehow recognized. Especially as she tended to the ribbon.

It seemed almost precious, to her. Perhaps she contemplated stealing it…

Amidst the cold breeze her hood billowed, realizing Clive was awake and watching yet she didn’t stir. That stiff grasp rumbled but released the free-flowing fabric to flutter on its own, still affixed to his arm. He slowly caught it, as he always did, but it brought no comfort. She bore into him with that silvery gaze. Any emotions she felt earlier were shut down into the jaws of a cold steel trap he set off.

Clive didn’t even think of pulling forth the Burning Thorn in this breech of privacy. He had nothing to fear from this stranger. In fact, he was still curious about something from her story that he hadn’t the chance to inquire about.

“Why was the thieving lord south-born with blue eyes?” He didn’t remember that detail in any other telling of the Ice King myth, not even Moss’s Chronicle. That mark upon his cheek flexed in consideration. “Did he also have a scar, I wonder?”

Torgal’s nostrils fluttered so Fenna gently lulled him back to sleep.

“You misnamed the dog.” She whispered. “She thought he was called Cavalli.” Clive flinched in that recollection, perturbed by that accuracy he had forgotten. Fenna needn’t even say who she was. “I suppose you stole that memory from her, like her blessing and her mother’s burned ribbons.”

Fenna radiated that same chill Clive had known his entire life, but Clive didn’t fear it any longer. Nothing this woman had could compare to what he survived.

“She gave it to me of her own volition. We’re betrothed, by her pledge.” He confessed.

Those words wounded Fenna deeply, but she accepted them, nonetheless. She accepted them on behalf of someone who no longer could.

“And what meaning does her pledge have now, Milord?” She scoffed. “You may love her… she may even answer in kind, but that doesn’t mean she chose you. She simply lacked for real choice. As her mother did.” Her nostrils flared. “You plundered a gilded cage, Rosfield, and now find your silver canary has gone missing. Because she was never truly yours to possess.”

Despite her bitterness, Clive didn’t necessarily disagree with that assessment. Just the sentiment.

“And what does that make you, Milady?” His thieving blue eyes narrowed. “Who are you, truly?” Despite being colorless, her gaze was hinted with a similar shade, like Jill’s. “You went by another name before… surely it can’t be Eisa, can it?”

A brief anger permeated Fenna, hearing that name. The brand he finally spotted hiding under her hood flexed with that vitriol, unable to settle. Luckily, she still lacked a knife.

“Lady Eisa is dead.” Her wounded heart buckled. “I’m just another thief, same as you.” She spoke with begrudging certainty. “Another lost thrall indebted with scars.”

That mark upon Clive’s chest heaved as she stood and walked off to find her own rest. Despite clinging tightly to Torgal and that ribbon, Clive found no sleep for the rest of the night. Neither did Fenna.

Morning was barely an approaching dream when Jill woke to distant howling, smelling ash on the breeze. Something else had come with the dawn, and it certainly wasn’t Clive.

Neither the Moon nor Metia bore witness as the black-as-pitch sky was invaded with an eerie blue hue, a glow of cerulean aether spilled from the dead wood. Shades accompanied that horrid light. In her addled state, Jill first thought them to be spirits, the damned and the dead. Perhaps these were tonberries, vengeance made manifest. Or perhaps she was still dreaming.

Yet to Benedikta and her men, they seemed very real and expected… if somewhat late.

Like a bleak omen, several dark riders in blackened armor arrived at the western outskirts where the mountain bottlenecked into the forest. Jill found the source of the cyan glare, it hailed from stone-like torches and lanterns they carried. Burning aether. Upon the riders was an odd symbol, the very same one she had been tracing into her palm.

A splintered jagged diamond.

Wolves followed their ranks, perhaps the very same ones from the mountain. And then she saw the dark plumed owl, now affixed to one of the riders’ padded arms. In that insipid light, the teal gem affixed to its head gleamed sickly amidst the snowfall.

It was their stolas.

These were the allies Benna was to treat with, yet she gave swift orders for her men to stand by. It was as if these were enemies to combat should their encounter break bad. But Jill had no idea why she thought it would. That shifted however, when Gerulf attempted to hold Jill back for protection, his lady overrode him, suggesting Jill might learn something.

Benedikta wasn’t going to treat with them alone, she needed someone to carry a lantern.

“W-who are they?” Jill squirmed, noticing Benna’s distance, as if brought on by the dark riders’ presence.

“Our benevolent hosts. So be polite and hold your tongue.” Benna whispered anxiously, pressing her hands to Jill’s shaky shoulders, eyes gleaming blue in the distant poisoned light. “They did come all this way to see you, after-all. Just-Jill.”

Chapter Text

The akashic thralls vanished into the night, leaving nothing behind, not even tracks.

Reaching this far north, Clive Rosfield had never seen so much snow (albeit some ashen gray) in his entire life. Plenty was murky like the impossible to see skies above. Combining with the chilling wind, the white mountainous landscape came alive with frigid tension. Fortunately, the Jaegers took to the morning snow drifts like masked ducks to water.

Torgal easily kept up, but his master struggled. The snow had a tendency to melt under his boots and then uncharacteristically freeze and melt again. Clive was practically a foot sunken into the stiff ground while his new associates treaded above it like they were made of parchment. But at least Fenna was also struggling, inflexibly waddling as if that parchment turned frigid and brittle. Clive could take some begrudging satisfaction in that fact… if he was a terrible person. But he wasn’t that good either, not offering her any assistance, content to struggle likewise in silence. In Clive’s defense, all she need do was ask for help, something Fenna seemed incapable of.

Since Fenna wouldn’t accept her assistance, Vel had taken to guiding Clive, giving him advice on finding better purchase in these drifts. Torgal ran alongside them, hoping Vel may pity him and share more honey.

“Soon we’ll have to get him his own mask, maybe you too.” She patted Clive’s shoulder like an affectionate older sibling.

“I could never stand it. Looks far too uncomfortable.” Hopefully his debt would be paid off well before then. “What about your shaman? I notice she doesn’t cover her face.” Clive assumed it wasn’t very conspicuous, but a bearer wearing a mask seemed a very safe bet for a clan of masked hunters wandering the frozen thicket.

The hood couldn’t be that helpful out in the northern elements.

“Fen joined before my time, she’s always been a bit of an outlier. Still sees herself as a stray.”

“Your people seem quite fond of her.” Which Clive struggled to understand.

“Stories hold much value, same for plenty of the other things she’s done to make herself useful.”

Clive murmured that word, “Useful,” reminded of someone he knew very well. Two people, in fact.

“And despite hiding it, she’s a bit of a softy once you’ve gotten to know her. The little ones like Fen very much.” Clive found that very hard to believe, watching Fenna very grumpily bringing up the rear. Not even Torgal could raise her mood. “She does seem a little off this morning. Which is saying something.” Vel blinked, considering Clive looking awkwardly away. “Know anything about that?”

Clive didn’t have to turn, practically feeling the sage trying to burn holes into the back of his head with her hidden glare. Probably judging Vel for gossiping literally in front of her.

Not unlike Clive’s mother.

Such an introspection he kept to himself, clinging to his ribbon.

“I couldn’t say. You know her better than I do.” Clive lied poorly and abruptly, earning a frustrated roll of eyes behind that rabbit mask. Especially as he moved on, happy to keep trudging on. The rabbit had no choice but to do the same.

With the slow crawl of time, more and more caverns were ruined, dead ended tunnels that led nowhere… threatening to collapse at any instant. Even worse was the fear that the akashic may dwell within them. So the Jaeger had to improvise. Luckily, their fearless leader knew a thing or two about traversing blizzards. Apparently it was a familial trait.

Darun suggested that to reach the Western Pass, they simply needed to cut between the next couple glaives to put them back northward to greener pastures. “Not literally, of course.”

While none of their meager group had been there, the Jaeger heard much. As did Clive. On Joshua’s map it was called Caldsan. The center of the western north where the chill was especially frigid. The name as such came from the bay being the coldest place in all of the Twins. Given it was legendarily his dominion before he conquered the north entirely, some wondered if the nameless Iskaldi King of old had cursed that place with how winter never seemed to end there.

Clive heard it was a wild place, untamable like the tides of Leviathan.

It was an endless shore where the sands were as white as snow and the night-time sky glowed with impossible sparkling light. That wide gulf was filled to the brim with old treasures of the Fallen, airships and the likes. But to plunder the depths required one to venture through the hordes of monsters and beastmen skulking that beach and then to resist succumbing to hypothermia in the sea (And whatever other creatures lurked there).

Lord Byron spoke of a meager harbor at its southern cape where trade had once been managed. If they could get around the Ironblood, then vessels from Rosaria, Dhalmekia and even Kanver would drop anchor there. Some would even venture into the rivers feeding east into Frostburr and the Frozen Tears, the final resting place of Drake’s Eye. Now drowned in blight, unlike the Bay.

Endlessly curious, he remembered Joshua discussing these landmarks at Phoenix Gate. But it was fleeting, they had assumed his journey would end at Iskald.

Joshua probably thought Clive would be back by now.

“But reaching the Pass to reach the Bay is tricky.” Vel stole Clive from his introspection. “If we venture too far north, the mountains end and we reach claimed territory. All manner of things run wild there, uninhibited by Glaives, especially ‘round the rivers feeding into the eastern deadlands.” Which were said to be especially unstable, the Surge was a frightening sight even from far off.

Clive had heard all sorts of odd stories about that. Plenty of monsters and beastmen fleeing the east. Especially ramblings about white haired sirens drowning innocent passersbys. All nonsense, according to Vel. Yet Darun insisted on talking up such tales, given their storyteller was in no mood to contribute.

“But that doesn’t mean we can go too far west either.” She exposited, earning stiff looks from the rest. Some might have preferred Glaiven tunnels to what Vel was bringing up.

“What’s too far west?”

“The Hollow Grounds.” Darun warned distantly. “And for your sake, your lordship, you better hope we don’t overstay our welcome.” He minded that melting snow under Clive’s feet as well as the droplets quickly freezing to his beard.

With the storm dying down, Torgal was busy playing in the fresh snow when he got caught on something. Amidst that distant growling Darun nearly pulled his axe. But the dog hadn’t come upon monsters, but a man’s hand caught upright in the fresh snow. It belonged to a body sized pile.

Clive remembered the cancerous lumps in Iskald.

Within minutes of their excavation, the group realized they were fresh… littered with bite marks and other wounds.

“Maybe they’re dead akashic?” Vel wondered, her hope was promptly shunted.

“When Hollows die, nothing’s left behind.” Darun contributed as an expert, “And when Hollows kill, they take nothing.” He quickly pointed out that a few bodies had been struck by arrows but the bolts were missing. The bodies were picked clean, fragments of armor stolen.

Akashic might have been able to use bows and spears, but it wasn’t their way to recycle.

There were five bodies, the make of their sullen armor was similar to the dead men from Iskald. Even the ruined fur cloaks, which Clive recognized.

Imperial troops.

“These were General Carrion’s men.” Clive earned a glance from Darun. “Like the ones that crossed through Manus and then fled back where they came.”

Perhaps the very same ones he saw in Eastpool.

“Mother’s Chill…” That fox mask seemed rattled by that news. “So then the question is… were these imps scouts or stragglers?”

Were they behind or ahead?

Smelling blackened chocobo feathers, Torgal found a trail into the mountains baring north… perturbing his friends. No doubt there’d be more imperials and whatever killed them in that direction. Meaning that was the last place they wanted to go, as Darun put it. This might have been a rescue mission and they a band of monster hunters, but suicide was very frowned upon by most places in the north.

Clive begrudgingly had to agree.

Far from the others, Fenna had come upon a sixth body. He was the least covered by the drifts, face down with frostbitten fingers clutching bloody snow. Nothing was taken from him… he was left behind.

Fenna struggled to roll him over until Clive knelt beside to aid. Despite being obstinate, she held her tongue, almost biting it the moment she saw the man’s front. A frigid dagger was imbedded into his heart, imperial issue. Even in death his other hand kept it secure in place.

Clive didn’t dare take it.

“He took his own life… but why?” His tongue’s wagging stopped as they saw the man’s frozen face. His dead eyes were bloodshot and wide, mouth ajar in a throe of pain. From his jawline was a cold line of blood, linked to a slim wound hanging upon a tattoo of black ink everyone in the twins knew. Borne from a wyvern tail.

He was an imperial bearer with a cut brand. Hence why his enemies left him here to die.

“Founder…” Clive whispered as that cold wind picked up again. “He chose to die by his own hand, rather than…than…” He struggled to say it, that wound upon his face tremoring in recollection.

Clive knew that pain all too well. That slow boiling pain.

“Rather than wait for the poison to eventually end his suffering.” As Fenna said that, Clive noticed that grim tattoo hiding under her hood. The very same one.

It tremored just like Clive’s scar. 

“He had a chance for freedom in these deadlands, to not succumb to the curse, to have a different fate than his masters gave him.” Her hands lowered to her skirts, hardening into pale steel balls. “But instead, his death was meaningless, for nothing. Just like all the others.”

The man embraced his divine punishment as yet another thief who stole power from the heavens. A choice the heavens had already prepared for him, no sin needing to be performed. In a lifetime of branded servitude, at least Greagor in her grace gave him the will to choose his ending.

If the goddess hadn’t, he’d probably still be here. Suffering pointlessly.

“F-Fenna?” Despite their grudge, Clive broke character out of concern. For a moment he spied those walls dropping, the façade lessening. But even with trembling hands Fenna refused his sentiment. Perhaps she thought if she stayed there, she’d never get up again. Especially as the others came, gawking.

Probably feeling sorry for her like Clive Rosfield did. Whilst clinging to that ribbon.

“We need to keep moving.” She decided, standing from the dead bearer’s side with a haphazard gait. “Take what you can from him.” Vel approached gently, to try and console her. Fenna moved straight past.

They’d have to go further west, she decided, cover their tracks. Darun quietly agreed.

They couldn’t remain for long, if not the Imperials and/or their killers were bound to return. The Frontier had a taste for southerners and bearers and everything in between in equal measures.

Jill followed Benedikta Harman like a nervous duckling in the cold dark. It wasn’t a straight line: Benna’s concussed gait would need more mending. She strove to hide it, standing as rigidly as possible, hand resting at her stowed sword in her very Benna-way.

It was eerie, walking closer to that sickly pall of blue baring down on the dead forest. There were five riders in total, sitting atop grim armored chocobos. Armed to the teeth, some with bows, others with lances. The lanterns they held gleamed a sickly cerulean light, forming long shadows below them. Shadows that Jill and her sister would occupy… hence why Jill was made to carry their own light.

She could smell the aether burning in the air.

The black owl took to the sky amidst their approach, gulped into the overhead blizzard. Its shadowy callers remained, watching Jill take another step when Benna stopped her at an invisible line. No further. In response, one of the strangers dismounted, the one that had released the stolas. He carried no torch of blue light. The wolves would have neared the royalists, but he raised a closed fist, whispering sharp filtered words. They halted, far faster than Torgal would.

He seemed spryer than the others, shorter, but wore thick furs and padding over-and-under blackened armor. Old ruinous plate-mail that had gone through centuries of semblances. Jill knew most instruments of war were familial keepsakes of great value in the north (and most places), hence her confusion of how mismatched these armor pieces were, order was disrupted, ignored and tossed to the winds. They all had a haphazard sigil painted on their dull metal chassis: a dark teal diamond bisected into splintered diagonal halves, offset.

Jill stopped herself from tracing it into her palm.

Their faces were masked like the Jaeger, but she saw nothing resembling Vel’s kin. Just old knightly helms crudely attached to filtered muzzles. Jill thought she could hear this stranger’s breath, filtered through that queer mechanism.

The stranger finally stopped, standing five feet behind Benedikta’s invisible line. He was at ease, not even resting a hand near the weathered old rapier hanging at his waist (that easily drew much of Jill’s attention in the blue light).

His perceived indifference vexed Benna, so of course she spoke first. “I suppose Javik couldn’t make it?” Her head bent, almost playfully, certainly painful.

“There’s been a semblance that’s divided his attention.” His young northern voice was filtered, far more distorted than Vel’s friends. “Lord Javik offers his sincerest apologies, Lady Harman, but he’s had to recall those mounts and supplies. Your company will have to complete the journey on foot.”

Lacking a mask to do so from behind, Benedikta Harman resisted the urge to roll her tired eyes. At least the darkness did well to hide her hurts.

“Your band rode down here in a damn blizzard to tell me that?” She questioned him, perturbed. There was no response as Benna cocked her golden head. “If it’s really a matter of resources that ails you, why not just send that fancy bird? Or tie a note to one of your wolves?”

There was no immediate answer as she stepped closer.

“There were also some rowdy beast-men stalking the Glaives that hadn’t been there before. Did you thralls get any hint of that whilst you were redirecting our provisions?” She insisted on being flummoxed. “Because onyx or not, a stolas might have been a thoughtful curtesy.”

The masked stranger remained composed, not reacting one bit to Benna’s spite. He glanced out, towards Gerulf and his men standing on edge. He sniffed the air, as if able to discern something from it.

“We’ve lost a hound. Likewise, there’s less of you now.” He casually noticed. “The Mother’s Chill takes its toll on all, my lady. Man and beast pay that tithing alike. Despite lacking humility, I’m sure your ashen king would agree.” Benna squinted in that mark against her pride. “But you musn’t worry. The wilds will provide… If they haven’t already.”

He took a step over that invisible line to look upon Benna’s associate. A girl that seemed far more interesting than a couple dead royalists and Garuda’s wounded pride.

“Is that her? Your king’s misplaced property?” The wind kicked up just a little, Jill’s silver flame-lit hair swayed with it. In being called property she tensed up, her arm grasping her wounded appendage, feeling that cuff. “She’s damaged.” The light at the end of her bandaged arm convulsed in agreement.

Benna drew a step closer to Jill, in a manner one would imagine to be protective. An act Jill had done for her brother many times. Benna’s was far shakier.

“Just a stray we found ‘midst the Glaives. Her name’s Jayne, or something… she doesn’t speak much.” Jill noticed a tightening to Benna’s voice, as if she was telling far more than just a few lies. “The savages and Imperials already pilfered what we came for, so bringing her along seemed better than going home empty handed. A bit of a prude, but her virtue will keep the boys entertained for the voyage home.”

Amidst that mishmash of crude fabrications, the stranger only stuck to one, the first. His chilling gaze refused to leave Jill’s face.

“Just a stray…” He repeated that line, stepping closer in the cold winter bluster. Jill’s wide-eyed stare intensified as the man’s helm came off, leaving behind a face mask that looked older than old. Like something hailing from the Fallen Age. Was that also where the torches came from?

Like Jill’s, his hair was silver, gleaming in the blue and orange lights, pulled back into a venomous braided tail. Dark sullen eyes gawked at her, dirty pale skin flickering in the lights. But the face mask remained especially eerie, swallowing his jaw and nose. In the light of those blue flames he looked inhuman. Like a revenant in those old horror stories. Far worse than any tonberry or beastman Jill had imagined as a child.

He had handsome youth, but she couldn’t assign an age. Jill was too busy cutting off circulation from her arm holding the lantern… especially after what he said next.

“She’s pretty. Far too pretty to be just a stray.” He spoke that complement with experience.

Jill bit her tongue from that attention, Benna instead took it in stride.

“You clan-less northerners have a queer idea of courting. I’ll never understand it.” She scrunched her face, needle-like fingers gently cleaving into Jill’s shoulder. “She’s under my banner, Kallus. A part of King Barnabas’s flock. You’d best keep your mitts where they are or Javik might get them back in a box. Along with whatever else aught remain of you.”

Jill saw a calculation in the stranger’s glare. Benna seemed to match him, her other yellow fingernails needling into the Gilded Talon’s pommel, playing with the idea of spilling it out, and this man’s dull red ink. Meanwhile her other sharp fingers had unintentionally drawn Jill’s dull red ink. The northerner didn’t give his rapier a thought, calmly relenting.

“No ill will was intended, to you or your king, your ladyship.” Kallus didn’t bow. “Stray or not, it’s just not every day you see Garuda’s Dominant sharing her fire and jewelry with such a lovely young—" his hidden tongue stalled in search of the right word “—maiden.” He stared up from the bandaged cuff, to find silver-dagger-shaped eyes aimed squarely at his silver head. He took it in stride. “If you lack for direction, we can leave someone behind to guide your way to the bay—”

“I’d rather not impose on your taxing schedule any further.” Benna answered curtly. “I remember the way. Even in the bleeding dark it’s practically a straight line.”

The raider and his companions chuckled falsely. Jill wondered how many more of them there were in truth, hiding amidst the dead forest. How many more wolves lingered still?

“Many say that… and days later we find those pilgrims dead on the path, clutching feckless crystals and worthless prayers. Say what you will about us, but the Mother’s Chill doesn’t discriminate.” He winked, replacing his helm atop his head. Approaching his steed, Kallus turned back a final time in the blue haze. “Take care… Jayne.”

The riders and their ghastly blue gleam vanished into the storm, yet Jill felt no ease whatsoever, even as dawn peaked through. She was far too accustomed to the shade. She continued to watch that languishing darkness, even when Benna finally let her go, her yellow finger nails turning an unintentional red.

“Mother’s Chill…” Jill repeated, massaging her shoulder. “What does that mean?”

It was unlike any northern custom Jill had ever heard. Benna wasn’t so bothered.

“This land was once blessed by the light of a Mothercrystal… but now she’s long gone, sunken into the Tears. So I suppose to these aether-starved northerners, nothing’s more chilling than a mother’s absence.” She almost agreed. Almost. “To them, I’m sure it’s like a scar that never fades.”

“…” Jill didn’t respond, she simply returned to camp, clinging closely to that light in her grasp.

It seemed dimmer the longer she resided in that shade.

The waloeders promptly tore down camp, returning to the road without so much as breakfast.

With no mounts, the journey to the Bay of Frost would be extended a few days longer. Their purse strings were being stretched thin already, and without the promised supplies there was easy worry that they wouldn’t even make it to the bay, Yet their lady was insistent that they make do.

Without the aid of alcohol (or food), the sister’s bond languished. No words were uttered ‘midst them since that morning. Nothing need be said that wasn’t obvious… or perhaps Jill was simply too nerve-wracked about such a confrontation, knowing the answers Benna had tucked away. Instead, she just focused on foraging… poorly.

At best, a knight named Luken found a buried bag of old walnuts. At worse, Jill found the end of a ruined bottle peeking out of the ground. With each disappointment, that wolf stew started looking better and better. As did that black stolas, ill omens be damned…

“Javik wishes to starve us out,” Benedikta whispered to Gerulf amidst their trek, well out of earshot. “Make us pliable. Agreeable. Maybe see if we’ll eat each other.” There were old horror stories about cannibal northerners, suggesting they became the first tonberries.

“But why now, milady?” His unkempt beard creased in the snowfall. “They’re the king’s allies. Our allies.”

“Our king knows same as we do what they are. And Odin isn’t here to put them in line, nor is Garuda.” She scowled as the wind blew past, wondering if this was the test their liege had prepared for her. “I can hardly feel her in this blight.”

“The soil at the bay isn’t dead, perhaps if you simply get there—”

Grasping her wounded head, Benna nearly tripped on a ruined tree root. Gerulf ceased scheming immediately to catch his mistress. Slighting his assistance, Benedikta pushed off of him to keep going in her own power.

She didn’t need her damn Eikon to fucking walk. Nor Gerulf.

“If we are to see this through, I fear we may have to depend on someone else.” Benedikta eventually said, glancing back, towards a starving silver haired maiden helping with the foraging efforts. She found the other end of a broken bottle, making a complete broken bottle.

The girl shared a glance with a distant Benna and immediately turned away.

“Milady,” Gerulf whispered with uncertainty. “With our timetable, that may be a tad bit too… ambitious.” He warned, not that his mistress would surrender any ground in a debate. When faced with reason, the woman’s will was a brick wall.

Benedikta Harman wasn’t one to surrender easily. Some would suggest that was her best quality.

“It’s said Greagor rewards ambition, but she's ashes. Meanwhile the northerners of old revered the Frostmaiden… so for her sake, I hope she’s far more ambitious than a false god who died.”

All it’d require was the right kind of motivation.

Despite being one of them now, Jill felt… at odds. It was ever confusing, especially as she was given more leeway to stray and forage. With that cuff on her arm, she felt like a child playing in a frigid sandbox, her parents watching from far off, if they even were watching. Making Luken something like a babysitter.

He was one of the men who leered at Jill in the cave. He brought her supper the next night. Perhaps he fancied her, thinking with enough effort, he’d be noticed.

He was actually younger than Jill, she realized. But he was slow, sluggish… held her back with his noisy armor. They were busy studying calcified berries hanging from a dead tree when a snowy thump sounded off in the distance. Then Jill saw it, a far-off silhouette in the snowfall, a four-legged creature with a long neck. It seemed small, but it had horns.

Not another wolf, thank goodness.

“Is that an antelope?” Luken murmured, his cold joints chafing in that sight. “I think it’s wounded.” At his mention, Jill thought she saw a redness to it.

The creature immediately took off into the frost.

Without a second thought, Jill approached Luken in a way someone would imagine to be untoward. He was flummoxed, thinking this an encounter when Jill drew his short sword and ran after the beast.

“Lady Warrick—”

“I’ll give chase, see you soon!” She spoke, somehow with authority. Swords had that kind of power. Too bad it wasn’t gilded like Benna’s.

Jill sprinted after the silhouette, lighter on her feet with nothing in her belly. That hangover was a distant memory as she came upon the creature’s trail, hoof-prints lined with bloody flakes. But it wasn’t profuse, this thing had been on the run for a while. And as far as Jill was concerned, she could run forever.

But the creature couldn’t… in fact, she could see it tiring, losing speed. It prepared to leap, until collapsing face forward, vanishing from view. Jill practically tripped slowing down, realizing the creature had fallen into a six foot deep ditch of ruined blighted soil.

The creature wasn’t moving.

Jill slid down that snow with Luken’s blade in hand. Her palms hurt less in that excitement, preparing for the creature to attack… but instead it just laid there, heaving in the sultry snow. At its thin belly was the remnants of a broken arrow, the fall tore it in place. It was imbedded with glass, no… crystals. Painful crystals.

Its brown eyes could only look forward, awaiting its end slowly. She realized how small it was, how young it must be. Too young to die.

“I’m sorry…” Jill whispered. Her shaking hands steadied as she dug Luken’s blade into its soft neck, to end its suffering. The beast coughed blood, agitated, in pain. Such a sight would have been too much for Jill only a few weeks ago. But now she was used to it, watching its breath exhale for the last time.

There was finally no more pain.

That peace didn’t last long. Jill wasn’t prepared to be met with its original hunter, or rather… hunters. Hooded strangers from the dead woods came upon her with bows outstretched. Without thinking, Jill drew Luken’s sword, only for a crystal-headed arrow to suddenly ding off the metal, practically forcing Jill into the ground. The sword dug back into the carcass’s neck, even deeper, gleaming like a bloody Excalibur.

Jill saw her terror in the red steel. She had gotten up quickly, confused when one of them finally spoke.

“That kill wasn’t yours to claim, thief.” It was a hooded woman with a thick accent befitting most northerners. Her face was obscured by the hood. “Nor what remains of it.” That bow shook in her hand, a feeling Jill knew very well from her own training.

Eying the released arrow imbedded in the ground; Jill saw the bolt’s chocobo-feathered fletching looked especially aged.

The woman was similar, nocking another, this time the dead crystal arrowhead was white.

“If those dark thralls sent your sorry arse after us… they’re gonna be real sorry.”

“No one sent me!” Jill raised her hands, panicking. “I didn’t know it was someone else’s.” One of the strangers was bound to loosen another arrow and suddenly her problems would multiply. “I’m very hungry, as are my friends.”

She quickly realized she shouldn’t have mentioned having friends, even if it was true.

“We’re all fuckin’ hungry!” The woman barked, that bow flexing with stressed by steady precision. When faced with that arrowhead, Jill’s hand absentmindedly reached for her cuff, as if trying to miraculously tear it away. To tear it away and… looking upon her frightened visage in the bloody sword, Jill spotted those yellow eyes, and then imagined these people frozen where they stood, to the bone.

Immediately she ceased, letting that fear go. It drained into the cold ground.

“You’re right, you’re right, I’m… I’m sorry.” Jill answered, taking a timid step away from the carcass. The woman’s glare lessened as Jill retreated to the back of the ditch. “You can have it, I didn’t mean anything. It’s just…” She looked down. “I didn’t want it suffering any longer.”

For a moment the stranger eyed Jill, mystified. She eventually raising a hand, whispering strange words Jill didn’t understand. Iskaldi, perhaps.

Some of her hooded associates slid down into the trench, to grab the animal by its hind legs. With their comrades bows still trailing Jill, the beast was pulled up and away. They didn’t even remove Luken’s blade. The party vanished into the cold wood, leaving behind a bloody trail that was soon enveloped in snow and ash.

All that remained was their leader. Mistrustful, but… curious. The hood fell away, revealing a pale dirty face, with long dark hair cascading down the side of it like a waterfall. She actually seemed somewhat young, Jill realized. Older than her by a handful of years.

“I didn’t mean to be so…” There was a litany of words that could easily describe her behavior, she decided to move on. “Thank you.” She sighed, keeping to manners. The white crystalline arrowhead stopped pointing at Jill. “If you wait, we can give back the blade… perhaps even share a little of the meat with you. As goodwill.”

Jill realized how much she’d like that.

“I… I’m Jill.” She answered, stepping closer. “Or J-Jayne, sometimes.” She stammered, hoping the woman would say more.

“Sometimes? Are you nameless?” The hardened hunter realized then that Jill didn’t understand the meaning of that title. Perhaps she had been hit on the head recently. “To hold multiple names, is… confounding. Better to have none rather than to splinter yourself. Cleaved in twain.” The woman sighed, as if trying not to immediately judge. Jill recalled something about that, how disobedient thralls forced into servitude of a thegn would be stripped of their old names like in the old Ice King story. Same for bearers who weren’t branded as infants.

The woman knelt down to draw her arrow from the ground, spying the cuff on Jill’s arm, seeing it glimmer. For whatever reason, she knew exactly what it was. “I can help you remove that”—

“It’s alright.” Jill panicked briefly. She un-casually hid the cuffed hand behind her back.

“It’s not my way to be so harsh like before, but… you look a lot like them.” She kept eying Jill’s, seeing nothing on her face besides soot.

“Them? Who is them?” Jill asked, suddenly realizing this was a northerner in the west, someone who could answer the questions Benna wouldn’t.

“The only silverheads who remain hail from the betrayer clans… The traitors who cracked the Uniter’s Diamond.” Jill rumbled at an odd memory, as if she heard that phrase before. “The Northern Frontier.”

Jill slowly realized this person must have been on the run from them. Just how many were running?

“I-I’m not with them.” She panicked, again. “I’m not from any clan.” Jill admitted. “My clan’s long gone.”

Her gaze weakened, earning a smidgen of pity from the stranger. Somehow, she didn’t distrust Jill’s failure to belong. The north was a place full of outcasts, after all.

“A silver-headed stray, and a pup at that… The Mother’s Chill is cruel indeed.”

“Mother’s Chill?” Jill whispered, disturbed by that phrase. She felt that cuff again.

“We’re heading east, away from… well you know.” She sighed. “You could come with us, if you’d like—”

The brush rustled from behind, stealing away her attention. That nocked arrow re-tightened and was loosed. It was met with a wide gust tinged with green aether, cleaving through the arrow and the surroundings. With that blast of frost, Jill fell back into the pit, practically buried in snow, ash and dead antelope blood.

Within moments Jill dug herself free to see Garuda’s Dominant standing over the hill with a sword in hand, looking down on her and nobody else.

The woman was gone, leaving behind footprints the snow easily refilled and a broken arrow. The crystal arrowhead was shattered into pieces.

Cleaved in twain.

Gerulf, Luken and the rest arrived within moments, but there was nothing to pursue. The winter storm raged even harder. Not that it would stop their fearless leader from nursing a grudge.

Benna didn’t like thieves who steal her dinner.

“They didn’t hurt me.”

“Because they hadn’t the chance to.” Benedikta’s grasp of that sword gleamed with natural menace. “Nor shall they.” She promised, preparing to send her men after the thieves.

Yet Jill insisted on keeping them here.

“Those people are scared and starving. Like we are.” Jill stood straighter. “We should leave them be.” She implored, clinging to a decency that had left this land long ago. “You know how this goes… we can’t afford to fight them. P-please, Benna.”

Jill could stand starving, just so long as she wasn’t profiting off of the misery of others… nor killing others. And she refused to believe her sister was any different. They eyed each other for the first time in hours, Jill solidifying despite holding no weapon. Eventually the Gilded Talon lowered and was stowed. She swiftly pushed Luken into the ditch for losing his sword.

With that tension averted, Gerulf suggested they’d be better off looking for adequate game on the way to their next campsite. An antelope wandering deadlands was sign of their luck turning. Jill would have to stay with the group, no more walkabouts. She’d be back under Benedikta’s resilient thumb for the rest of the day. The Gilded Talon was off-limits.

As the others hurried on ahead to keep foraging, Jill hadn’t moved on yet, picking up the pieces of the broken arrow, those broken crystals. As heartened as she was to not hurt anyone else… she couldn’t help but be disappointed knowing how much eluded her still.

“You should be more careful.” Benna mused as Jill was lining up the pieces. “One day that soft heart of yours shall be your undoing, little sister.” She started walking off.

A cold chill passed through as Jill took those pieces with her, following in lockstep. The storm followed even closer.

At nightfall, camp was re-assembled, this time amidst a dead wood along the trail. Those ruined trees made for odd company, but at least they burned easily. Spent aether had a way with cleaving moisture from the wood. Making it burn quite nicely despite the snowfall.

Jill was handed a bowl of walnut stew, given how weary Luken was around her, she couldn’t bring herself to refuse him. The taste wasn’t very good, nor even filling, but Jill had no right to complain. The others had taken to calling Jill the “Lady of the Hunt,” but she could tell it was razzing as they would treat each other for mistakes. While it did sting, at least their jeering wasn’t as bitter and distant as before. It felt almost… brotherly?

Thankfully, Jill wasn’t the biggest problem on their minds.

Mom and Dad were too busy arguing off behind a dead tree at camp’s edge. No doubt trying to detangle a strategy with what happened that morning. But Jill kept to the fire amidst their discussion, far preferring it to the cold dim. It didn’t warm her, but the light was necessary. Armed with those arrow pieces, Jill had taken to tracing into the soot, drawing that symbol again, choosing to focus on that rather than her hunger.

Reconstructing that bisected diamond, Jill dwelled on it for several minutes before eying the pieces of the arrow, re-aligning them… Swiftly she had a moment of inspiration. Jill drew more random lines and breakings in the symbol like the broken arrowhead and heaved the dust of one end until the diamond was recompleted, like the arrow.

It was countless splintered gems unified into a whole. A shining beacon of northern unity. The mark those men wore seemed a mockery of that ideal. Unlike Benna’s perceived disinterest.

Jill hadn’t even realized she was present. After their taxing discussion, Gerulf and the rest were ordered to rest while Benna would keep watch… with Jill once more.

“I haven’t seen that crest in a long time. Not even at the capital.” Benna mused at Jill’s mural, in one of her moods. “I ‘spose they did all they could to destroy it. Burn away everything about the man. Even his memory.”

Jill continued eying the symbol. Her dead father’s symbol. The cracked diamond.

“Those men from this morning… they were Northern Frontier, weren’t they?” Jill’s voice sounded so precious and pristine, like the times she had to be on her upmost behavior amidst the Duchess’s souring whims. Those times it was meant to cover her misery, now it was covering her anger. Not Shiva’s, the cuff ensured that what she felt was pure. “How many of them are there?”

Benna took a frustrated sip from that wineskin, now mixed with dusty water.

“Far more than we have.” she answered with indifference. “Far more stolases too, and arrows, were we to have any to send.”

Jill scowled.

“So that meeting was a threat, to keep Garuda in line.” Her associate flinched a little at those last two words, while Jill stood from the flames. “Because you hadn’t told them you were looking for Shiva’s Dominant. And now they know you found her.”

Benna didn’t respond, still suckling her favorite skin of piss-flavored ale. Eventually she just grumbled and poured it out onto the cold ground, preferring the dead have it rather than anyone still breathing. Yet those silvery eyes were still on her, glaring with specks of flame-tinged yellow.

“Benna…” Jill hissed.

“I realize you disapprove. We needn’t have this discussion, sister—”

“You’ve no right to call me that.” Jill spat, voice cracking. “They betrayed my father, they murdered my mother. Disapproval doesn’t even fucking begin to describe what I’m feeling.” Her breath snarled, that coldness replaced with something else she struggled to understand, it festered like her wounded hands. “If we’re family, how can these turncloaks be your allies?”

“Those turncloaks are nothing of the sort.” Benna scowled, as if her nonexistent honor was being besmirched. “They’re false-thralls, oath-breakers who stabbed their thegn in the back. Their loyalty is fickle and fleeting as ash, even more so. King Barnabas knows an alliance with Javik is only a means to an end.”

“And what is that end?”

“Finding Shiva.” Benna answered briskly, as if it was obvious. “Aught else matters.”

“Aught else?”

Benna looked down.

“Uniting the Dominants and joining the Mothercrystals under our banner: that is Waloed’s purpose. That is my King’s purpose. And that is my purpose.” She spoke brazenly. “In our position, we can’t afford personal whims getting in the way of what needs to be done for the good of the realm.”

Jill stewed in that, Benna chocking up her grief as personal whims. Especially with how self-serving her rhetoric was. It reminded Jill of her own father, who killed Shiva’s Dominant and united the north all so he could abandon his daughter for the good of their people. All that supposed good earned him a dagger in the back and his wife’s throat slit.

Or maybe Geir’s throat was cut and Eisa was stabbed. Like Benna said, marred in compromise.

“So that’s how you justify it? This is all for the greater good? You used them, so now you get to use me?” She found that blemished star in her hand and swiftly closed it.

Benna grasped her fist.

“I used them so they can’t use you.” Benna squeezed it, golden eyes brimming with sparks. “You’re not the first dominant to disagree with how our King commands us. But believe me, the alternative patron is far worse.” Jill’s silver gaze lowered. “You fear being used, but it’s only under Waloed that you’ll know anything resembling actual choice. Had the Frontier or their rivals found you first? They’d use your Eikon to wage war on their neighbors, to steal a Mothercrystal and murder innocents. Nations have been founded on far less. They killed your family for far less.”

Her other hand grasped the ashes in Jill’s mural. The breeze carried them off, flowing betwixt Jill’s quivering form. Her fingers dug into her palms hard enough that she feared re-opening her wounds. She spurred Benna’s touch, lowering back to the ground.

Remembering her family was dead…

“Who is Javik?” Jill finally asked. “Tell me… I’ve a right to know.”

“I thought you’d already know who he was.” Benna sighed. “They say he was Silvermane’s most loyal thrall… and he slew him all the same, burning his keep to the ground and taking his shattered crown.” Jill nearly drew blood biting her tongue in reaction to that rhyme. “He’s graciously waiting for us at the Bay of Frost with our vessel and our crew.”

And Jill could easily assume their price for the waloeders’ freedom.

“Does he know who I am? Besides the Ice Dominant?”

Benedikta struggled to find a satisfying answer. Ultimately, she settled with: “I don’t know.”

Despite not knowing his name, there was no doubt in Jill’s mind that she must have crossed paths with this Javik or a member of his inner circle amidst her childhood… making this far more dangerous than simply hunting an Eikon. These were people with a personal vendetta against Clan Warrick and what they stood for. That vendetta far outclassed anything Barnabas Tharmr could offer them, especially against the power of their own Eikon, their homeland’s Eikon. And now two were within their loose grasp.

The freedom they had been afforded was a mere curtesy.

“But what I do know, is that Javik has clearly outlived his usefulness to our cause. Kallus as well.”

Jill shuddered at Benna’s un-overt suggestion, turning away from her.

“You mean to combat them, in deadlands? Why? We should just run. Flee back east. You have wings, we can—”

“Fly into Imperial’s clutches?” Benna spoke, all-knowing. “I suppose you could run back south, if you’re finally ready for that reunion with Elwin Rosfield and his spawn. See if your long-gone wedding is still in the cards.” Jill’s mood continued its downturn as Benna mocked her. “I actually heard Prince Dion is there with his royal dragoons. Perhaps you’d like to try your hand facing Bahamut’s incessant light ‘midst your iron-cladded nuptials?”

Benna gave her no time to process that information, standing ambivalently.

“And were we to run, you know Javik’s men will follow. They’re trailing us as we speak. None take to deadlands like they do. There’s a reason those goblins and all else were fleeing on blight stained mountains in a fucking blizzard.” Jill’s gaze weakened. “The Frontier hasn’t any need for crystals nor aether, Neither magic or even loyalty. They just need an enemy, something to hate. Like how they hated your father.”

If Silvermane couldn’t overcome such a thing, what hope did Jill have?

“Then it’s hopeless.” Benna could surely find some way to escape, but herself? The others?

Perhaps this was the endgame she had been waiting for all along.

“Perhaps. But then I’ve also never seen a Dominant prime in deadlands before. Not ‘til I found you.” Benna knelt down, getting in Jill’s dirty face. “That kind of hate… is special.”

Jill finally realized Benna’s intent for this conversation. She wanted to release the monster.

“No… no, no, I couldn’t.” She quaked. “I can’t control her—” she swallowed, “—It.”

Even if Jill wished it, Benna’s suggestion was a non-starter. Jill’s refusal was far more vexing for the wind dominant.

“Why are you and Shiva here if not for this, Jill? You came north to find your mother. Well, these are the animals that took her away from you.” Jill’s wounded hands rumbled, holding that cuff. “You finally have a chance to right this wrong, to put Lady Eisa and Silvermane to rest and allow that wound in you to finally mend. You can finally avenge them. Avenge what was taken from you.”

What Benna was discussing was a huge jump from killing a wolf or antelope. Killing a man, a person? More than one? What was the limit?

“But what you speak of...” Jill rumbled, faced with a fear that lied at her stomach’s pit. “I’m not a monster.” For that, she was grateful for the cuff, to be limited in such a way. It kept her from hurting anyone else. It kept the monster in check.

Yet not even that was true. In only limited her in magnitudes.

“Nor am I.” Benna’s eyes gleamed ochre. “But these are monstrous men, Jill… monsters who have done far worse than you or I. They deserve no better than such a creature.” And Jill could tell she truly believed that.

“My mother wouldn’t want that.” Jill reasoned. More bloodshed wouldn’t fix anything.

“Aye, and I suppose she wouldn’t want to be dead either. Nor to abandon her only child to the whims of the Rosfields and her killers, starving in her homeland.” She spat, and Jill didn’t know how to answer. Benedikta refused to give her that time. “If you give them what they want, like the countless Shivas before you… you’ll never be free of your binds, and your family’s sacrifice will be as worthless as you are. A wound you learn nothing from. A festering scar that serves no purpose beyond enslaving you.”

In Benna’s eyes that was the greatest betrayal, a refusal to learn.

“If you truly loved her, you would understand that.”

Jill faced the flames in silence, trying to be angry, furious, or icy… all she felt was nothing. Not even that sorrow. Perhaps that was what she truly felt for her parents now. Not even sorrow, even for herself. There were no tears to offer the flames. They were all spent. All she felt was tired.

Benna rose quietly, watching Jill watch the fire. Despondent. Perhaps she pushed too hard.

“Forgive me… that was needlessly cruel.” The fire crackled, absorbing her words and Jill’s focus. Benedikta stood there for minutes on end as Jill continued to stare, unsure of what else to say. Ultimately, Benna decided to give up for the night, preparing to take her leave. A quiet voice stopped her.

“Did you avenge yours?” Benna double-taked as Jill watched the flames, gold and silver intertwining in her gaze. “When your mother died… was she avenged?”

Benedikta stood for the longest time, staring past Jill into the dark forest, seeing nothing.

“No. she wasn’t.” The crackle of the flames absorbed her words. “That would require there being something to avenge.” Jill’s gaze found hers. “She abandoned me.”

“I thought you said she was taken—”

“I was the one who was taken. By her allowance.” She confessed. “Every night I slept, I stayed up, thinking about what I would do to her if given the chance. By the time Garuda was awake it had been years and years, and she was long dead… decomposing in a blighted ditch somewhere.” Her mind seemed to flicker in that memory. “I don’t even remember her name.” Someone said that was how she could find her revenge, by leaving that memory behind as Benna was left behind. Poetic irony was always so important to Cid…

Jill accepted that bout of honesty, swallowing as Benna spited that lonely darkness. That feeling seemed almost universal, between them it wasn’t even an order of magnitudes. Every inch of horrid truth seemed to pull Jill further and further into Benedikta’s orbit.

“I hated my mother too.” Jill admitted. “Not Eisa… Anabella, I mean. My real mother.” She fumed.

“The Duchess?” Benna cocked an eyebrow.

“She raised me in my mother’s stead, brought me up in her household and despised me all throughout my childhood. Just for being an ashen mongrel breathing the same air she breathed. I hated her so much.” In that moment, Jill realized she felt more for Anabella Rosfield than she did for Eisa Warrick or her father. Hate was far more was more than nothing.

“Maybe even more than I ever loved Clive.”

Even the flames seemed to react to that betrayal she uttered. She struggled to know whether it was a lie or not.

“That’s how Shiva woke up. Because that woman betrayed us, and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I wanted so badly to make her suffer like I did. Me and Shiva both. but my little brother stopped me.” Her eyes lowered, eying that bleeding star in her hand. “I despise myself for thinking otherwise, but sometimes I wish he hadn’t.”

If Jill had killed Anabella Rosfield, maybe she’d at least be content. If only Joshua understood that.

“You tell me hate is special… no one knows that better than I do.” Jill whispered as the flames smoldered and died out. That star in her hand had turned black with the night. She thought of her brother, how that feeling inside her made Jill hate Joshua, even Clive. All because of what that woman had left inside of her. “Hate is why I’m here.”

It was never about finding her family… because she had already left her true mother behind. Those wounds on her hands were just as much Anabella’s brand as they were Joshua’s. Even more so. She came here to die, where none could watch her falter ever again.

Yet Benna wasn’t repulsed, looking upon this sorry sordid creature.

“That’s why you can’t go back. Because you aren’t Just-Jill. You and the monster are one in the same, and she hates herself just as much. As all monsters like us do.” Benna realized, while Jill continued tracing her palm.

“Like us?” She murmured.

“There’s no shame in feeling such a way. I promise you. That’s the issue with power, wielding it properly can drive one mad. But to earn your ire, the Duchess must have been quite the monster herself.” Benna heaved, taking Jill’s cold hand into her own, feeling that mark. Those sparks were alight once again. “Being born such a creature is a frightening thing… but you know what my people call a monster that slays other monsters, Jill?”

Jill didn’t know.

“An angel…” As Jill stared into that word, Benna almost smiled. “Some even have wings.”

A chill ran through Jill’s back as Benedikta finally let her go, suggesting they’d speak on this again. There were still some days between them and the Bay. The decision could wait.

“Good night, sis… Jill.” She whispered, and Jill was left alone with the embers, looking upon the jagged star in her hand. She couldn’t bring herself to close it.

“Good night, sister.” She whispered.

Despite morning coming, the clouds above were especially dark. Yet Jill had no need for a lantern.

The walnut porridge that awaited the royalists was meager. Jill tried to forgo her share but Gerulf was adamant that she eat. Ultimately it was only Benna and Gerulf who didn’t partake… not that the porridge Gerulf slaved over was anything to write home about.

There was nothing to hunt and gather in the forest… if one could even call it that. To Jill it was much like the Crestwood, spindled trees with no leaves stretching along the mountains.  Endlessly dismal, especially as they faded into blight stained farmland.

“I hardly remember them, but my mother used to tell stories about old spirits in these forests.” She remarked beside Gerulf on the trail. “Fey and Magi creatures of the otherworld, like fairies and dryads and moogles.” All childish nonsense. As real as Mysidia.

“Did Lady Eisa ever witness such wonders?”

“’Course not… blight and decay had spread too far by the time she was my age. I’m sure she’s never been this far west anyways.” Jill sighed, recalling Eisa’s sickly constitution. “If they had been real then I guess they’d all gone and died. Like the rest of the north.”

“Not ‘ll of it, my lady.” Gerulf remarked. “Caldsan still has some untapped living soil.” Not that their stewards did anything with it.

“The Bay, you mean?” Jill asked, only rarely seeing that name on maps. The Bay of Frost was a far more mythical title, befitting that of legends. Caldsan was a far more boring title that literally meant “Cold Sands” in the Iskaldi’s dead tongue.

Her old governess said it was a place expressly for courting death. Only the greatest of Silvermane’s idiot thralls went there. Mean-Miss-Mara would be quite impressed, Jill realized. On her way westward to court death.

Hopefully her own.

“My father said it was a wild place, untamable like the tides of Leviathan.” She heard the monsters were especially horrid.

“It was until Javik tamed it. And with no magicks for that matter.” Gerulf explained, noticing Jill squirming about that name. It was enough that she ignored her grumbling stomach. “When working together, it seems northerners can accomplish anything… as long as it means keeping out other northerners.”

Jill nodded at that, thinking of the Jaeger.

“Anyone is capable of anything with the right enemy… or the right victim.” She sighed. “What’s the Bay like, besides cold?” Jill had heard something about the nighttime skies there being incredible, true magic without the sting of aether.

“It’s as stunning as it is dangerous. An otherworld itself, in some ways.”

Gerulf would have gone into more detail had the group not seized up. Benna and the rest slowed at the nearby sight of a signpost at the road’s fork. Atop the ruined sign was a perched bird: a black owl with a sickly teal gem affixed to its forehead.

In that brief bout of anxiety brought on by the black stolas, the group discovered blood-stained old snow, leaking to the side where they found unfinished lumps in the field, snow struggling to hide bodies.

Fresh bodies. Maybe a few hours old.

There were seven of them altogether. Jill recognized them from their weathered old clothing, the people she had encountered in the storm. All face down and covered in bloodied ash. These ones were done in by spears and arrows… and hounds. Dead wolves accompanied them, pierced with crystal arrowheads. Another body was crushed, as if under a giant talon, accompanied by black chocobo feathers.

One man even had a sword imbedded in his back, Luken’s sword, Jill realized.

“Founder…” Jill hands rose to her face before the completed massacre, knowing immediately who did it. “They killed all these people. Why?”

What had they done wrong? What could anyone do wrong to deserve this?

“Javik’s followers are wiry, and like good exercise.” Benna scowled. “These folks must have gotten turned around in the storm and ended up here, where Kallus and his wolves were already waiting on us.” She watched as Benedikta plucked Luken’s sword from one of the bodies, pressing it roughly into its owner’s chest sheepish, thankfully not piercing him. “Clean it, and see that it’s not so easy to lose next time.” His mistress growled.

“Their supplies weren’t taken!” Another called out, discovering packed away food, tinder, even some old weapons and crystals. While the royalists began scavenging the bodies for resources. They had fresh meat on them, from the antelope.

Benna abstained. Sickened, only looking upon that owl looking down on them.

“Kallus said the wilds would provide, and so they have. That twisted little fuck.”

Benna would throw up her breakfast if she had any. Jill already had, not that it made her feel any better.

As the others pilfered the bodies, Jill thought she heard something, a gasp. Someone whispering “Stop!” It didn’t come from the bodies but down the road at the other side of the signpost, under the owl’s gaze. Below it was a cold figure, heaving in the frost.

It was a woman with dark hair, it came down her face like a waterfall. Jill recognized her as the stranger from yesterday. She had collapsed at the sign, trying to grab for something. Gerulf tried to halt Jill, but she wriggled around him. He would have followed but his cautious mistress kept him planted.

She was still alive, thank goodness! Thank Metia and the Founder and the Frostmaiden and whatever else was watching.

“You, it’s… it’s you!” Jill stared. The woman had dropped her bow in the snow and her quiver ran empty, those crystal tipped arrows had spilled from the signpost. The woman was bent down, trying to reach them when Jill knelt beside her, to prop her against the post, finding blood but couldn’t discern where it came from. That didn’t matter. As long as they could help her, she could tell them everything, and—

“Jayne?” The woman murmured tensely. She nearly fell to the side but Jill caught her again. Her body was shaking to the core. Was it hypothermia? She still wore all her layers, and she had a fever. “Or was it… Ji-Ji—"

“What happened?” Jill asked, not the woman could respond, her brown eyes struggling as her body seemed to convulse. Jill’s hands caught her face, keeping her upright. She seemed faint.

“You-know-what-happened.” Her words slurred. “The same thing that happens to everyone.”

“W-we can help you. We have magic and potions and—”

“I don’t deserve such kindness.” The woman coughed painfully, on the third hack she accidentally spat blood onto Jill’s face. It was a struggle to find her wounds beyond nicks and scratches and bite marks. By then Jill’s right hand was wet with blood that wasn’t hers. It covered the cuff and bandage. Jill pulled back the woman’s long hair that covered her bloody cheek, to discover a familiar mark. It was a black tattoo Jill felt she hadn’t seen in what felt like years since leaving Rosaria.

This woman was a bearer, her brand was split open, bisected by a cut running along her jaw.

Slit with a rapier, perhaps.

“Oh… oh no.” Jill trembled. “Oh no-no-no.” In panic she looked back, trying to find an answer to this condition, but she already knew entirely what this sight meant. She had lived it before.

Jill’s hands were evidence of that. Hence why they couldn’t stop shaking in that recollection of despair.

“I almost got away… almost.” She heaved, unable to move on her own power, as that pain ruptured through her. “But they took a couple of our young…and those fucking dogs caught me trying to stop them. So they clipped my wings, made sure I couldn’t get far.”

“Your group had children? Are they also bearers?”

“…” The woman’s brow furrowed as she continued looking westward from the post, her mutilated brand stinging in recollection. “They called us thieves for hoarding them. Vile hypocrites.” She tried to grab for her bow, but it was too far off and she was too weak, faint.

“You don’t have to worry. Me and my friends, we’ll… we’ll find them.” Jill swore, not knowing if she could keep such a thing. “I promise. They’ll be safe.”

The woman tried to smile, but even that hurt.

“I knew I had a good feeling about you. Real glad I didn’t shoot you.” She looked away. “I thought I could resist the pain, make those last few hours matter. But really I was frightened. Afraid of letting go. But now…”

Now there was no point in being afraid anymore. It was luxury she could no longer afford. Nor would she have anyone waste valuable time fretting over her final hours.

 “I think I’m ready to go seek the Maiden, now.” She realized.

“The maiden?”

“Shiva… she travels the frost with her companion, Fenrir… guiding all her lost thralls to shelter.” She looked past Jill, to those bodies in the field, heartbroken. “So many of my friends have gone with her already. I bet they’re waiting for me. Worried as hell.”

And they weren’t just worried about her.

“Will you help me see them again?” She asked, amber eyes on Jill’s. Those silver eyes trembled, knowing what she was truly being asked.

This woman needed help to die.

For a moment, Jill considered looking back, to ask Benedikta or Gerulf or whoever to ease this woman’s suffering. It was an especially craven feeling, all while this woman struggled to be brave, facing her end. So Jill would also be brave, as she was taught to be.

If she was Shiva… than this was her purpose in this moment. Her duty.

“I will.”

Moments later, Jill had returned. Luken was gracious, having cleaned his sword enough to hand it over, even the scabbard. The woman didn’t have it in her to comment on the irony of stealing the sword in the first place. She simply extended her neck, waiting for it to come.

Waiting for the end, yet Jill wasn’t quite ready.

“What’s your name?” Jill finally asked, wishing she had learned it earlier. The suffering woman paused, tears brimming for a reason she couldn’t articulate.

“Cora. They named me Cora.” She cried, even as Jill struggled to do the same. Instead she took the woman’s hand in hers. It shook as the other hand rose, bringing the end of the blade to the woman’s throat. It easily drew blood, mixing with her tears.

“I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright, I can hardly feel it. Your sorrows will pass. Just let me go—"

Her throat opened in a quiet stroke. The woman didn’t react, simply staying in place as her breathing slowed. Jill held her near, watching Cora close her eyes. Her face turned almost… serene. The shaking ended and she was lowered to the ground, released from her burden.

That brand could no longer hurt her.

“May the Frostmaiden hold you in her embrace forevermore, Cora.” She whispered in the dead woman’s ear. Jill’s face was sullen with the dead woman’s blood and tears, but she couldn’t think on that.

Not now.

“What a waste.” Someone said. Benna, Jill realized. The others had finished up, coming nearer but pausing behind an invisible line, watching as Jill laid the branded woman down, yet nothing more was said. The silver-haired girl quaked, her grasp of the bloodied sword tightening more and more.

Something was building as she glared at the black stolas watching from on high.

“Leave.” She ordered. Uncharacteristically fearful, the bird took wing before Jill could wring its tiny neck. It vanished into the storm, flying west: to Caldsan and its masters. Those were the ones who killed Jill’s family, these people and every other northerner who dared to remain in their homeland.

Jill would follow that bird, she decided.

She picked up Cora’s bow, slinging that quiver around her bloody shoulders. Gerulf didn’t have it in him to take it from her, nor any of the others. As far as they were concerned, Luken’s blade belonged to her now. Benna caught that same bloody shoulder, but Jill didn’t falter, refusing to be denied what was inside her. She was done denying it herself.

Despite the cuff, that chill was overtaking her.

“Jill—"

“I’ll do it, Benna.” She swore with that golden hate in her eyes. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all.”

Benedikta steadied, holding Jill in place as she considered what she saw. The blood marring Jill’s face and hand began to freeze, the storm surrounding them intensified. That hand lowered, grasping Jill’s frigid arm in agreement, the bloody bandaged cuff hanging in her grasp. Frost-touched.

If that oath made her a monster or angel, or whatever else… she didn’t care. Jill refused to compromise to fear ever again. Not when this is what men like Javik would do to scare her into compliance.

Thankfully, Benedikta was of a similar mind, noticing the blood on Jill’s cheek shaped like her very own bearer’s brand. It didn’t smudge as she touched it, frozen to the touch. Yet Jill didn’t flinch.

“I’ll lead you right to him.” Benna’s grasp of her arm tightened. “When the time comes… I’ll set you both loose.” She finally released that frozen cuff, standing a little taller. Jill’s chill didn’t falter in the face of that sentiment. She embraced it.

For a brief moment she felt less alone in this ordeal. And all the more dangerous.

“Thank you, sister.”

Chapter Text

Early into his first days treading it, Clive Rosfield decided he did not like the Hollow Grounds very much.

Like the Talons that snaked through Rosaria, the western reaches of the Northern Territories was home to swampland. A wide system of rivers called the Nix Styria cleaved through the Glaives like thorny vines, splintering the mountain range into cracked isles. Shiva’s chill spread far and rivers froze, allowing for passage without any need for bridges or vessels. But in no way did that mean these passages were safe.

Especially in a storm like this.

To Clive squinting in the unrelenting frost, the boundary lines of this supposed river were invisible, the ashen snow overwhelmed all in the color of milky cotton soiled with tar. Yet these Jaeger knew this territory like the back of their masks. Darun especially, kneeling beside an invisible shore line. His leather-gloved knuckles rapped on the fragile ground like he wished to come inside for supper, listening intently, like a good neighbor.

While Clive perceived nothing, what the rest heard seemed especially encouraging.

The Jaeger’s crossing was efficient, a fast careful march that left Clive in their collective dust. Torgal stayed with his master, nudging him to follow their tracks. The moment he took his first step, the marquess squirmed. It was like he was treading on a murky pane of cracking glass. His pacing was rigid on that slippery ground. Every step in the tilting frost left behind melted tracks. Clive swore he could see into the blighted ground, staring down into ashen bubbles agitated by his weight… the very thing Vel warned him not to do.

“You’ve got it!” The rabbit shouted from across the ice. “Just a little further Clive!”

Clive scoffed, realizing it was probably easy to say that when one wore the visage of a fucking hare.

With that vexation pausing his trembling terror, Clive stumbled forth, and stopped counting his steps until he finally reached the other end. Relatively safe ground. Despite the mask, Vel was beaming with enthusiasm for her pupil. She called Clive a natural and he hadn’t the heart to contest that. That earlier vexation turned into a mere sigh.

When the marquess asked how many more crossings were between them and the Bay, Vel admitted she shouldn’t say. It’d ruin the moment. Someone else had no qualms with harming Clive’s victory, however. Darun.

“Oh a lot, your lordship… and this is one of the smaller ones.” Clive slowly glanced past, seeing his exact trail of ice had melted away into a line of frigid waves. “’Sides, if you fall we are honor bound to fish you out.” Clive squinted at his fox-face.

“You say that as if I were some trout.” He could see the fishing rod jiggling in Darun’s pack.

“Aye, and who doesn’t want to be a trout? Trout are delicious.” With a grumble in his stomach, Darun moved on quickly. He was followed by Torgal, decidedly in the mood for fish.

“Might make for a decent mask.” Vel suggested with a playful gait. “We’ll make a Jaeger out of you yet, milord.”

As the others inspected the next river, Clive looked back, finding himself the object of a distant glance from the windswept shaman. It was a neutral look beneath her swaying hood, telling Clive absolutely nothing.

Fenna wordlessly moved on to follow her companions, leaving the Marquess perturbed once more.

Going off of Darun’s tattered and outdated map of the Nix, the Hollow Grounds would eventually lead to the Bay of Frost. It simply required finding the largest of the frozen rivers in the west and following the water to its northern source at Caldsan. It was a far more arduous journey into the north’s wintery heart, but difficulty seemed far better than being murdered by wild-men on chocoback. As Vel put it, if men could barely cross these hollow rivers, flightless birds of burden hadn’t a ghost of a chance.

Suddenly Clive was glad Ambrosia was off on her own, even if he was still worried.

Perhaps that distraction helped improve his traction. Though not as much as his companions slowing down to help him further along the ice’s dwindling reach. Hours in he was starting to manage something resembling a normal pace. He just happened to also leave melted tracks in his wake.

According to Vel (who sought to distract Clive from how dangerous the Hollow Grounds were by talking about how dangerous the Hollow Grounds were) the rivers were far more stable in older days, when the blight wasn’t so widespread. The ice was purer, less brittle, even a steed could cross. The fishing was also much better, even if Darun and Torgal had yet to find anything upon their breaks, disappointing both Fox and Hound to no end.

With the rivers and rampant monsters splitting up the people, there were plenty of excuses for thegns to rise and war over their territories. It was dangerous fighting, especially with the hollow grounds freezing at high tide, meaning if the ice broke, they’d drop far down into the low waves and be trapped there, imprisoned in the ice. Waiting either to freeze to death or drown.

“Sometimes they’d be found in the spring, flowing east.” Vel added. “Always a horrid sight.”

“Unless you’re hollow yerself.” Darun murmured. “Then you just sit there, waiting to get out.” Amidst their leader’s pessimism, Clive was looking down into the ice, wondering if he’d find blue eyes staring back (and not his own reflection).

“I’ve a feeling the term Hollow Grounds holds multiple meanings.”

“Good feeling.” The fox mask wavered. “With deadlands deadening, ‘ese paths get weaker every season. So any ‘kashic that find themselves wanderin’ west get funneled here and trapped in the ice. My mate Cregg learned that the hard way… poor bugger.”

The others paused to lament poor Cregg. Even Fenna bowed her head in reverence, spooking their guest.

“I realize it’s a bit late for regrets, but couldn’t we just make for the Western Pass and save the Grounds the trouble?” It wasn’t his way to prepare for defeat, but Clive would much rather be murdered by crazed raiders than die to the existential crisis that was hollow ice.

He was alone in that belief.

“Not a chance m’lord, we’re making pretty good time.” Darun’s pessimism took a backseat, encouraged even if he wasn’t so certain when the lakes would end. “’Sides, we’ve been left alone for quite a while… at ‘his rate—”

At the Fox’s insistent jinxing came a growl from the party’s frost wolf, claws scraping the ice ahead.

Amidst some fractured Fallen debris, shrouded silhouettes peppered the storm ahead, pacing blackened ice so carefully that one could surmise they were statues. But there was movement, lifeless breathing. The intruders weren’t tall, maybe Vel’s height approaching five feet, though clearly heavier. The tar-colored snow obfuscated much, but Clive was easily reminded of the shaman (who was currently being guarded by Torgal tapping the ground). Though unlike these cloaked fellows, Fenna didn’t have a tail.

“What are those? Akashics?” Clive could barely see through the bluster biting at his eyes.

“Nay, just some lousy tonberries.” Darun cocked his head but didn’t draw his axe.

“Tonberries?!”

In that revelation, Clive noticed in the statues grasp were metal gleaming lanterns and crude knives. They were sharp, the kind that could kill someone in moments if the initial cut didn’t.

Without thinking, Clive strove ahead, grasping the Burning Thron from his back. The nearest tonberry picked up the pace, glowering with a dirty knife in hand. In a sudden thrust the tonberry plunged towards him, cutting through the lengths between them with a dull knife.

An impossible distance was traversed in that wind, but Clive barely caught the dirty blade with his, taken aback by that strength. He looked upon a snake-like green head anchored by a soulless scowl. Its eyes were golden, gleaming with soulless malice.

In trying to push it off, Clive instead was ejected, leaving behind a smoldering trail in the ice. Clive found himself prone, sliding onto dry land. That ice refroze and the tonberry came nearer… the others following in lockstep. Golden glares intensifying.

“That was a decent hit.” Darun commended it, pressing a hand to Clive’s shoulder. “You ‘lright Clive?” He didn’t sound disturbed whatsoever, more curious than anything. Vel and others drew their weapons and Torgal barked his little heart out. Eventually Fenna commanded him to hush.

“Darun, I can take them.” Clive swore, feeling that heat under his skin, finding direction in that tension. “Lead the others away.”

Despite Clive’s volcanic insistence the fox was unmoved. To him this was all rather droll.

“I ‘preciate the offer… but I’d rather get this over with, out havin’ ter fish you out like a trout, your Lordship.” He whistled, nudging Clive back. “You’re probly not as tasty.”

With bored confidence that could not melt ice, Darun strove ahead, stretching his limbs in the face of the scowling tonberries lifelessly approaching. Their yellow eyes shifting to the fox-faced man. He stopped when he was within ten feet of them, not crossing an invisible line Clive had crossed earlier.

He faced the beastman that Clive dueled, not pensive whatsoever.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but if you lot could just git and bugger off, that’d be ‘preciated.” The mask’s filtered voice droned, offering their rivals a chance to flee, not that it was taken.

Instead Darun was faced with the brandishing of more dirty knives. He was far slower in the sleet, reaching for his own weapon. One was mid lunge (Clive finally realized the full speed of that thrust) when Darun finally drew his axe, but its head didn’t meet that attack. Rather he evaded the thrust and rocked the weapon’s bladed pommel downward. Not into the tonberry, but the hollow ground itself.

With no aplomb, the ice splintered, the green hellions preparing to skewer the Jaegerman vanished down into the ashen hollow. Clive throttled nearer, worried Darun would fall with them, but it seemed he had settled on the exact fault line where the river deepened. The tonberry he dueled hung lithelessly from that line, glaring at the both of them. Darun stepped on its grubby hand and the creature plopped down the hole like a discarded piece of laundry, punctuated with an unfortunate plunk!

As Darun turned off to dust his hands, Clive stared down into the abyss. The tonberries were now busy subsisting under the waves…staring up at the menfolk who bested them. Clive wasn’t sure if they were drowning or not, or if they even could drown.

These creatures had no survival instincts whatsoever, just a grudge.

“Should… we help them?” Clive felt a pang of sympathy that couldn’t reach Darun.

“Some beastmen might be deserving of your pity… but not these ones. They don’t want help. Just to suffer and extend that curtesy to everyone else.” He said that with experience, squinting down through his mask. “So it’s our job to weather it ‘nstead and move on.” He sighed with a whistle, minding the edges of the broken river. At least the width was negotiable.

“Fen, can you make a way across?”

With a spring of stored aether, the bearer obeyed her friend, releasing a narrow line of sturdy ice, building a new bridge over the wading tonberries. It was far stronger than the ashen excuse they had been crossing before (and anything Clive could presently conjure). Vel helped her across as the others followed, ready to return to their venture.

The lesson stuck with Clive, staring down into the drowning(?) beastmen blankly staring at him through the frost. What kind of purpose did these creatures have? Enthralled by spite in a land devoid of life. Perhaps this was the only place such a fruitless grudge could lead one… subsisting on waves at the bottom of a hole. Lost.

That stayed with Clive as he moved on, yellow eyes vanishing into the cold storm.

Hours into what was supposed to be their last day crossing the Hollow Grounds, the venture was cut short. The storm along the Nix increased by multitudes, nearly blowing the Jaeger off the ice and forcing a consideration for other options. A compromise that Clive welcomed. Darun had recalled a shortcut through a Glaiven tunnel his father spoke of, but was disappointed to instead find a shadowy dead end beside some recently deceased imperials.

“They must have triggered the collapse.” Darun lamented, kicking the leg of a dead man buried in rubble, frozen stiff. “Fucking imps.”

“I’m sure these men are just as disappointed as you are.” Clive remarked with tact, studying a cold chocobo feather stuck to the wall. Thankfully yellow.

A few bodies had actually gotten clear of the collapse and still had their weapons and supplies on them. Sadly there was no identification or orders on the bodies, just imperial armor with cloaks and fur hides. Perhaps these had been scouts, looking ahead… or behind.

“You think these were the General’s?” Vel wondered, studying a dropped crystal.

“I don’t doubt it.” Clive sighed. “What I do doubt is how many got across by the time the mountain stopped them, and what stopped these ones.” A few bodies had actually survived the collapse and simply died in the cavern… wounded viciously.

After twenty minutes of investigating, there wasn’t much to show for their efforts so Darun suggested they pack up. They could take what they could scrounge from the bodies and start on that walk of shame back into that wicked blizzard. That walk ended quickly when Fenna took a sniff and halted the others.

“We aren’t alone.” The shaman hissed, as the dog began to whine and growl. They backed off from their exit as Clive saw something entering from the storm.

Countless figures shambled in, blue skinned ghouls with eyes of shining cyan. Far more frightening to behold than the vacant eyed tonberries at the bottom of that well. These ones were beasts, elk and goblins drowned in aether, some even looked like what were once men. Their skin was ashen, leaking poisonous aether in their footsteps.

There wasn’t even time for anyone to gulp or gasp. The chaos was immediate as the akashic thralls barreled upon the Jaeger. Utterly mindless. Darun and Vel were immediately overwhelmed, fumbling at the sight of the hollows. But Clive didn’t.

This was the kind of distraction he excelled in.

With light and fire dancing in his grasp, Clive cut through the creatures swiftly, fleet as flame. Darun was able to cut down one, but he struggled to hold up his axe to stop an akashic hound from biting his head off. Clive cleaved through the beast, flashing across the cavern, Joshua’s sword doing especially well in proving both its mettle and metal.

Unlike the ice, Clive had been well prepared for a fight. What he hadn’t expected was the outcome after the typical outcome. These creatures left behind no corpses. They fragmented and faded away into sparkling aether that lit Clive’s nostrils ablaze. His stance waned, stumbling over that scent as a final man-sized hollow ran for him with a dagger. It froze as Fenna roughly grasped its head, somehow dissipating the creature on the spot.

More of her bearer magic, it seemed.

Clive hadn’t even noticed that, as a dagger clang to the ground and more aether spilled forth in a cloud of blue fading mist. In that sudden haze, Clive fell to a knee and grasped at his dirty hot forehead in that sensation. His scar stung and he coughed, his hands trembling. It felt like when he passed out at Drake’s Breath as a boy. But unlike then, Clive could hear the static. He thought he saw something, a burning claw… that ribbon hanging from it.

“Den allmektiges siste trel…” That ghostly woman’s voice hissed in his head, aligning to the static.

“Trel…” His tongue trilled, punctuated with more coughing. He could feel his scar twitching, burning almost.

The mirage dissipated and Clive looked up to that woman’s visage looking down on him, now replaced with Fenna’s. The witch cocked her head amidst that word... the one from her story.

"You said that word... right? What did it mean?"

“It’s Iskaldi.” Fenna quietly reminded him with unlikely concern, her gray eyes un-narrowing just a smidge. “Means indebted one. Like a servant—”

"Or thrall." Clive remembered. Or a slave, he thought... going off of the myth.

The Blue-Eyed-Thief became a nameless slave to the Ice King.

"What's gotten into you, Rosfield? Why are you speaking of this?" She slowly asked and Clive struggled to relinquish an answer.

Was that because he lacked the answer himself?

The others gathered their bearings and his moment with the shaman was cut short. Darun patted him on the back and stood Clive back up. Perhaps as recompense for the marquess saving his ass, he was now covering Clive’s.

“Just another reason we wear the masks.” He dusted the rosarian off.

In response to Clive’s apparent brush with aethereal psychedelics, the others laughed heartily, besides Fenna, of course.

The storm wouldn’t let up so the expedition decided to wait out the night. Nobody wanted to risk more akashic and crossing any more rivers in the encroaching darkness was a fool’s bet. The cavern was certainly better than the prior night’s campground along a freezing river. Here they didn’t need tents, meaning there was more of Clive’s unnatural warmth to go around.

Despite the boon they found on the dead imperials (that they dragged outside), supper was sparser. The Jaeger were in higher spirits, however. Nobody dying to hollows, tonberries or frontiersmen was certainly a cause for celebration. There were no stories that night, Fenna wasn’t in the mood. So it was just people sticking close to Clive and the fire and warming themselves. Chatting quietly. Orla and Mortley were in the midst of lamenting poor Cregg once again.

When Clive finally asked what had happened to Cregg, they grew despondent.

Meanwhile the Marquess noticed Gaun had been making an unsubtle pass at Vel, which did not take. Sadly, he was not a dog. In that spirit, Torgal received much attention (as was usual). He had even managed to acquire the last of Vel’s coveted honey (and Clive managed a bitter taste of her perplexing mead). Overall it was a somewhat enjoyable evening, even if Clive felt off, knowing they lost time.

Smiling… it almost felt wrong. Perhaps that was the reason Fenna never smiled. Out of everyone here, she seemed in the direst need of a mask.

In Vel’s words, the Jaeger had never made wolf masks.

“I think she knew Jill.” He was careful not to speak too loudly, the caverns off from camp had a bit of an echo. “Fenna, I mean.”

That second face bobbed up and down her back as Vel was busy cutting away probably ancient ice from the cave wall. That well-worn pick and hammer paused in Clive’s admission, as did her humming. With a brief nick she broke the piece from the wall and tossed it to Clive… to melt into a metal filtered bucket. More odd technology borrowed from their Fallen predecessors that the Jaeger had tweaked. The intent was to remove dust and ash from their drink, not unlike the mechanisms in their masks. Though Clive imagined it was far more complicated than Vel suggested.

Typically they’d arrange a fire to melt the pieces, but Clive wasn’t typical, having outed himself as a living hearth. To know such a passive act was helpful was beyond frustrating, but Clive would suffer that indignity for an inch of privacy with someone who clearly knew more than she’d let on.

“I ‘spose that’s what you two were talking about the other night.” She murmured. In his surprise, Clive’s grasp of that ice chunk seemed to melt even faster. “Darun notices more than you think. And I notice way more than that.”

Clive didn’t doubt her.

“She knew Jill’s mother. Lady Eisa.” He said, low to the ground. “For a moment, I wondered if she was her.” He eyed that ribbon from his arm once again, finally settled. “She’s sensitive about that name.”

“You said the name?” Vel had been feeding a flask with that water when it overfilled, spilling onto her boots. Clive’s companion hissed and grumbled, closing the bottle quickly. “Shiva’s tits, you southerners are blunt.” Clive squirmed easily at such a phrase.

“Vel—”

“Take some advice from one of your elders, Clive… a little subtlety goes far. Trust goes further.”

Clive scoffed, unsettled only a little. Vel also didn’t seem that much older than him.

“That’s easy for you to say but I’ve little time for trust.” He had little time for any of this, especially a damn mystery about this stranger that knew Jill but wouldn’t talk to him. He’d rather just reach the end already than continue waiting with suspense. Especially if it concerned Jill’s safety.

He’d rather just move on and save Jill already.

“So I was hoping you could remedy that. Put my concerns to rest.”

Vel paused, putting aside the flask to eye her associate.

“You brought me all the way out here to shake me down for information about my friend? Is that the Rosarian-Rosfield honor I keep hearing so much about? Getting frazzled because some mean old witch doesn’t like you?”

Clive turned bashful, embarrassed.

“Fenna obviously knows more about Jill than anyone else here… If she intends to do her harm”—

“We’ve been over this. None of us want to hurt her, Fen especially.”

“But why her, especially?” Clive asked, frustrated. “Who is she?” He implored deeply, begging his guide for help. “Please, Vel… give me a little trust.”

“…”

Gossip came second nature to northerners, especially ones like Darun and herself, yet Vel was resistant. Loyalty wasn’t something so easily absconded, especially given the time she had spent as Fenna’s companion. But she couldn’t help but feel a decent degree of loyalty to Clive already. He had earned something, sticking with them so far. And she struggled to say no to that look he was giving.

So she bent her code, just a smidge.

“Trust goes both ways, I suppose. Promise me you won’t repeat this.” She quietly put that last flask away. Clive nodded quietly.

He was all ears.

“How much do you know about the Third Collapse?”

Unlike their southern neighbors, the Northern Territories of Storm were caught in an endless era of arrested development. Tribes would rise and fall constantly without end, eternally struggling to build anything that could outlive the constant tides of winter and warfare that engulfed Northern Storm. Only the Jaeger seemed a constant, combatting the monstrous hordes that called the north its home. But even they fluctuated.

Continuity as a people was impossible to achieve… so instead the north had a single focal point, a reflexive memory that their frigid civilizations were built around. For the northern people, there was only one event that could be remembered as their beginning, one so catastrophic and iconic, it shook the very foundations of the twins for every generation that followed: The Sins of Dzemekys.

When the sky bled and Metia gleamed her darkest shade of scarlet… some say the very heavens themselves had fallen. The pure unadulterated hubris of man came crashing down into the very hell they sought to conquer, hence their civilization’s common name The Fallen. The tribes of the north would refer to that event as The Collapse. In the aftermath it became something of a renewal to life in Valisthea, a reset… but they hadn’t the foresight to know another fracture would come with just as much consequence.

After the fall of the Fallen was when new tribes came into being, Silver-headed clans like Riloh, Sulturn and the Iskaldi. Many of these were remnants of the Fallen Civilizations seeking to retake past glories. They branded themselves with ink brewed from the venomous roots of a wyvern tail to prove their strength and fortitude. Moss said these practices eventually gave way to the Fenrir Wolf Tribe, followers of the Frostmaiden Shiva.

In keeping to the Ice Mote’s tradition, the Fens were spell weavers of great renown, wielding crystal and aether like no other tribe in Storm neither before nor since. The Fens were the only real political power of the Northern Territories because they controlled both the North’s Eikon and its Mothercrystal. All thegns who warred for territorial control did so under their distant purview. Or at least, they used to… until their power collapsed.

Nearly a millennia transpired until the Second Collapse occurred, when the North’s Mothercrystal, Drake’s Eye. sunk and vanished into the Frozen Tears at Frostburr, weeping aether no more. In the crystal’s slow failure, the Fens had tried to stall such an event, to buy time… but the crystal still fell, and the soil turned rotten in its place. The Northern Territories would be lost to blight, and there was nothing anybody could do about it. Not even Shiva’s Dominants, the Frostmaidens Ysay or Fiona could save their homeland. Eventually there’d be nothing to save.

So little by little… the north began to hollow itself out. Given how momentous the First and Second Collapses were, the Third was far quieter, far more mundane… pathetic even. A witless epilogue to centuries of frigid struggle.

It occurred fifty odd winters after the Fall of Drake’s Eye, amidst a dying summer. The green season surely but slowly faded away, perhaps for the last time. The territories were emptying rapidly, Silvermane’s surrender to Archduke Elwin Rosfield at Manus had secured his people’s exodus from their homeland… besides stubborn tribes like the Jaeger, as well as Silvermane himself. The man who sold his cause and his daughter so his people could run away from their coffin, had to remain in that crypt.

In that last dry heave, the pines of the Crestwood nestled ‘tween the Glaives stood proudly, strongly, ever resiliently even in the face of growing deadlands. In night’s embrace, the sky lit up, but the culprit was neither the moon nor her constant companion. A wildfire from the north’s last capital was spreading.

Iskald was in flames.

At that point, none knew of the fire’s precursor, the events that had occurred at the heart of Iskald Keep. Whatever survivors that escaped Silvermane’s citadel refused to look back. Most were chased, for the sheer crime of bearing witness. Among them was a branded woman, burned and fleeing that scorched forest, pursued by wicked riders in dark sullen armor. She was a thrall of the Warrick household, a spurned holdover from the extinct Fenrir Wolf tribe. Especially disposable in the eyes of their people, yet she survived.

When Stanwick, chieftain of the Jaeger had slain her attackers, she fell silent. She struggled to tell him of what happened at her master’s keep, in fact she couldn’t speak at all. Luckily, it’d turn out the Jaeger wouldn’t need her account. Not when they looked upon the armor of her attackers. It was the same worn by Silvermane’s own hovelled forces, that broken and reassembled diamond, turned black and ashen in the hot flames of their dishonor.

The Third Collapse would receive its name in the coming days as a cruel joke, the few survivors of the massacre spoke of Silvermane’s end at the hands of his own men. Sworn thralls turned against their thegn. And worst yet, not only had they butchered their liege lord and those loyal to him… but his lady wife as well. Lady Eisa Warrick: slain by those sworn to defend her. Tarnished and stained forevermore.

In a just world, these oathbreakers and false-thralls would be hunted down and executed, butchered like the wild dogs they were… like the very monsters the Jaeger existed to slay. But they’d face no retaliation, there was nothing to avenge, nor any meaning in seeking it. The north was too far gone. That just world had vanished in the blink of an eye. Only death would remain, and the Northern Frontier would provide…

Perhaps that was the true meaning of the Third Collapse, as an afterword, the conclusion to the way of life that began when the Fallen fell so long ago. If the Second Collapse foretold of the north’s expiration, then the Third Collapse was that ending, a compromise without even a shred of aplomb. The north as it was had died with Silvermane and Lady Eisa of Iskald Keep. Engulfed in flames.

All that remained was for their homeland to simply fade away and be forgotten…

As Clive heard Vel’s brutal history lesson, is was with vexation, knowing that Rosaria had done nothing when their allies fell apart in such a fashion. Once again he wondered if his father had his suspicions but looked the other way, rather than making a fuss.

Perhaps that was why Lord Elwin stopped his journeys to the Northern Territories. They needed to be decisive in order to escape their neighbor’s fate. All the good that did for Rosaria.

“Which brings us back to our mutual friend.” Vel sighed, redirecting Clive’s focus.

“You mentioned she was a spurned holdover. What does that mean?”

As Vel understood it, Bearers of the Fenrir were sworn servants of Shiva’s bloodline. When Silvermane slew the last Frostmaiden and ended the Everstorm, some say he should have put her servants to the sword as well, if only to spare them the dishonor of living in their failure to protect their mistress. Instead he inherited the Fenrir’s branded when he wedded Fiona’s daughter, Lady Eisa, joining his bloodline with the last of the Fenrir’s.

Of all things Clive hadn’t known about Jill, her grandmother not only being a dominant of Shiva but also being murdered by Jill’s own father was at the top of the list. To know that Jill’s mother could bring herself to marry such a man was… confounding, especially given Clive’s own troubled family history. His mother, as cruel as she was, at least had the sense to perform her crimes well after fulfilling her marital duties.

Suddenly much more about Fenna made sense in retrospect.

“I realize I wasn’t born yet, but wasn’t the Everstorm ending a good thing?”

“Northerners are fickle.” Vel shrugged in agreement. “They can easily benefit from something while still being bitter about perceived oath-breaking. And the Fens have been looked down upon for an eternity… I suppose every people laments something in their past.”

Clive nodded quietly as Vel went on.

“Her wounds healed, but she was devoid, lifeless. Couldn’t speak, barely even ate. She was in the grasp of grief but didn’t weep. Karl said it was like looking upon a ghost. All her tears were long spent. She had nothing left to give.”

Clive mulled over that, pity overflowing.

“Not just already to be looked down on for her affliction, hated for living… but then to lose aught else in one night.” His eyes sunk low. “She was hollowed out by that loss.”

Despite what he had been through, Clive was very privileged to not know that kind of suffering on an intimate level. He was very privileged to know that despite the horrors they had faced from outside and within, his family still lived.

Jill still lived.

Had they not, he’d likely be just as quiet. Just as lost as he had been back in Eastpool and that rain. Frozen to the bone.

“I once heard a saying that grief can hide tides of unknowable depths.” Vel shrugged. “Ones even Leviathan himself can’t dive deep enough to fathom. Or Shiva, I suppose.”

“Hence why your friend would rather it be undisturbed.” Clive suggested, perhaps feeling a little guilty for prying. “She’d rather it be left in the ice.”

Vel wasn’t finished, with her mask in hand she sat back and found her conclusion.

 “So after weeks of miserable silence, one day out of nowhere she just pulls up her ashen hood and starts making herself useful.” She nearly scoffed. “Whether with a crystal or her magic, or just her voice… The first thing she said was that they used to call her Fenna. And that was it. Nothing about what had happened, the woman she used to be, just business.”

As the story ended, Vel wiped her eyes, steadying back into that moment.

“Just business…” Clive repeated, scar twinging.

Unlike most bearers, he hadn’t realized how human Fenna was… how much she tried to hide that behind a hood. Clive was reminded much of himself, striving to be useful rather than simply to feel. And similarly, he realized the story was inherently unfinished. It lacked an ending, hence Fenna’s presence in this journey.

It was for closure.

“So that’s why she’s here… because Jill isn’t just Shiva, she’s her mistress’s child, Fiona’s granddaughter. She’s the last of the Fenrir.”

Clive pressed his hand to that ribbon.

“Fenna wishes to rewrite her failure.”

Perhaps he and the shaman were more alike than Clive had realized… even if he still didn’t know her endgame.

Given all that Vel told him about the Jaeger, the Fenrir and Fenna, it soon dawned on Clive that he knew far less about Vel herself beyond her being a stray. When faced with that curiosity, she joked that he could ask Fenna about her to make things even.

Perhaps Clive would have to work even harder to earn that information. It sounded like there was a lot of ice to melt in his future...

As the two concluded their business and Vel put away her tools, Clive discovered his lower trousers were sogged. The ice clinging to the cavern walls had become an ashen puddle. Ever since their band had found him in that flood, Clive had been running inexplicably hotter. Even more so since his brush with those akashics.

“We should have found you years ago.” Vel laughed in good spirits. Clive slowly joined in, finding it easier to grin. "You'd probably be swimming like a trout at this point."

With his friend ready to go, Clive offered to carry some of Vel’s supplies back to camp, she refused, but admitted that she could need his presence in case they walked past a draft.

The Marquess begrudgingly followed, supposing Ifrit was good for something.

The wintery night Clive dreamt was as endless as the stars in the shrouded sky, As it always had been in nearly each and every dream since Jill left… Despite his efforts, Clive had yet to escape that lifeless snowfield. Constant and never changing. Treaded by his lonesome apart from Torgal now, marching beside him like he had for Jill in his earlier dreams. Whether the dog was real or imaginary was left to someone more open minded and curious like his brother.

Would Joshua be walking beside him had Clive allowed him to follow? What if he had ventured with Cidolfus Telamon?

The Phoenix’s flames couldn’t reach him, so all Clive had to light his way amidst the storm was that ruined lantern. Its imaginary wick flickering dimly. For a moment he swore he could see something, figures in the distance, shadows dancing in the storm. But the lamp went out. Clive cursed himself and shivered.

While Torgal raised his head almost instinctually, looking upon a shining red star glimmering in the blizzard.

“This is it, Torgal” A young woman’s voice remarked, her voice. “This is Iskald.”

“Jill?” Clive’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, staring upon a night-lit northern castle standing tall in the blizzard. For man and beast it was eerily familiar. Wrongly reassembled.

“This is where I was born.” That voice breathed in the wintry air, not that Clive could find where it came from.

Her voice had no origin, it was an echo, haunting them both.

Clive called out for Jill again, not that his voice could carry in such a place. His breath burned and vanished in the air, sending the opposite of a shiver down his back… as well as Torgal’s. The loyal hound stood in Clive’s way of the courtyard, insistent that he go no further.

Yet Clive was beckoned nearer, hearing another voice, one he had known all his life. The voice that had told him that wonderful story about Mog the Moogle and Cavali the Frost Wolf.

“What if I feel that cold again?” An invisible little girl asked.

“You must learn to block it out… put off that wretched feeling.” That was also a voice he recognized. It belonged to a witch. “You mustn’t tell anyone what we spoke of. They’ll think you fit for a brand or worse.”

“Is that… Fenna?” His blue eyes tensed, trying to find that shaman amidst the frigid castle.

“It is your secret to keep… Promise me you’ll keep it.”

These uttered words were memories, he realized, Jill’s memories.

He sensed a glow to the castle. Windows of the keep were lighting up. Candles being lit. The hearth coming back to life. Was someone inside? Could they see him?

Clive nudged Torgal aside to come nearer until finally he was upon its doorstep, the very same steps he had treaded when this castle was ruins.

The doors wouldn’t budge, rejecting Clive’s intrusion as if he didn’t belong. It was then rather off-putting when Clive heard something he shouldn’t have… soft weeping from the courtyard, blending with the snow. A new voice introduced itself, one Clive knew like the back of his hand. Torgal as well.

“You must be Princess Jill.”

“Father?” Amidst that prickling in his back, he turned away from the door, trying to seek out the Archduke in the courtyard. But he saw nothing amidst that storm.

“Yes m’lord.” That frightened little girl chirped.

“Everything I did was for you.” Another man’s voice spoke, one Clive had never heard in his life. Yet he felt he knew it all the same. It was a father’s voice. “But I wish I did more.”

“I love you momma… you too papa.” That child cried. His heart burned in hearing those words, knowing exactly where they came from.

“Goodbye my little star… Just take her.” A mother cried, weeping for the last time.

Clive felt the ground shifting and rumbling, his heart palpitating, feeling the pain in that farewell, etched upon his very soul.

“Don’t watch them go, child.” Elwin Rosfield warned. “The ride is difficult enough as is…”

In that farewell he turned back, discovering figures in the courtyard, phantoms he knew well at this point. The shrouded woman and her wolf, staring upon Clive with remorse. They faded away with the storm as Metia shined brighter… replaced with more whispers clinging to the snowy air. He heard words of encouragement from Joshua, or the opposite from Anabella. Even Lady Hanna and Lord Murdoch, and Vel and countless others from Jill’s life added to that choir. Even his own. Filling the house with their discordant song.

“Lift up your head, girl.”

“We’re family Jill. You’re my sister.”

“I always knew you were special.”

“You are no child of mine.”

It was overwhelming, so many voices, intermixing together like a storm of swirling memories, Clive’s head began to ache, feeling as if he was beginning to drown in them. But then one soloist came above them all, far louder than the rest. Jill’s voice.

“Get out of my house.” She snarled.

Like a match had been lit, the castle blazed, catching fire in an instant. The doors opened, ejecting Clive from that place. He rolled down the steps into dirty snow as burning shadows escaped the keep, accompanied by screams. Many being cut down in an instant.

A great betrayal was in play. One he and Jill could only imagine. The Third Collapse.

Clive struggled to move, to push off the ground. His head throbbed, growing hotter with each sound uttered. It felt like before, when he had been wounded by that arrow. That nauseating burning through cheek, now spreading.

Torgal tried to approach, but Clive was hot to the touch. The dog ran off, barking with the screaming shades. The dog vanished into the darkness, leaving Clive alone, enflamed. He watched as thunder began to roll in the distance, lightning crackling in the storm... the winds intensified, fanning the flames.

“I suppose that’s the real curse.” A new voice whispered. A woman’s. “Being just as human as everyone else. Just as marred by compromise.”

“That kind of hate… is special.”

Clive began to burn hotter, as if a cold wind was being funneled to increase the spread. The inferno amidst the keep intensified, and Clive was immersed in those flames, beginning to see volcanic cracks in his skin.

“No one knows that better than I do.” Jill whispered, self-loathing at its apex. “Hate is why I’m here.”

“Jill…” He could feel that hate inside himself, searing through his insides. “Please stop—"

In the throes of that suffering Clive realized he was residing in shade. A dark draped figure stood over him, a burning hand extending from its cloak, as that static infested Clive. He felt like it were trying to pull something out of him.

But what did Clive have to give besides those flames?

“I’ll kill him. I’ll kill them all.” She swore. Clive could feel it, that overwhelming anger that infested her, spreading to him. Engulfing his very being. While Jill might have felt ice in that moment, all Clive could feel were the flames burning within…

Wanting out.

He trembled in facing that looming shadow, looking upon eyes gleaming a torch-lit golden. Glaring yellow like the eyes of a tonberry. Or Clive’s mother. Or Shiva.

Or something else.

A final voice came to forefront, engulfed in that static rupturing through Clive’s mind. Behind it all, Metia gleamed its brightest shade of scarlet.

“Pathos begets My—"

He covered his ears and forced his eyes shut, thinking not of himself but only of his quest. Of Jill. He needed to find her. He needed to save—

Clive came to in an instant. One moment he was engulfed in that dark inferno. The next moment he was awake in that Glaiven cavern, the flames disappearing yet he was… wet?

The dark figure over him was replaced with a maskless Vel, heaving with a newly emptied bucket. Torgal was beside her, agitated. The pacing of Clive’s breath stalled, utterly confused. Perhaps momentarily forgetting that painful nightmare.

“What in blazes was that for Vel?” He exhaled, suddenly chilly.

“YOU WERE BLAZING!” She exclaimed, voice echoing out in that cramped cavern. “T-TIDES ALIVE YOUR SKIN WAS VOLCANIC, Y-YOUR CLOTHES WERE SMOKING!” That bucket slipping from her grasp, adding to her noisy racket. Others began to wake, disturbed by the outburst but not seeing what Vel saw. Nor the dog.

Especially with how sogged Clive was, now simmering.

By the time Clive had dissuaded Vel’s notions that he was a fire hazard the others thought it was a prank, a razzing given Vel’s eclectic personality and the grim subject matter of Clive potentially drowning in the Hollow Grounds. Jaegers really did love their jokes, after all… even if this one went a bit far in their estimation. At Clive’s insistence Vel eventually recomposed herself, returning to her post, rattled.

Torgal joined her even if she didn’t have any treats to share.

Meanwhile Clive didn’t get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night, dripping by the remnants of the fire, struggling to convince himself that it merely was a prank. He’d rather that than confront the reality of what he saw in that nightmare.

Those volcanic flames engulfing him…

Eventually he looked up from the ash, finding shrouded silver eyes watching him like a hawk. Fenna was seated beside Darun’s resting form, refusing to look away from Clive Rosfield. She was eying that old ribbon on Clive’s arm as she always did.

Now freshly singed.

He couldn’t be a dominant, he kept telling himself. If so, why now?

If that was true… what would have happened had Vel not doused his flames?

According to Darun, it was supposed to be their last day crossing the Hollow Grounds. They’d find their way to safer ground that ran along a great final Nixian river punctuated with fallen debris, one that led to the Bay of Frost. It was quite the eyesore, not that Clive’s eyes weren’t sore already. With his sleep interrupted, Clive wasn’t at his best that morning, but it’d have to do. They’d get across the Grounds and… then Clive could figure out what to do from there.

Perhaps to spite that plan, the storm had only lessened a little in the intervening day. They were heaped in layers of that ashen snow blowing into their cold faces, fogging up the hunter’s lenses. Even Torgal was having a rough time at it, threatened to be blown away with a strong enough gust. Clive tried to help him inch forward in the bluster, but the dog was reticent to his attempts to earn back his trust.

“I suppose we’ve pissed off Garuda.” Clive murmured to Vel nearby, struggling to broach the tension from her prank last night. Perhaps realizing in truth that Vel might have saved their lives. If Ifrit was real, which he was still quite resistant to believing. Perhaps the true was still too inconvenient.

“Guess so.” Her filtered voice answered. The rabbit mask seemed less lively, facing away from Clive. It pulled a pang of guilt from him, especially as the others began to snicker about Vel wanting to drown their hearth like she was Leviathan.

“About last night.” He stammered, stuttering like his mother would. “I don’t know what you saw, but—”

“I probably just made it up in my head.” She confessed, as if trying to convince herself it was nothing. “Torgal too… Just a prank.” That lie was sour on her tongue, but she said it nonetheless.

“Vel”—

“We should just get a move on. Jill’s waiting.” Despite that wind she moved on quickly, Torgal following like a confused duckling. Leaving Clive sighing in the blizzard. Feeling like an ass who had no idea how to tell this specific truth. Or even if he should.

“Right…” He murmured, spitting out a mouthful of ash. It instead blew back into his maskless face.

Like the truth, the northern wind also went both ways.

Without Vel to bounce off of, the journey through the Hollow Grounds was quieter, more somber.  It was reflective (even if Clive couldn’t see his reflection anymore)… and most of all, boring.

This was especially as the northern landscape turned colder and malnourished. The wind was only one part of the story, as more and more the color seemed to vanish from the air. His father’s clothing lost much of its vibrancy. Or perhaps that was because of how little light was able to reach them in that storm.

They were getting closer, Clive realized. Still far, but closer…

Darun was unfortunately in a chipper mood, with Gaun suggesting it had something to do with Fenna not scowling as much (not that Clive noticed much of a difference), meaning their leader did something right for once. Clive had no context what that meant, only noticing Darun seemed happier… which irked him, oddly enough.

How could a fox mask smile like that?

Despite Clive’s earlier intentions, of all the times to win Darun over… now wasn’t it. Not when Clive was busy lying to himself, knowing full well what was it stake when he’d be inevitably proven wrong. Busy looking for the nearest exit route.

Founder, was this how Jill felt?

So he eventually took to following at the back of the group, some feet behind Mortley and Orla (masked as a falcon and an aevis). They were busy chatting about old fishing spots along the Druk. Whatever that was, Clive had no clue, maybe it was a lake? But the distraction seemed pleasant enough, especially as the current river was broken (but still flowing) so they had to go along north to find a better crossing point. Unfortunately, Clive wasn’t overhearing their chatter alone.

Fenna had slowly inched her way beside him, ever silent. Worse yet, he could feel her shrouded eyes on him, sometimes even studying his melting footsteps and taking sniffs.

Like he was some sort of specimen.

Eventually Clive became fed up with it, facing her at the latest river’s approaching edge (that he could begrudgingly notice).

“Do you want something?” He asked, faced with her customary (vexing) silence.

His blue eyes squinted, losing more of their color in this weather. Unintentional steam expelled from his nostrils. Then he saw a glimmer of her gray eyes under the hood and that fire sapped away, becoming a sighing exhale.

Even when he wanted to be angry at someone, Clive couldn’t. Not when he knew so much about them.

“Vel told me about you. About how the tribe found you. About how you found your voice again.”

A bewildered look took to the witch’s shrouded face in the face of that betrayal of trust. Perhaps that was the reason she struggled to find a way to be condescending as usual. Clive however took the initiative. Wishing to part amicably with someone, at least.

“I am grateful you found me and Torgal when you did… especially given you have great reason to not be fond of me, with what my family stole from your mistress.” That wind blew especially cold in that moment. “So you won’t have to fret and worry over this blue-eyed-thief for much longer.” He promised them both. “Alright?” From his belt Clive handed something over.

Garl’s broken lantern.

“I was never going to fix it on my own anyways.” He chuckled with disappointment. “Sometimes the best thing we can do is accept our inadequacies and move on.” Clive shrugged, almost at peace. All the more perplexing when Fenna didn’t take the lantern. She continued to stare, lightly swaying with the wind blowing between them. Still unable to find her words.

That singed ribbon fluttered as it always did.

Clive might have reconsidered being vexed in that moment had Darun not found more dead imperials at the river’s edge. Whatever Fenna wished to say, would remain unsaid.

The bodies were fresh… or at least the ones the hunters found above the ice. Torn apart with steel and teeth. Others weren’t so lucky, becoming a part of the Hollow Grounds, even the chocobo that had followed them. Already weighed down with its armor… the poor creature had frozen here.

Clive was suddenly grateful the bird didn’t have white feathers.

While Vel lamented the bird, Darun was a little more obstinate, suggesting the meat might still be good. Their supplies hadn’t gone anywhere either.

Sadly they hadn’t the time to investigate further. Not with Torgal’s insistent growling, pointed towards distant silhouettes limping in the storm. With some trepidation, Fenna was able to discern them as akashic, wandering the colorless wasteland, and at the moment thankfully unaware of the hunters.

There wasn’t enough sunlight to hold them at bay, just like the ones the prior day. With that, the group realized there were more akashic wandering ahead and behind. Dozens of them from all sides in the immediate vicinity. They were in the midst of an unaware horde all wandering in the same direction.

As Vel grew nervous and suggested they made shelter, their leader was arriving to a different conclusion. Clive however managed to stop Darun from drawing his axe, momentarily inspired. Perhaps this was the distraction he needed.

“We can tell the akashic apart but I’ve a feeling they can’t.” Surely they would have been found by now if the akashic could smell them. “They’re going in the same way we are, but they’re just as blind as us but without any navigators.” He nodded to Fenna and Torgal. “Mayhap we can keep hiding in the storm. If we’re careful, we might just slip past them unaware.”

“Like ships that pass in the night.” Darun realized. Clive nearly grinned with that validation.

“My uncle always loved that saying. Only now do I understand what he meant.”

Given the stories told about Byron Rosfield, Darun grimaced just a little. Vel was also uncertain, but for a different reason. Safety.

“It’s not our way to gamble, and if even one of those fiends comes upon us…” The rest would follow suit. “All it takes is one chink in the storm’s armor.” Or a chink in their navigators.

She tried apologizing to Fenna for doubting, but Clive spoke first.

“We risk just as much turning the other way in the midst of them.” Clive answered her, perhaps a little too forceful. “And time isn’t on our side as is.”

While Darun pretended to be in charge, the choice was ultimately Fenna’s. Without her the plan fell apart. So most were surprised to find that the shaman approving of the Marquess’s plan. Clive most of all.

“We can’t lose any more time.” She whispered hoarsely.

With her permission, Darun gave in and steadied his mask.

“Fine. If it’s good enough for Byron Rosfield, it’ll be good enough for us. Hopefully.”

Surprisingly, the plan did work for a while. Most of the while, in fact.

With the tension of the horde breathing down their necks, chatter was cut down to a thread-bare minimum. Even Torgal was shutting up, nudging into Fenna if he found something like a nervous pup. Such a trick Clive had never instilled in the dog, nor did he teach Torgal to know which way was west (which seemed just as useful in this context). He also didn’t teach the dog the Iskaldi words that Fenna would whisper to him.

Perhaps she really was a witch.

The unrelenting dangers of crossing hollow rivers was still evident, especially as they came upon more deceased imperials and broken bridges, but the group made due. Even Clive seemed at the top of his game, beginning this journey as a relative toddler, he could now cross ice with the best of them. Not that Vel was complementing him anymore… far too focused on dealing with anything in their way.

The oddest dangers they’d find were akashic that had broken the functioning rivers and swam to the other side… eventually freezing in place like statues, not unlike Tonberries. With the sharp jab of an arrow they vanished, leaving behind hollow shells of ashen ice. Utterly bizarre. Other times the shell would break as the akashic seemed to wake up at the sight of something living.

There was a multitude of close calls with the group narrowly evading and cleaning up, making Clive’s blood boil in that unresolvable tension. Unfortunately his magic wasn’t stealthy in the least (and threatened the stability of the rivers they crossed) so Vel’s bow was a godsend, especially as she saved his ass from getting noticed. To the point that Clive wondered if Jill had a point with all those self-imposed archery lessons.

But in hours, it all came to an end… and it wasn’t even because Darun had jinxed them.

The latest of the Nixian rivers they crossed was hollow, broken but empty, so the group simply walked across the bottom and climbed out. It took a great amount of effort, leaving them stumbling from cold exhaustion. At least there were fewer akashic in their way.

The frozen landscape had already been relenting, especially as they began to see wide shadows cropping up in the mist. Now they realized that shade was created from fractured spires arching up like splintered spears thrust into the ground. They ran along a great body of water that dwarfed the countless lakes and rivers they had crossed.

They spotted more walking corpses ahead, shambling faster, running further into the unknown hidden by the storm. Pacing nearer, the expedition began to hear a soft hum in the air, perhaps what was attracting the hollows. It was Clive who realized that it wasn’t a hum, it was a band of noises ringing together. Forming a discordant song.

The nearer they got, the more they could make out the pieces of that harmony. The crashing of shields, the snapping of spears, the blunting of swords, the screams of men. That song was finally given form amidst a break in the ashen storm.

Absolute chaos.

Across the greatest of the Nix Styria’s frozen rivers was a war between frigid soldiers in colorless Sanbreque regalia, and the ever increasing multitudes of vicious akashic thralls crossing the splintering ice to destroy them.

“Mother’s Chill.” Darun swore and shivered. “I think we found the imperials…”

“Busy doin’ what they always do.” Vel spat out of her mask. “Only this time they’re making war with the only thing more mindless than them.”

There were the makings of perhaps a hundred Sanbreque men along that river, struggling without magic to defend against the hordes of mindless akashic thralls, cutting into the southerners without remorse. Worse yet, as the akashic died easily, the aether they left behind poisoned their slayers… eventually turning more hollow and adding to the dead’s army.

"This isn't war." Clive whispered, "It's slaughter."

The akashic were numerous, taking many shapes and forms but were too few in number to win… but they’d make a dent, and whatever remained would easily out-number the Jaegers watching in the fading haze. Not that Clive could even think about that in the moment, nor the akashic behind them, still stumbling in the direction of that discordant song… not knowing what was in their way.

Spending so long with so few, Clive hadn’t been prepared to see so many human beings in one place… it was nauseating. Exhausting just to look upon the death and carnage, especially because of how numb he was to such a sight. The consequences of Eastpool and Drake’s Breath forced this event to ring hollow in Clive’s ears. But then a final instrument was added to that hollow song. The sounding of a war horn blared through, as the Sanbrequois leadership along that river signaled a retreat. They were fleeing north.

Further into the storm and their true objective.

The horn had other repercussions that Clive was too momentarily distracted to notice. Hence why Vel had to yank his arm, screaming that they needed to run. The akashic behind were now sprinting in their direction, crossing those broken rivers in mere moments (some even leaping with impossible strength). Clive would have resisted that tug had Torgal not tripped him forward to follow.

Amidst his stumble, Darun pushed past Clive, cleaving his axe through two frigid ghouls, yelling once again for everyone to “FUCKING RUN!” More of the hollows would have ran for him had they not then been swallowed by a wide block of ice materializing in the air. Fenna’s creation.

Clive slipped and fell on his ass seeing the creatures engulfed in frost, blocking the rest… Darun stood Clive up only to nearly trip himself as the momentarily hindered akashic simply climbed the barrier and continued raging. Their archers’ arrows gave Fenna and the rest cover to get moving but they could only buy the expeditioners so much time as the horde became especially aware of what else shared their air. The Jaeger panicked, forgoing all sense of grace and tact to just fucking get out of here.

That was all Clive could focus on in the moment, not fighting, not contributing… just not dying. And given the company he shared, that was a very popular focus to have. If only they had a better direction to flee in, given they went the same way of the damned imperial legion.

Mortley was the first one they lost in that sprint across the ice. Fenna had been overusing her own aether to reinforce the ground beneath them and to torpedo any attackers. But her magic was fluctuating, unable to protect herself. An akashic beast jumped for the bearer but the falcon masked jaeger took the attack instead, failing to spear the creature himself and becoming the express target of five more leaping hollows. Darun would have halted had the falcon told him to keep running, and had Mortley not vanished under the ice with his attackers.

By that point they had crossed paths with fleeing imperial troops, absolutely unable to tell between the Jaeger and the akashic. So the Sanbrequois attacked everything without discrimination.

Like usual.

Luckily that meant the akashic had far more targets that lady luck’s dice would favor, but now they had to contend with others also just as desperate to not die in the north. In any altercations with them the Jaegers couldn’t focus on decisive blows, only to strike and keep running. In that vein, Vel and their other archers took care to shoot down several Sanbrequois, not killing many but slowing them down long enough to give the expedition time to pass… especially given the akashic would then haunt the stragglers. But very quickly they lost more archers and Vel had to sacrifice her quiver to evade being pulled down into the ice by akashic hounds that Torgal was struggling to counter. So instead she took to throwing her glass bottles, a major personal sacrifice, Clive realized.

Darun especially was reeling with his axe dulling in the bloodshed. Clive saw a dragoon managing to split it in two and crack his mask with a swift jab of a polearm but the fox kept running, not caring if it looked like his tail was between his legs. Gaun followed him, sticking a piece of that broken axe into a ghoul’s face. Unintentionally leaving it open for Clive.

With Joshua’s sword in hand, Clive regained his composure and managed to deter plenty of attackers, but his magic was unreliable, more so with each increasing draft of aethereal fumes he breathed (even if that oddly helped to restore his magic). He struggled to align his mind to Lord Murdoch’s teachings about how to use his blessing, creating haphazard bolts of light that seared akashic and blinded imperials.

And accidentally Torgal… at least Fenna was able to help the hound.

As the others were stalled when forced into the frontlines of the retreat, Orla was stabbed by a legion of pikes and all Clive could do was feel that shock and frustration building in his hands. It was whiplashed suddenly with the sight of more akashic coming for him.

Intently for him, it seemed.

The dithering flames rumbled and finally he breathed steam and released it, blasting through so many hollows… and the frozen ground Fenna had been struggling to maintain. At least there weren’t waves below.

In hers and the others collapse, Fen hadn’t a chance to call Clive an idiot as he miraculously avoided the fall, blasted away by his own damn magic. The Marquess was also far too enraptured in the fumes of dead akashic filling his nostrils and bringing back that cough. His mind was swelling, that tension building up and boiling over in his foolishness.

He knelt on the slowly melting ice, looking for his sword and calling for the others, if they were alright…

That concern stopped immediately, as Clive squinted through the haze and saw him.

Amidst the collapsing front-lines of this haphazard battle was a figure Clive Rosfield recognized in an instant. It was an old dragoon with bloodied silver hair, thrusting a bent mythril spear into the disintegrating chest of an akashic northerner. He coughed, batting away the aether air as Clive saw a fresh three-weeks-old scar running along his missing eye.

The exact one Jote said she took.

It was the man who invaded their homeland with Prince Dion, imprisoned his brother at Phoenix Gate and burned Eastpool to the ground. General Brennus—

“Carrion…” That burning returned as Clive couldn’t discern anything besides the sight of that bastard shooing away a caravan of frigid chocobos, shouting orders to his men and blowing that damned horn again. Clive heard nothing from his freezing companions busy climbing out of that hole whilst Carrion was fleeing with his Sanbrequois.

Like the coward he always was.

All Clive could hear was that ringing in his ears, realizing immediately why Carrion was here of all places, heading in the same direction that the Jaeger were. That realization fanned the flames, anger burning inside of Clive Rosfield. Those flames from his dream returned with a literal vengeance.

“I’ll kill him.” Jill’s voice snarled in his head, becoming Clive’s. “I’ll kill them all.”

Clive plucked the Burning Thorn from the ice, pushing forward into the storm to find that sword’s mark. He perceived nothing else, not even a shellshocked Darun pulling Fenna from the hole, yelling for Clive to stop, to turn around, calling him a bleeding cunt. Torgal tried to follow but Vel held the dog back. More akashic Clive ignored were coming upon them, so they had no choice but to keep running into the storm.

If only they understood…

All it took was for Carrion to die, and the imperials would crumble under their own honor-lacking weight. Jill and his new friends would be safer with them removed from the board. Joshua and Rosaria would be safer. Of all Clive couldn’t do right in this relentless place, if he could at least do that…

So what if it was for revenge? Revenge is a weapon, like Clive was. So just this once he’d let it control him. For everyone’s sake.

Perhaps Ifrit was good for something.

The Burning Thorn lived up to its namesake, taking flame as Clive cut through an imperial bearer. The branded man died uselessly as Clive overtook the storm with his flames, cleaving through akashic and Sanbrequois without discrimination and releasing more wicked flames in his wake. His magic seemed to finally align to his will. He and Ifrit were in agreement.

With that fiery blade in hand he marched forth, frigid ground cracking but obeying his whims as Clive built up speed and momentum to run through that crumbling frontline, after that fleeing silver-headed coward. Calling out his name again and again, killing more of his followers with sharp decisive strikes. Lord Murdoch would be impressed.

Few could hear Clive amidst that chaos, but most that saw him would take on look at the burning devil and run back into the storm. Only the dragoons would stay put to fight, not that they’d last long either in the face of those scalding flames. The ground seemed to be resisting him far better!

In that moment all Clive could see was who he wanted to kill, that vitriol tainted his vision with hues of relentless gold. He burned hot enough that whatever debris from the storm burned away in an instant. According to Joshua, this is what they called a semi-prime.

It wasn’t Ifrit yet… but he preferred it this way, still being in control. He could live with it being the last thing Carrion saw before Clive Rosfield took his other eye.

With an urgent blast of flames, Clive was upon his mark suddenly, exhaling steam in the blizzard as Carrion was thrown into prone, his weathered mythril spear rolling away until he caught it.

Carrion hadn’t even realized what was happening when what appeared to be a burning akashic was hunting him in the mist. Not bothering with words he was so mindless in that pursuit.

Nor did Brennus Carrion have anything to say in his defense when facing the devil. Perhaps he just wanted it over with. Clive could understand that…

This nonsense had gone on far too long already.

Clive and the Burning Thorn was mid lunge when the old one-eyed man thrusted his spear and rolled. Striking not towards Clive, but where Clive would land up to complete his missing strike.

What?

With no aplomb the ice splintered and broke beneath the burning marquess. He tried in vain to summon the Phoenix’s strength to traverse that gap… but Joshua’s light couldn’t reach him. Neither could Jill’s. So he did as the Fallen did… and fell.

Despite Clive’s assumptions, it seemed Brennus Carrion was a northman, after all…

As curious of a sight for one to witness, the one-eyed elder had no choice but to depart with his men. He had far more important things to do. Survival in the face of an akashic horde was chief among them. Entertaining grudges with upstart lordlings ranked very close to the bottom (where Clive Rosfield now dwelled). 

So he moved on and allowed that glint of yellow eyes to fade into the storm.

Just another lost tonberry cursed with painfully limited vision.

In his rough landing, his flames wavered and darkness overwhelmed Clive’s vision as he was condemned to the bottom of that that frozen river for an untold amount of time. Despite the concussion, at least he wasn’t wading waves. With that burning headache rearing its ugly head, he might have risked drowning.

Clive struggled to stand, to move… realizing the longer he stayed down here, the further Carrion would get. In realizing that, his headache only grew worse, stemmed in that incongruity. He looked across the cavern, seeing the gleaming of the Burning Thorn under a bout of ashen rubble. Perhaps he could use it to stand like that damned cane, but Clive couldn’t reach it.

Thankfully, he wasn’t alone…

He heard a tapping of paws on the ground, the kind he had known for a long time. Always a good sign.

“Torgal… come here. I need your help boy.” He said, struggling to push off of his knees. Clive instead was answered with a snarling growl.

It was with disappointment as Clive turned to look upon a wolf with startling blue eyes: it lacked Torgal’s diamond. More aether dripped out of its mouth like drool. Perhaps it could smell Clive’s.

“Fuck…”

In the face of that whiplash, Clive was defenseless as the beast bolted into him, its great jaws trying to bite his fucking head off. In that lunge Clive was pushed further back in the cave, and used all his strength to resist the wolf’s bite. He tried to grasp its head, to snap its neck but such an action did him no help. The dog in its strength pushed him forward and Clive nearly got a hold of the Burning Thorn, only missing so slightly as the dog chomped towards his face.

He finally reached it but the dog bit into his shoulder and Clive growled himself feeling that boiling anger resurfacing. He managed to draw the sword. The effort was far too late as the mindless beast was about to dig into his jugular.

And then it didn’t.

The beast vanished into aether and starlight, leaving a coughing Clive stumbling in that cave looking upon a dark hooded shadow that now stood over him.

Resembling a tonberry without a tail. Surely brandishing a knife meant for him.

Their kind weren’t something that’d easily release a grudge.

With his anger and that blade in alignment, Clive was mindless. He drew the sword upon the shade, his burning arms were caught mid-swing by gloved shaking hands. Hands far weaker than his own. They felt as if they belonged to the arms of a stone statue, shakily facing the force of Clive’s flames.

In that struggle Clive stood, pushing the figure to the ground, his blade nearing its throat. That hood fell away, spilling out a face Clive Rosfield hadn’t truly looked upon in what felt like years. With those silver eyes and that slight bend to her ears and her thin nose, she looked so much like Jill, it was beyond uncanny. Even her hair seemed the right shade of silver in the dim light of that colorless cavern. The only thing false about the resemblance was the faded brand woven into her aged cheek.

This had to be some kind of sorcery. Or was Clive simply going mad?

“Rosfield, stop this!” The bearer commanded him, even somewhat sounding like Jill. “You aren’t yourself!”

And like Jill would in that moment, Fenna sound terrified. Like Clive was.

“WHO ARE YOU?!” He shouted in spite of that fear, those flames amidst him intensifying. That teal ribbon smoldering once more.

He could feel Ifrit again in that moment, wanting out. And so could Fenna. In that light her eyes gleamed blue.

With that bearer’s terror came a flash of sky-blue aether, forcing Clive to stumble back. The witch’s incomprehensible magic mixed in a pot with his confusion. In that fleeting moment he felt weaker, lesser.

Like his burning soul itself was being sapped, drained. Left to smolder.

“You witch… what have you d-done to me?”

The sword clattered to the frigid ground as the yellow reflection in Clive’s eyes began fading, tinged with guilt, confusion and boiling exhaustion. He whispered that four-letter name on his breath and promptly collapsed.

His flames and consciousness finally faded as the storm raged above them… and only them.

Fenna of the Fenrir was hovelled, hyperventilating in place. Hands shaking in a way they hadn’t in what felt like decades, overflowing with a burning energy of unknown origin. She yanked off a melted glove, watching a surge of blue flames amidst her stony hands releasing back into the ground, its remnants settling into her very core… fingers stiffening ever so slightly. A price for such a gift bestowed from the cruel heavens above.

A gift to steal and suppress aether. It made her wish to throw up.

“Why did you make me do that!?” The trembling thief shouted at the downed marquess.

Not that he could answer. Not that he even knew the answer. Despite his incessant murmurs, all Clive could give her was that damned heat radiating from his body, particularly his thick head. A fever had engulfed him, perhaps the same one from his nightmare. But he was still breathing at least, there was something to work with. And she was nothing if not a consummate professional for her patients. Darun could attest to that, wherever he was.

Oh hells, Darun…

For a brief while she watched that singed ribbon on Clive’s arm fluttering, somehow still intact despite his asinine endeavors to burn it away. Fen couldn’t bring herself to touch it with her aching hand, instead looking up to the source of that wind, an endless graying haze growing darker with each moment… she caught more ashen snowflakes in her stiff grasp.

They’d never find Jill at this rate, she’d be stone well before then. And as for Clive…

With a heavy heart the troubled bearer shivered just a bit and looked back down to the murmuring marquess, feeling that scared warmth radiating from him. Of all the people to be lost with inside a hollow deadland river… At least they wouldn’t need a fire.

“The fear will pass, I promise.” She whispered for both their sakes.

Indeed Clive was lucky, it would seem another lost Tonberry had followed him down into that hollow pit. So now they could be lost together.

Chapter Text

It was Eisa that had noticed it was a new moon that night…

They were beside a smoldering tree in the Crestwood whilst Iskald burned to the north. Ash flowed like snow, melting in that haze. Amidst the sting of Riloh’s betrayal and Geir’s death, only one thing was keeping her mistress going. Fenna kept reminding her of it as they pushed south. She needed to hold on a little longer, so Eisa could see Jill again.

Her Little Star.

But that wasn’t enough to replace what Eisa was losing. Nor was Fenna and all her bearer magicks combined. Yet she continued in vain to save her mistress. To save her little sister who rescued her all those years ago. And then again only hours earlier from the venomous sting of a blade across her cheek.

“Fen, I…I—” Eisa struggled to speak, coughing up more blood, whilst Fen was trying with all her might to push back, to stem the tide, to seal that horrid wound. “It’s too late… Metia’s watching.” She whispered, seeing that red star amidst the burning branches. Shining alone.

When faced with perhaps too much attention, the anxious dog had a tendency to roll about in the snow. His caretaker didn’t mind. Fenna of the Fenrir was more than happy to allow Torgal’s dalliance in the storm whilst she kept watch entrenched in the entrance. The haze that had overtaken the blinding horizon had settled into a dark ashen night. For now they were alone. Nothing was watching them, not even Metia.

She was alone, minding her shaking hands in the cold. The gloves didn’t seem to help much.

Her hood was down but the witch was use to the chilling wind’s bite on her branded cheek. It was almost a comforting presence, like an old forgotten friend. Utterly normal as the breeze through her graying hair. As long as that wind continued… so too did its caster. And so too did the runt’s fun in his winter wonderland.

She wondered how many snow-filled days the hound had enjoyed with his true mistress under Metia’s watch. Unbothered.

“If you wanted the night watch you could’ve just asked.” Had it been anyone else, she would have rushed to replace her hood. But Fen could pick out that voice from a mile away, from a man only a few years her junior. Someone she had begrudgingly spent the better part of a decade caring for. Despite thinking herself to have better instincts, Fenna allowed her lonesome vigil to be intruded upon by the Fox and his dirty lantern. “Though I reckon that requires communication. Something the old wolves that reared you frowned upon.”

The oaf was beside her now, unarmed and a head taller watching the frostwolf enjoying himself in that ashen sleet. Thankfully Torgal no longer needed to growl in Darun’s presence. It was a wonder what a few days of interactions could accomplish. For Fenna it was similar… presumptively.

He didn’t ask if she was cold, or how her hands were. After all, that would make Fen appear to be a burden. She’d refuse to speak for the rest of the night. Not that she was already speaking.

“I’d ‘ve offered it to Vel, but she’s busy cutting ice with your blue-eyed-thief.” He dropped the lantern as Torgal glanced up, associating that name with treats. “That hare has a way with strays.” His arms crossed. Given the way Jaegers wore their second faces, body language was a pertinent skill. His shoulders buckled with concern.  “You don’t think… she and that lordling—?”

Darun’s annoying curiosity was too much to bear, not when Fenna knew the answer.

“Of course not.” She hissed with the wind. “Vel has far more discipline than you give her credit. Certainly more than you.” And then she made a mistake, forgoing her own discipline. “As for Rosfield, he’s spoken for. The princess is his intended.”

Despite her attempts to hide it, Fenna’s colorless dull eyes crinkled in that admission.

The fox didn’t react to her spite. Not even with the typical smugness that he got her to talk.

“I suppose laurels are in order, were you in any mood as kin to offer them.”

“Kin.” On her lips that sounded like a foreign word, something that surely couldn’t apply to her.

“And if we could actually grow any.” He pressed a hand through his hooded hair. “Pa used to talk about a garden my mother tended back east. Grew lots of poppies and snow-daisies, even some of these uh… blue ones. Sure would be useful right about now.” A nice distraction, even if it was very un-Jaeger-like.

Silence followed that attempt to keep the conversation flowing. Fenna continued watching the dog playing in the snow, not in the mood for chit-chat. Eventually her companion grew fed up with it.

“You really are impossible, Fen. You know that?” He scowled behind that visage, not unlike how angry his father could get behind that mask. A tendency his stoic brother had evaded.

Fenna didn’t turn.

“First you say you want nothing to do with this job, then you wake up and announce to Mateo and the heavens above that you’re itching to come along. This fluffy runt shows up at that wreck? Fine, he’s kinda cute, I can work with that.” Torgal appreciated that.

Darun could even work with chasing this visor blinding storm.

“But then this Lordling upstart appears out of the literal aether.” He groaned. “This strappin’ southern lad cut from his father’s clothe, in his father’s clothe.” Darun’s shrouded head cocked in the lamplight. “Who you apparently recognized.”

As Fenna remained mute, Darun huffed as if she had said:

“What, are you bitter I had a life before all your tribal bumpkin nonsense?”

It was Fenna’s common tactic, where sometimes not saying anything said the most. Because that drove Darun crazy.

“I gave us an out, Fen. Could’ve made him Mateo’s problem. But you insisted we take him along, practically tie my hands ‘hind my back. I’ve yet to understan’ why.”

He sounded exasperated, bottling this up for the past few days. Yet Fenna didn’t tremble in his frustration. It wasn’t her way to ever admit a mistake.

“The boy seems useful. I figured maybe he’ll rub off on you.” But sometimes words also said more.

Darun didn’t react to that transparent attempt to get under his skin. Besides, Fenna knew he was far too stubborn to ever let that occur.

“Ha-ha.” He groaned. “No utility is worth this much sodding about in lonesome caves.” He complained, momentarily seeing through her. “If this be some vie for control ‘cause your worried aught he’ll do to the girl if someone with more sense ain’ there to watch ‘em”—

He would have said he agreed but Fenna cut him off. It was a vie for control, but not in that way. Fenna didn’t come all this way to be a glorified chaperone for teenagers.

“He’d never dream of hurting her.” She admitted sharply, despite the storm she could see things very clearly. “He’s the archetypical knight, the kind Moss and his scholars write about. Deluded in his devotion to his lady.” She spat, learnedly. “So much that he’s unable to see what’s right in front of him, at his very fingertips.” Such a statement earned a confused glance from that mask, his lens must have been foggy given his need for clarification.

“Fingertips?”

“His magic, Darun. The flames that follow his every footstep.” She turned rigidly. “He tries to hide it, but Rosfield carries gifts from other Eikons beyond the Phoenix.” Her stiff hand around her shaking casting arm tensed. “Shiva’s will is amongst them.”

She could feel it breathing within Clive Rosfield. Like she felt it in the storm swallowing those mountains. It was leading him, same for the dog.

“Possessing one is a feat that’s impossible for most. Yet he contains multitudes.”

Darun was astounded she would open up, Fenna wasn’t one to talk shop. Sadly he lacked far too much context to be alarmed.

“Does that make him dangerous? Or just the regular kind of dangerous, like you?” The witch squinted just a little from that. “I dunno how blessings work, but usually that means the dominant has ‘stowed their favor right? Like the protectors from your old tribe, and his princeling brother?” Darun begrudgingly knew that about Clive. “If he’s earned the princess’s, shouldn’ that put your worries to rest?”

Fenna was flabbergasted by her friend’s capacity to presume.

“That’s not even where my worries begin.” She stressed. “We found him Darun, the Archduke’s son, of all persons, in an aetherflood. He must have been soaking in there for hours, faced with enough aether to turn a hundred bearers hollow. Yet he’s none the worse for wear.” In fact he reminded Fenna of the dog, practically absorbing that danger and trauma like a sponge. “He burns far hotter than even the Phoenix would permit… And I want to know why.”

It wasn’t just why Clive could do such things, but why providence seemed so intentional of aligning them. Why was she faced with this thieving outsider when Eisa’s child was still so far out of reach?

“He’s hiding something… and he’s a poor liar.” A liar that hid behind their usefulness.

Putting them all in danger for the sake of their own ignorance.

“If that ain’t the Tonberry calling the knife dull.” The stubborn fox answered, vexed.

“Darun—”

“There’s pleny you’ve never told me, Fen.” He tensed. “You having a sister, a niece, that’s not nothin’. But I’ve yet to grudge you for that, for all that comes with. Should I start?” Darun countered, earning a stone-faced scowl.

“You can’t seriously compare—”

“I seriously can.” That mask came off, revealing his tired as sin bedraggled face. His green eyes furrowed, that scratchy unkept beard creased. “Look how serious I am.”

Admittedly, Darun looked very serious. Fenna was taken aback, he was never angry with her. Usually it was just someone else.

“It burns me to have to advocate him… but Clive’s been little else but useful since we’ve dragged ‘im out of that flood.” She could see that seething frustration in admitting that, accepting his own inadequacy. “We are fighting for our lives here, and that boy…”

He stammered and sighed. Eventually regathering his bearings.

“You utter this witchy gaff about Dominants and blessings, and I’m certain that it’s worth frettin, rightfully so, but… but that’s not why you’re busy sulking about him.”

Despite her intention to be unreadable like a covered book with missing pages, Darun knew her far too well. As easily as she could read him, it went both ways.

And like his, her mask was missing.

“You’re not fooling anyone. You can admit it, Fen… you’re jealous.”

While Fenna didn’t react, there was a brief lull in the storm as Fenna turned off, watching the dog instead. Darun hit the nail on the head, but it wasn’t jealousy, not like his. It was… something else. A resentment directed towards Clive Rosfield for mere circumstance.

She used his presence to mask her own insecurity.

“Rosfield’s devoted to this quest because he knows my nie—” She resisted that word, refusing to let it be real. “He knows the princess. far better than anyone dead or alive. Even…” She contemplated that silver-haired little girl the Archduke took from Iskald, from her grieving mother. “My sister had six years with her daughter,” her rigid hand tensed. “Clive had twelve.”

Valisthea was a land riff with injustice. To separate Eisa and Jill was such a horrid thing to remember. So now here came that man’s son, as a hollow reminder of what had been taken from her sister. A woman who was now a mere memory. Destined to fade like their homeland.

“And what about you?” Darun’s look softened. “Also six?”

“Less.” Her silver eyes sunk low to the frigid ground. “Mara had far less.” She answered with guilt, for a child she spent years refusing to love. Back when she was far crueler, living under that wretched name. But that faded memory was a lifetime ago. Something she had done her best to forget.

The same way she hoped Jill had forgotten about her old governess. Such a name she had only told Darun about once. Mara was her old mask, a consolation gifted by a dead people. Something no longer of any use when her world collapsed in that horrid fire.

Fenna was the mask Eisa returned to her, and she’d rather die than part with it.

In her melancholy, Fenna was presented something: Darun’s mask. It was something of great importance that his father had passed down to him. To offer such a treasured possession was a term of endearment between Jaegers, to willfully be vulnerable in such a way. Like it was for Fenna to be looked upon without her hood.

She looked up to him, those wayward green eyes settling with a soft hopeful smile.

“Then it sounds like there’s lots for him to tell you.” The fox offered quietly. “All you need do is suck up your pride and ask.”

With trepidation she sucked up her pride and took the mask, sighing as Darun watched the dimples along her brand slowly crease out of that eternal scowl. It flickered like her grasp on Darun’s other face. It was heavy, far heavier than Vel’s. She hadn’t anticipated that.

Yet Darun was pleased. perhaps they had both compromised themselves in that moment.

“And while you’re at it, you can grill him about the other stuff.”

At the suggestion that her concerns about Clive Rosfield was just stuff, Fenna grumbled only a little. She resisted allowing it to ruin the moment. Supposedly some would call that growth. But her dear friend wouldn’t. Darun in his fox-like wisdom wouldn’t have her any other way.

Wolf and all.

When Torgal had finally wrapped up his important dog-business his associates weren’t ready to depart. He turned tail and wandered back into the cavern, not wishing to intrude. Not when Vel surely had more treats to share and Clive was in dire need of a pillow.

This time Torgal couldn’t reach his master. They’d take their rests separately.

As a forlorn Clive wandered that endless snowfield once more, it wasn’t with confusion, nor was it trepidation. It was with exhaustion. Sheer exhaustion. The kind that only defeat could bring.

Defeat and something else that he struggled to understand.

What had brought him into that position seemed especially hazy, whatever detail he discerned was pulled away instead by that burning sensation. It tried to push him in his usual direction, to wander… but Clive wasn’t so much in the mood. He was far too tired and drained.

Far too aware.

In that moment he finally noticed the repetitiveness of this place, feeling as if he had been wandering around in in circles for lifetimes, coming no nearer to what he wanted despite his efforts. In fact, given what he witnessed the last time… it would seem such blatant wanderings was only spiting him.

He also doubted Vel would be there with a bucket of water this time, to lull the beast back to sleep. To make up for Clive’s foolishness for chasing phantoms. Others, needing to make up for his shortcomings.

For a moment he spotted something in the distance, those silhouettes. Whispering those Iskaldi words and begging him to pay attention, to care. Before he would pursue, try and seek answers. But now Clive just felt far too tired to chase them.

To chase her.

It wasn’t Jill he was chasing here, he realized. Not really. So for just a single sacrilegious moment, Clive compromised and decided to enact an experiment.

He did nothing.

Clive simply sat down in the snow. He no longer chased whatever phantoms he witnessed, nor any voices seeking to spur him on, lead him astray. He stopped playing whatever game was being played. Because that was his choice. It wasn’t Jill’s dream or Cid’s or Ifrit’s.

It was his.

So just for once, he’d turn off his lantern and watch the festering darkness. Allowing those flames to wane in the wind. That shrouded shadow in the distance began to come nearer, but he did not stir. Even when she was right before him and Clive was unmoved. Well aware of his struggle to know if she was real or not. If he was real or not.

She ghost looked down on him, confused and watching Clive amidst an exhausted peace. So she minded the hem of her cloak and joined him, not unlike how the real Jill would. Just living in that silence. At least they weren’t alone, she was with her canine companion. The dog with the diamond on its head. Not Torgal but… not unlike Torgal. Like his mistress, his eyes were also a bright shade of cyan… not unlike the akashics.

Were these beings of aether, perhaps? Were they as tired of being chased as Clive was of chasing them? If so, he’d happily enjoy that moment of peace with these ghosts. To wait for the dream to end.

Despite that peace, Clive was overcome by curiosity. Perhaps that was his fatal flaw.

“Who does Jill wish to kill?” He asked, remembering that hatred that infested his heart the last time he was in this place.

The woman in her silence somehow gave him his answer. Perhaps the who didn’t matter as much as the why. Much like his grudge against Carrion, Clive had a good idea of why Jill would wish to do such a thing. He had walked that shattered castle himself, after all.

“Are the others safe? Torgal, Vel and Darun?” He asked, still finding no answer. Not even a glimmering in the storm.

So finally, Clive asked about his predicament. Not the greater one, this one. “What is this place?”

She turned, to look upon him with those gleaming cyan eyes. She answered him, finally.

“A place of belonging… where his chosen thralls gather. To churn.” The ghost quietly the dog’s head.

“Who is he? Your master?”

“…” That silence forced Clive to shift priorities.

“A man who calls himself Cid once mentioned having dreams like this… is he also a thrall of your master?”

Her shrouded eyes twinkled in that name.

“Ramuh is the cleverest. Only his curiosity could lead him into this place. Where the Greater Will hadn’t intended him to be.”

From what Clive knew, that did sound like the outlaw he knew. “Then where is Cid? Why isn’t he here tonight?”

No answer.

Clive sighed, shifting tactics once more. “Has my brother been here? What other thralls are allowed to dwell in this place? Just me?”

“No there is another… But you can’t find her here, you don’t know her song yet.”

“Her song?” Clive murmured, wondering if that was literal or not. “Do you know her song?”

“Of course I do… like any good sister would. Her song is quite old, unlike yours…”

Such a statement puzzled Clive.

“Are you a thrall?” He then asked. “Just who are you?”

She said nothing once more, pursing her lips as if that seemed obvious. Irking Clive just a bit, he finally looked away, eying the dog at her lap. Very comparable to Torgal, he realized. Was this also a Frost-Wolf? “Is he a thrall of your master?”

“No, he’s my trel.” She insisted. “My most dearest companion. There’s no better guide than him.”

“A guide?”

“None else could lead me out of the storm.” She grinned.

Such reverence surprised Clive. Perhaps the woman really liked her dog. Blue eyes was certainly a rare trait, akashic notwithstanding.

“What’s his name?”

The woman seemed pleased by that question, holding her furry companion close. Uncanilly reminding Clive of a young girl who used to carry Torgal around Rosilith when he was so small.

“This—" She breathed, beginning to fade amidst the darkening storm, “Is Fenrir.”

As those blue eyes in the storm vanished, it seemed Clive had finally started to ask the right questions.

When Clive finally woke, he was decidedly without a pillow, with an especially bitter taste in his mouth.

As a soldier, this accommodation was acceptable, but as a noble it was… off-putting. Such an arrangement his mother would never stand for (if she even could stand after such a night). As his stiff neck cracked, his eyes adjusted to the dark place he found himself in, not unlike that dream. But there was no snow here, no wind. It was a frigid cavern set upon a rocky river floor. Along him was a dripping wall of ice that faded into darkness. A thin pool of murky water had formed on that floor, but Clive was still dry, beached upon high ground.

How thoughtful of his host…

He was groggy, lethargic, discovering himself shirtless with bandages covering poulticed bruises, laired upon by a an acrid old blanket. Darun’s. Further off to Clive’s side laid his father’s cuirass sitting atop a neatly folded rosarian red winter coat and his worn boots. The Burning Thorn weighed the collection down. All looked moderately washed in that odd water and then left beside him to dry.

Jill’s ribbon rested atop that stack. Untouched.

His legs ached when he sat up to grasp it, feeling that cold gravel underneath his blemished soles. Perhaps he had been wearing a bit thin, Clive realized. Testing his weight on the ground, he thankfully didn’t have a limp. That blue-eyed wolf hadn’t harmed him as much as he feared. Everything was in working order. The ribbon was still intact in spite of itself.

In recalling his bout with that hollow beast, Clive looked up.

The hole Clive fell through was especially dark, little light peeking through, nor wind. As his eyes adjusted, he realized the hollow had been plugged with a layer of magicked ice. The storm continued to rage behind it, with a slim whistle of air on the other side.

Despite the dark overcast sky, he did notice brief bouts of shade trudging across that false ceiling. Seemingly unable to look down in their mindlessness. In the intervening hours the hollows had calmed down. Like Clive had.

Was that because the thing they had both been chasing had fled?

In recalling what transpired, Clive’s head ached. Before his rest it was a confusing rush of terror, excitement and tension… only to conclude with soul crushing failure.

“Carrion…” He murmured quietly, aching just a bit for a rematch, probably in spite of whoever reassembled him and plugged that hole.

While his memory struggled to recall what happened, it seemed that someone had been busy.

Far across the dark hollow he spotted a flickering of light. In coming nearer he realized it belonged to a familiar lantern. The one he stole from Garl, now partially repaired and residing in a corner further on higher ground with its new user.

It seemed the Jaeger’s shaman had fixed it herself… to guide her mysterious work.

Fenna was no longer bothering with that hood to hide her shame. The tonberry he was accustomed to was no more. Clive realized her hair wasn’t the silver shade he was accustomed to but in fact a heavily grayed chestnut that fell into an unkempt bob that reached her neck, not unlike Jill’s hair from their childhood. Far more manageable under the hood, even if it couldn’t cover her bearer’s mark that well.

Jill’s middle-aged doppelganger was working with a spread of solvents and ingredients from her pack. It was all withered old roots, chocobo bones and crushed up crystals and the likes. Even some ingredients from Clive’s belongings, including an apple (though he noticed several fresh bites in it).

All the witch was missing was a cauldron.

Instead she was using a cracked urn from a Fallen automaton and swayed the contents of the bowl back and forth (Clive could smell it, it seemed familiar). In her grasp was a dusky dark purple crystal, intended to draw aether to heat the concoction. Such a crystal Clive had never seen before. It cracked suddenly, earning a paltry “fuck!” She swore and tossed it into the grimy pool, pulling forth another gem to continue the job.

As the witch was immersed in her element, she seemingly didn’t notice the sound of Clive pulling on his shirt and approaching. She didn’t react to him, nor the heat of the urn on her burned hands.

“You really are a witch, aren’t you?” Clive stared down at her, perplexed and forgoing his manners.

Jill’s false facsimile paused, breathing slowly in and out. It wasn’t a reaction to that title more so than it was that she seemed unprepared for human interaction. So, she stayed immersed in the task at hand, pouring out that burning urn into a ceramic cup. She offered it to her weary patient, struggling to keep eye contact.

Much like the original Clive knew so well.

“It’s medicine for aether sickness.” She explained. “My own recipe… Well, my teacher’s but I modified it.”

Clive already had a good idea how it tasted given that bitter flavor in his throat, hence his resistance. Knowing it was being offered by someone that had knocked him out in this very cavern also did her little favor.

He stared, unconvinced, adding to Fenna’s vexation.

“If you don’t take it, you’ll pass out again.” Her tired gray eyes diffused. “And then I’ll have to pour it down your ungrateful throat.”

“Ungrateful?” He questioned with a scoff. “That’s a bit presumptive.” And extremely accurate. “But if I’m getting it anyways as you suggest, I suppose my consent doesn’t matter.” He stretched his limbs, looking past the cup. “So how about you sweeten the pot and answer some of my questions first, Lady Fenna. Then I’ll think about it.” He stepped a little closer, to get a better look at that light along Fenna’s rigid face.

She remained where she was, refusing to look at him.

“First off… why do you look like Jill Warrick?” He came even nearer, towering over her. “And what do you mean to do with her once she’s found?”

Those gray eyes squinted. Her brand crinkled. Gods she hated talking to people.

“Why this? Why that?” She imitated Clive’s voice, capturing the gruff very well. “Gods you sound far too young for that esteem you carry. Like a retching bairn swaddled in plate-mail.”

“I’ll have you know—”

“You know nothing, Rosfield.” She spat, slim eyes pointed like daggers. “You’re just some lordling waddling about where you don’t belong, looking for someone who doesn’t want to be found. Least of all by you.” Her silver stare pulled away, brimming in that vexation. “All along spiting any hand that tries to reach out for you. Terrified even for a second of feeling small and powerless.”

In that put down Clive was immediately reminded of his mother. Ironically given this woman had seemingly done far more for him than Anabella Rosfield had done in a lifetime of indifference. Yet Clive was vexed all the same.

“You don’t know me.” The blue-eyed-thief answered.

“I know enough. And I know her.” Those knowing eyes grimaced. “Of course she chose you. Your betrothed never liked taking her medicine either.”

Clive was taken aback. Was she seriously playing the Jill card right now? To make such a casual reference seemed sacrilege at this point in their brief relationship. Especially given all she had been hiding away from him.

Like Jill’s very face.

Her glare remained resolute, if shaky like the cup in her hand. Mirroring Clive’s own scowl. She should have been his twin rather than Jill’s. She certainly had the gruff voice down pat.

There was something else brimming as Clive smelled the elixir, dislodging an old memory. Jill sometimes spoke about the awful panaceas her governess made her drink whenever she was sick as a child. Hence why she was so resistant to taking the medication Maria would prescribe her. At least until Joshua started taking his with Jill.

Jill had never mentioned her old governess having a brand.

“By the flames… you’re her.” His eyes widened with astonishment. “You’re Mean Miss Mara!” That exclamation was somehow jovial. Was he smiling?

In response to his excitement, there was a squirming bout of anger building in the mean bearer’s eyes, the kind a parent or caretaker would get when faced with an unruly child. She was preparing to snap back like before, but instead… no words came out. Only a sigh and another bite of that apple.

“So she does remember me.” Fenna slowly said, spitting out a seed. “Mean Miss Mara…” Her finger on that cup unintentionally tapped with each word of that disparaging title.

Clive’s excitement sunk away in moments. Not even that vexation remained in the face of his pity.

“I’m sure Jill also had some good memories with Mar—with you.” He tried to backtrack, invent a story Jill never told him. But Fenna pushed his lies aside, focused only at the task at hand.

“If it helps you save face in front of an ailing bearer, my lady could never get her stubborn little star to take her medicine. So I took that task upon myself.” The cup was re-extended and Clive looked back into the concoction, peering past his murky reflection to the stone fingers clutching the cup. “That’s when your beloved learned to stop biting.”

Feeling like an ass once more, the Marquess finally compromised. He seized the cup and downed the bitter concoction in an instant. The afterburn was difficult, it truly was horrendous but it eventually stayed down. He felt more alert, less drained.

“Forgive me.” He offered respectfully. She didn’t acknowledge that, only handing Clive another unblemished apple from his satchel. They were running low. He took a seat beside her, sitting along the wall.

“I suppose now we can finally speak like grownups.”

Given how these were two strangers that had long struggled with proper adult communication, such a precedent was a difficult streak to break. Yet Fenna persisted in answering Clive’s questions, even if her answers were somewhat brief and lacking in substance.

Typically they revolved around the same permutation of “I don’t know.”

She knew naught what had become of Torgal and their companions like she knew naught where Carrion had ventured. Nor did she even know how long it had been since she had found Clive in that hole. Time seemed impossible to discern in such a place. All they could trust was that it was currently night time and Carrion had departed well before then.

And the longer they spent here…

“Torgal’ll find his way back to us.” Clive reasoned, trying to push away that dread. “He’s very resourceful.”

For once Clive said something Fenna agreed with.

“Yes, I suppose you taught him well.” She complemented him. “You and Jill.”

Clive took a quiet bite of that apple. “Your friends are also very resourceful.”

“No thanks to me.” Fenna shrugged. “They’re resourceful in spite of their stingy shaman.”

It was because of that she presumed Vel and Darun were in a better position than she and the marquess. They knew this territory far better than a sheltered lordling and a repressed bearer. Torgal was probably with them, also knowing better.

Amidst a lull, Clive found himself staring at Garl’s lantern, feeling the wick burning. He was about to ask about it when Fenna broached a different subject.

A far more personal one.

“You’re a dominant, aren’t you?” The old bearer watched him intently, witnessing that squirm in Clive’s face.

“How do you—”

“Even if you hadn’t been in that flood for hours, your kind has a way about yourselves, your magicks. Interesting scents that’re hard to overlook. I could smell your Eikon’s aether burning in the storm.” The bloodhound told him. “Like I smelled it the other night when Torgal began howling.”

Did Jill have a scent then? Clive wondered, too cowardly to ask. He was also too busy feeling sorry for himself to divert his attention. He had never told anyone about his Eikon yet a total stranger could sus it out in less than a week.

Amidst his silent confirmation, Fenna remained engaged. “So which is it? The Phoenix? Ramuh? Leviathan?” Clive’s gaze lowered in her brazenness.

If only…

“The Phoenix passed over me for my brother.” Clive sighed. “My creature is called Ifrit.”

Fenna’s glance twisted in that admission. Had she heard that word before? In that consideration she gave nothing away. Instead she looked elsewhere in the. It wasn’t the ribbon she was watching this time, but the imprint snaking of a blue handprint on his chest. A bruise that seemed impossible to fade even behind clothe. Like damage that was now a part of the canvas. It almost belonged.

“Does Jill know?”

Clive immediately scoffed.

“You think she’d want to marry me if she…” His heart sunk low in hearing what he uttered. “No. I didn’t even know.” He set down the apple, his hand tapping the ground. “They said a second Eikon of Fire had appeared in Eastpool, battling Bahamut whilst the Phoenix flew overhead. Given I attended that battle and dueled Dion Lesage, yet have no recollection of such a thing… I suppose that must have been me.”

It was a sobering thing to admit. To release those words into the ether was terrifying. Not because he was worried what Fenna would do, but because it simply made it more real. Jill’s silence over her gift made more and more sense the further down this hole Clive dwelled.

Fenna was especially passive, listening closely to detangle the knots in Clive’s history. Eventually she had a bone to pick.

“So your intended is Shiva, your brother is the Phoenix and now… Ifrit. I’m sure your father is very pleased with his luck.” She presumed.

The Archduke of Rosaria could do far worse than having three Eikons at his beck and call. But Clive couldn’t afford to think about that right now, to think less of his father in that way. His world had been shaken enough as is.

“You’re the first person I’ve told.” He admitted, sucking away Fenna’s grudge. “I figured, if I could just find Jill… then I could figure out the rest later.”

“What a dreadful scheme.” The bearer told him, Clive would laugh if he wasn’t so downtrodden. Instead she continued “Absolutely asinine. Truly horrendous… That’s a bad plan.”

And she hoped Clive felt bad for thinking it.

“I realize that now. But Jill needed me and I… she took precedence over my needs.” He squirmed, realizing he was admitting that he needed help, the very thing Fenna criticized about him about resisting. “Her chill is manageable now, but the more time I spend here in this blasted storm, the more I can feel Ifrit instead, wanting out.” His hand pressed to his chest, as if feeling Ifrit on his heartbeat. “He’s always been there, resting within me… now he’s finally awake.”

And it wasn’t like he could just send the blasted thing back to bed with a pail of water.

“And…” Clive sighed, begrudgingly looking upon the woman. “I need help.”

With that begrudging honesty, Fenna’s stern look softened a smidge, perhaps with pity. Despite how bitter that taste was, Clive wasn’t in a position to refuse whatever wisdom or medicine she could offer.

“Obviously I can’t entirely relate. But I’ve long heard there’s never such a thing as control when an Eikon is involved.” Fenna offered, as if that was elusive knowledge. “Beyond the Frostmaiden, many of the Motes also have ancestral rites for Dominants to gain mastery of their Eikons. But I suppose that can’t help you.”

Clive snorted in agreement, thinking of how useless the Apodytery was.

“In Rosaria we have rites for the Phoenix. But Ancestral Communion didn’t do my brother much help.”

He briefly thought of that mural, the winged creature.

“Did anything help?”

“Acceptance.” Clive felt a surge of pride for his brother, and frustration for himself. “The only thing that could help Joshua was Joshua. For me it’s… far more complicated. Far more confounding.”

He’d long accepted being passed over by the Phoenix, or at least he thought so. To now possess this creature instead, feeling Ifrit with each expelled breath… struggling to overtake the reins, it was a nightmare. Especially now as it began to command his dreams rather than Jill.

“His call is only dimmer now, because—” As Clive pondered, Fenna made a mistake… eyes darting away. It was much like Jill whenever he was about to discover a fib and she sought to avoid the subject. Protect her pride.

Hoping Clive would remain oblivious.

“What did you do to me? To lessen his voice?”

With that sudden attention, the silent curmudgeon grumbled, arms crossing. The brand along her face twisted, pulling back as her head shifted to the left, as if to hide it in her shade.

Oh how she resisted surrendering Clive an answer. That pity becoming petty frustration.

Some helper she was.

“If you say nothing, Shaman… I will shout as loud as I can, and then you can tell the akashic thralls while you’re at it.” Clive threatened, breathing deeply to prepare such a call to action.

“Fine.” She scowled, brow twisting. Her stony hands finally stopped tensing. “I syphoned some of your aether… took away Ifrit’s fuel and returned it to the ground. Now there’s less for him to burn to get going.”

The boy stared like a confused coeurl. “What?”

Confronted with Clive’s astonishment, Fenna grumbled, having no choice but to go into further detail. Building his understanding of the Fenrir brick-by-brick.

It was a nameless sorcery the Fenrir tribe had cultivated over generations, with their bearers acting as conduits to pull away another’s aether. It wasn’t too dissimilar to what crystal fetters did: separating a subject from their aether. Except these fetters were made to last far longer as bearers were far more resilient than flimsy crystals.

The act required much more effort, more training and discipline. And bearers could only contain so much aether before they turned hollow themselves, so it typically required teams of branded to stop a dominant from priming. From that moment the magic had to be released back into the earth or some other containing source, flowing seamlessly like a conduit.

It was far easier to perform in deadlands, given a dominant was already mostly stripped of aether from the land beside them. Stopping a bearer was even simpler. And Clive had already seen Fenna disintegrate akashics with a mere touch, breaking the bonds of aether that held the mindless thralls together.

This was the foundation of many sorceries the Fenrir had concocted, to divert the flow of aether. The very lifeblood of their world, thought unimaginable to most. Clive similarly lacked such imagination, noticing Fenna’s begrudging enjoyment in sharing the intricacies of her former vocation. As a Dominant, Clive might have been the closest thing she had to a peer. The witch hadn’t talked shop in decades.

Her clan was founded by bearers who discovered the secret by controlling aether in the crystal mines within Drake’s Eye to protect themselves. They realized if the aether flowing outside a being could be guided, so too could it be guided from within, even seized from one another. And if they could absorb aether from a bearer or crystal, siphoning a dominant was the next logical (if somewhat heretical) step. Not only could Clive’s brethren contain more power, but they drew aether in far greater quantities. They even had their own form of internal aether, unrelated to what the ground carried. The kind meant for priming.

Clive worried what the later steps could be if the Fenrir were able to possess more aether than their bodies could allow. It seemed almost a good thing that they lacked the Fallen’s technical innovations. He had no idea such a power existed, that it could exist.

In Fenna’s words, that was intentional. The powers that be didn’t want bearers in such a place of power, especially over a Dominant. That was how the Fenrir grew to prominence in the first place. They aligned themselves with the dominant of their homeland, using that alignment to seize control of Drake’s Eye from the Iskaldi… cementing their place in the Twins.

But of course there was some eventual blowback, as Fenna’s brand would suggest.

“By the time of the Accords our leaders were deposed and branded like our conduits. Those who took over were sworn to keep the secret to our own and those powers let us be knowing the value our magicks provided for the realm… and who we served as thralls.”

“Shiva.” Clive remarked, thinking of Jill while Fenna thought of another.

Hence how easily the Fenrir could die out, no longer possessing neither a Mothercrystal nor a mistress to draw magic from. Their purpose was stripped from them. A purpose that felt odd to Clive, given what he now knew about Fenna’s magic as an unwitting victim. In terms of ethics… it was something of a nightmare. One that was inching into Clive’s subconscious for reasons he struggled to understand.

“I don’t mean to insult you. But to me it doesn’t sound like your people served Shiva as much as you… controlled her.”

He had expected Fenna to react angrily, but instead she just sat there, mulling over that observation in that dirty lake. By then her apple was just a core that she had taken to breaking apart, removing the seeds.

“I think you already know what you want to ask about, Rosfield. So let’s hear it.” He could feel it, that slim terror in Fenna’s gaze. Not of Clive… but of something else. The truth. The real reason she hadn’t wanted to have this conversation.

 “Did you know about Jill?”

The brand didn’t twitch, her eyes were simply low, contemplating.

“When a dominant is born, most times it’s easy to tell right out of the womb, like your brother. Other times they’re late bloomers, like yourself.” Clive nodded.

“Or Jill.” He reiterated.

She sighed. “With Jill, I won’t say we didn’t see early signs, but our mistress begged us to ignore them.”

That surprised Clive. “I’d assume a parent would be overjoyed by such a thing.” His mother was, after all. Elwin not so much. “To know their child holds such consequence.”

“Consequence is a two-faced coin. That may be true in Rosaria, where the Phoenix Dominant is the heir to the ducal throne. But in Frostburr… the last Shiva was a child who we forced to prime so she could battle the prior Phoenix. Your grandfather.”

Clive turned a little bashful. “At Phoenix Gate.” An event that predated them both.

“It destabilized Fiona, destroyed her sense of self. And in the years since, she only got worse. My branded brethren didn’t so much control Shiva as we… contained her. For all the good that did.”

“You could keep her from priming, but you couldn’t stop the Everstorm.” Clive recalled, watching Fenna’s troubled look. “Perhaps what Jill’s father did was a mercy, then.”

Fenna sighed, as if she had undergone such an argument for years. Secretly wondering if what Geir Warrick had done was in part an arrangement made with an insider in the Fenrir, perhaps the very same one he’d soon call wife. Such thinking was a terrible thing to consider…

But what her people did was far worse.

“Lady Eisa was there all along, watching the horror of what we did to her mother day after day.” She simmered. “To strip someone of their aether, their very will… when done enough times it takes a part of them away. The dominant may recover but rarely are they the same. It hollows them out.”

Her hands trembled, he could hear them gnawing together, like churning stones. Beside them was quite the pile of apple seeds. “We made Fiona far worse than the Phoenix ever could. Nor Silvermane.” She added with remorse.

“Surely you couldn’t have known what you were doing. You were just as much a prisoner.”

That brand twisted, “Ignorance doesn’t earn absolution.”

She didn’t seem to know what could deserve such a thing… if such a thing even existed.

“So Lady Eisa wanted to pretend that her child was normal. Because she knew if anyone else had nary a suspicion, they’d take Jill away from her in an instant.” She turned away, fuming with that truth, angry on Eisa’s behalf. “Her child would be splintered into pieces and resigned to Shiva’s storm, to the very same cage my people built to hold onto their power. Another poor child stolen from Eisa’s family… just like her mother and her sister were stolen.”

What an irony it was, to speak of Jill being stolen with the son of the very man who did it… who came north to take her back south. But amidst that horrid discussion, Clive was confronted with a tidbit he hadn’t expected. He spoke before Fenna could continue. “Lady Eisa had a sister?” As far as Jill had suggested, her mother was an only child like herself. She mentioned an uncle but that was just a family friend. “What happened to her?"

As the Marquess’s curiosity got the better of him, the woman beside him dropped the spent apple core, her pile of seeds was complete. “She was Fiona’s firstborn, the Fenrir’s princess, carrying the tribe’s namesake.” She explained in a sterile manner despite her shaky silver gaze. “The girl was meant to carry Shiva’s line forward, but… she was defective, a late bloomer, and the Fenrir luckily had a spare.”

She paused abruptly, her stony aether-ridden hand creeping up, to rub that faded tattoo along her face, Jill’s face. It sent a trueborn chill down Clive’s back. He couldn’t look away as Fenna quietly eviscerated her façade.

“They found her fit for a brand instead, and her beloved little sister fit for a life of loneliness in their mother’s cage.”

In looking upon the face of such a disgusting truth, Clive could only whisper one thing. “Founder…”

The bearer wiped her eyes. Tears long spent, like seeds turned barren.

“Fen, I…I—” Eisa struggled to speak, coughing up more blood, whilst Fen was trying with all her might to push back, to stem the tide, to seal that horrid wound. “It’s too late… Metia’s watching.” She whispered, seeing that red star amidst the burning branches. Shining alone.

“Don’t talk, Eis… stay with me. It’ll be alright.” The elder’s voice cracked, struggling to summon more flickering aether. “You’re okay. We’ll find Jill and… and we’ll all be together. We’ll look at your star then!” She promised and swore with red hands.

“I… I can’t. I want to see her, but I… I just can’t.” Eisa trembled, no longer blinking in the face of that wrathful smoke. Yet she could see clearly for the first time in what felt like years. Her sister’s pained face especially. “You’ll just have to be enough for her.” Fenna shuddered from such words, such impossible words. “Promise-me-you’ll—" Her words slurred but Fenna wouldn’t listen.

“Don’t do this… don’t do this.” Her thrall begged, casting hand shaking. “I couldn’t save mother but you found me in that blizzard, You saved me Eis. It was always you!” She summoned more aether, struggling in vain to push off that wave…  even as her fingers stiffened and hardened with each pulse of magic. One thrall’s life wasn’t so massive of a thing to ask for if it meant little Jill could see her mother again, for Eisa to be with her little girl. “I am your thrall! So just let me do this once. Let me save you, Eis. Let me—” Fenna begged and begged amidst her sobbing but Eisa refused to hear it.

She couldn’t compromise on this. Nor could she allow someone so precious to make that sacrifice.

Clive tried to ask more of what became of Lady Eisa, had Fenna been there? Why hadn’t she gone south to find Jill? How could Rosaria have not known what happened? He stopped the questions quickly, too upset to function. And that was good because Fenna could barely function herself. After a decade, such questions couldn’t help them.

Her sister was dead… Clive didn’t need a missive from Metia to know that.

As easily as the words flowed before, they ceased rapidly. What could anyone say in the face of all that admitted heartache? So Clive and Fenna rested along that cold wall, as that pool of murky water grew inch after inch. The wick along Garl’s lantern flickered, making odd shadows along the hollow cavern, interacting with that growing pool.

Fenna had taken to tossing her seed collection one-by-one into the water to watch the ripples interact with the reflective shadows. Waiting for the night to end. Clive didn’t blame her. He started thumbing through his own apple core, to offer extra seeds as an offering. She accepted them without issue. They were now peers in seed collecting.

Perhaps the shield and thrall could plant a frostbitten apple tree and watch it wither and die long before taking root.

Within an hour of that silence, the storm hadn’t waned whatsoever, but Clive ran out of seeds to gift. So instead, he finally regathered his nerve, trying to broach the tension like Joshua or his father would. To lighten the mood.

“You know, Jill never mentioned an aunt… nor that it was Mean Miss Mara.” He murmured quietly, lulling Fen from her cold shadows. “You’d think it’d come up.”

He expected silence but Fenna was unlike herself.

“I told her once.” She shrugged, seed in hand. “It was ‘fore your father took her. But that was a horrid day for everyone involved.” The Marquess easily agreed as she tossed another. The skid was better, she was starting to get the hang of it. It remindd Clive of the time he spent at the Talons. “Probably just slipped her little mind… I’m sure she had far more important things going on than remembering some mean old witch.”

She threw another, even better this time. Fenna was a prodigy much like her niece.

“She did… Jill was always up to something. Plenty of seeds to throw across the water… or rocks.”

The mean old witch paused mid throw, frown twisting. She finally stopped depleting her collection, setting them aside.

“You grew up with her, you had years together. Far more than either me or Eisa.”

In the face of that accusation, Clive turned bashful. “And I’m sorry for—”

“No, I mean—” She scrambled, massaging her temples. “Like my sister, I’ve spent years not knowing Jill and… You actually know her.” Those eyes lit up, and for a moment Clive looked like the most important person in the world to Fenna, resembling someone else who valued Clive. “Tell me about Jill. Please.”

Clive was taken aback, not realizing that Fenna was a human being who wished to know more about her estranged niece. Not unlike how he reacted when he learned Vel knew Jill. It was a good change of pace from their prior inquiry.

“What do you wish to hear?”

“Anything, everything I…” She stammered, thinking over it quickly, thinking of that little girl. Her sister’s little girl. “Tell me what she likes.”

Clive paused, considering that image of his dear friend, running through the halls of Rosilith with ribbons in her silver hair. The smile that could light up the room, especially when she was with him and Joshua. There was only one thing could make her grin so brightly that had nothing to do with her beloved companions.

“Bread.” He admitted. “She loves to talk about bread.”

Fenna was instantly intrigued, and maybe even a little hungry.

“Was she a baker?”

“Nay, Jill was more of an enthusiast. A tastemaker, literally.” He grinned. “If it could be consumed, she had an opinion on it. Bread was a staunch topic in our household, always on the top of her mind.” He dangled that line, too tantalizing for the witch to resist.

“Go on, Rosfield. Say more.” Clive was slowly beginning to enjoy that nickname.

“Sometimes when I was training in the stacks, Jill was usually there watching and cheering me on with my brother. Well sometimes she’d be inconspicuously missing. I learned that was because she’d instead be down in the kitchens to help Joanna, our cook. At supper it’d earn her a larger portion that she’d share with me and with Torgal under the table.”

“That’s sweet of her.”

“I thought so too, until Joshua told me it was just so Jill could smell our supper and taste it early… give Joanna some notes.”

In that admission Clive saw something he didn’t think possible. A smile cracking at the bearer’s lips. A hum erupted as Fenna began a soft chuckle, turning into a steady and then full-blown laugh. Enough that Clive seemed briefly convinced the world was ending. In that sentiment, Clive joined in, laughing beside her.

Together they were laughing for four rather than two.

“That does sound like her.” Fenna admitted finally. “Eis would give that child anything she wanted. Spoiled her rotten.”

“Oh come on now, she wasn’t spoiled.” Clive objected.

“Maybe your Jill wasn’t, but ours? Silvermane’s silver-headed princess? The Cub of Iskald Keep?”

Clive realized this was going to be good.

“We’d watch her play with her snowmen out in the courtyard and at night after her mother would tuck her in, she would sneak out to bring them inside piece by piece. The snow’s ashen for crying out loud and she decides to drag them into the keep because she was worried her friends were getting cold.”

Clive chortled.

“This girl had the gall to blame me when they melted and covered her mother’s sitting room in all that grime. Claiming I must have melted her new friends with my stingy-bearer-magic because I was trying to get her in trouble with Mama.”

Clive was astounded not only by such troublemaking, but how Fenna managed to recreate young Jill’s voice. Both were especially like the girl he knew.

“I suppose Lady Eisa made you clean it up then?”

“She didn’t. My sister knew I was telling the truth.”

“So she took your side and made Jill do it.”

“Not a chance. This is her Little Star we’re talking about.” She beamed at her sister’s expense. “Eisa cleaned it up herself.”

“Really?”

“She hated making us do anything and that little runt could do no wrong in her eyes. Practically walked all over Eis with soot covered footprints.” That sounded awfully familiar to Clive.

“Well now you know where Torgal gets it from.” He answered. “Truly his mother’s child.” Amidst the duo’s almost-childish laughter Clive conceded Fenna’s point. “Maybe she was a little spoiled… but she did grow out of it. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Fenna repeated, wordlessly demanding that Clive elaborate. He easily acquiesced.

For the rest of the night and well into morning the two spoke at length about Jill Warrick, the girl, the myth, the legend. They spun webs and counter-webs about the nonsense both had gone through because of that silly girl’s antics.

For Clive it was impossible for him and his brother to say no to her, especially when she had an idea in her head. Once as children she had taken the initiative to dismantle an ancient suit of ancestral armor and goaded Clive into putting it on. Jill wanted to see it move. It did not fit him whatsoever. Even with young Joshua sitting atop his shoulders. When they were discovered, they had to beg Sir Tyler to not tell the Duchess nor Lord Murdoch. Jill was the linchpin in earning his silence.

In response, Fenna told a story about a time young Jill had climbed down into the Fallen ruins nested under Iskald, because she wanted to find a canary for her mother. So Fenna had to rescue the little girl from a reactivated Fallen Echo. The girl then proceeded to cry and cry like there was no tomorrow until she was back in her mother’s arms.

Fenna begrudgingly admitted she may have been a little too mean, motivating her to lie about Jill mistakenly falling into the hole rather than enacting her asinine scheme. Clive oddly recognized that story, only he and Joshua had just assumed Jill made it all up. In keeping with the prior tale, Fenna mentioned that she ended up lying to her sister about Jill’s intent. Finally earning the girl’s favor.

Eventually the chatter twisted into servicing the theme of Jill’s eventual maturity. In the years since her sordid beginning at Rosilith, Jill Warrick had grown into quite an upstanding generous young woman, despite living under the rigid thumb of Clive’s mother.

“The traitoress, right?” Fenna asked, earning a raised eyebrow. “We do still get news up here. We’re not that far into the ether.”

As Clive explained it, Anabella Rosfield was Mean-Miss-Mara times a hundred. No, a thousand! The original Mean-Miss-Mara enjoyed that sentiment, before realizing he was entirely serious. She was taken aback by the breadth of cruelties Clive’s mother unleashed on her niece.

Beginning of course with the ribbons…

Such a discomfort that Fenna had to experience on her sister’s behalf. Clive could see it as the bearer grew more rigid, pained.

“They were her mother’s.” She said simply, “They might have also been our mothers. I’m not so sure about that.”

Clive was frankly surprised Fenna recognized her sister’s ribbons. But he’d accept that praise.

“It meant the world to Jill to have them returned… that was the first time I saw her really smile.”

“It was probably the first time since she left her mother’s arms.” Fenna sighed, recalling her sister’s melancholy. “You did a good thing, saving them. They were very precious to Eisa… living memory.”

And Clive could see that memory as he pulled away the ribbon to inspect it.

“They’ve been through hell, literally… I’m pretty sure this is the last one.” He tried to offer the ribbon to her. There was a brief moment of Fenna acquiescing, drawn to the fabric like a moth.

But she ultimately resisted that sentiment, hesitant.

“Perhaps another time.” She sighed with discomfort. “Though you could take better care of it in the future. Ifrit.”

Clive handled that tease with tact and reapplied the fabric with a taut knot. In that gesture he caught himself remembering Eastpool and his mother’s obsession with the ribbon. The last in a long line of crimes committed against the north’s princess. All concluding at the shore of the Talons.

Such an occurrence Clive still couldn’t make heads or tails about. His mother lapping those waves with acceptance.

The further Clive explained, the more exasperated Fenna became, stressing between the reality of Anabella’s cruelty and Clive’s storytelling choice to reframe the events as an epic tale starring a wonderous silver-haired heroine and her horrid step-mother. All the more perplexing given the climax with Shiva, and the silver-haired heroine leaving in disgrace.

But rather than dwell on that, Fenna focused instead on Clive’s chops as a storyteller. He wasn’t too terrible.

“Sounds like something cribbed out of the annals of Avon or Grossman.” She eventually said, Clive blinked at that learned opinion. “We also have libraries. Many, some even intact.” That earned even more curiosity. “Upon our reunion, my sister insisted I catch up, practically drowning me in books amidst her pregnancy… making me read them to her, for the baby’s benefit.”

Hence the storytelling emphasis. Moss was amongst her favorites. Her mother’s journals were a close second.

“Did she have any preferences?”

“Anything with a tonberry.” The bearer squinted. “Thought our mother’s description of them sounded cute.”

Clive flinched, knowing Jill read a couple similar books herself. It was a very interesting phase when Jill stopped liking stories about moogles.

“Awful Madam Ana was far worse than any tonberry, I promise you.” Clive swore. “I’d love to see Darun knock her under some ice.”

Fenna certainly had a passing curiosity for such a sight herself.

Jill’s difficulties in Rosilith were evergreen, but Fenna could see a throughline developing as Clive went through it all. The more Jill bounced back stronger from her hardships, the more Clive’s dedication shone through.

The more that singed ribbon suited his arm.

“I assume it was Jill that proposed?” She finally asked.

Clive smiled. “You assume right.”

It was difficult to look back on, knowing all along that Jill had carried a torch for him, ever since Elwin brought her to Rosilith atop Margrace. He imagined her in the shadows along the wall, following him like a lost pup, holding a lost pup.

He thought of when thy reunited at his uncle’s funeral… how Jill hugged him for so long.

“She was always praying to Metia that I’d return to her.” Perhaps if the star could see them now, he’d be embarrassed. “Always waiting for me with a smile, asking how I was, doting on Joshua in my stead. Putting up with my chivalric nonsense.”

Clive mentioned he even got Jill to read Saint and Sectary, Fenna flinched and looked off, not really an enthusiast for that text. Darun and Eisa had separately heard plenty of her complaints to span a lifetime. But she’d keep that to herself, too momentarily distracted.

“It took me far too long to realize it… the depth of her feelings.” He smiled sweetly, patting that ribbon that had gone through so much. Now serving as a lifeline to his beloved.

In the talk of proportions, Fenna was astounded. Her sister had once said when Jill had left Iskald, she took her mother’s heart with her in its entirety. To know that girl had granted it to someone like Clive Rosfield of all people… Eisa would never have seen it coming.

Nor that it was entirely reciprocated, and perhaps even deserved.

“And of your own.” Fenna noted with feeling that was unlike her. “She must have been very lucky to have her affections returned.”

How odd it was, to talk about how much he and Jill loved one another with someone who shared her face. Thankfully Clive stopped himself from laughing at his luck… too misty eyed.

He thought about luck, remembering what Jill had said about whether the stars had simply been arranged in their favor. Who would they be in a different arrangement of fate? He and Jill struggled to find a real solution, but Clive already had that answer.

It wasn’t only luck that brought him here today.

“Jill once told me that I was the reason she survived our childhood…” His voice grew rasp. “That lovely fool is dead wrong. It was all her. She resisted it all, she stood strong while I just did nothing… I waited, and hoped things would get better.” That scar twitched. “It was she who acted, who made my life better in knowing her. In being chosen by her.” He trembled in that admission, feeling fire stirring in his heart, aligning to the frost.

He grasped that cold in his hand for a moment, his link to Jill. Undaunted.

“She was always weary of the inequality between us, thinking herself a damsel and that I saved her. But I was the one who was saved.” He got choked up in admitting that. “So here I am… prepared to do anything to see that smile again. To save that smile that saved me.” It was still Jill that was saving him in that moment.

Perhaps that was another reason he was here… to prove to himself that he was the hero Jill always thought he was. That he was far more than just First Shield of Rosaria, Protector of the Phoenix or now Ifrit the Dominant. He was hers, because he chose her just as much.

If Shiva was this unsavable creature that could never depart from this damned storm, well Clive would rescue her from it. He’d save Jill from the monster, whatever it took.

And he wasn’t the only one.

As Clive finished, he heard a pained stirring, a rasped wheezing, Fenna’s own breath hitched. That brand flexed amidst her mulling, like Clive’s scar.

In that moment she was haunted with her own memory, of a little girl that grew up alone… who never gave up being with her older sister again. Who saved Fenna every single day since her world came crashing down with the Ever-Storm’s end.

Fenna couldn’t save her, yet she died with a smile on her face. Somehow satisfied despite all that heartbreak.

Thanking her…

“Milady?” Clive rocked the thrall back to reality.

“It’s nothing, I…” Fenna murmured, voice unintentionally cracking with emotion. If Metia could see them, she would consider praying in that moment that Clive Rosfield would never know a world without his brother. Nor anyone else so precious to him.

A world he had spent months living in…

“Eisa would like you.” She decided briskly, surprising Clive. “Geir as well… probably.” She added, to try and deter Clive’s from her sentimentality. “Not that his opinion ever really mattered so much to me.”

Clive nodded, two very worthy commendations.

“And what about you?” He asked. “What of your approval?”

In facing with that question, the witch’s outburst settled. It finally dawned on her why she was here. With the way forward set, her face hardened into an understanding of purpose.

“As a failed thrall, my opinion matters very little.” She answered. “And as next of kin… even less so.” She sighed. “When I lost Eisa, my world came apart for the third time. I’ve had years to find Jill, to tell her what happened. To protect her from Shiva.” She shivered. “But instead I just did nothing, waiting for others to put me back together. Not a thrall, just a branded husk, drunk on her own misery.”

What a hypocrite she was, criticizing the dead imperial bearer when she did so little with her freedom.

“That’s not fair.” Clive refused her. “It’s not like you could remove that mark if you tried.” Given the north was no more, she’d have been made a ward of the duchy, not even allowed in speaking distance of her niece. His mother’s agents would certainly have seen to that.

“If Jill had known you survived, she wouldn’t think any less of you. She’d be overjoyed to know she still had family in the world. You were healing, helping others, your new family.” He could see how much Darun and the rest dwelled in her anxious mind, how important the Jaeger were to her. “One that loves you just as much as your sister did, I’m sure.”

To just equate one as more important than the other because of a matter of blood was lunacy in Clive’s eyes. If that was true he’d still be in Rosaria, fretting over Joshua. Still refusing himself.

“I also failed Jill.” He confessed, patting that ribbon. “I should have seen the signs, but I hadn't. She risked so much to save me. So when Shiva awoke, it broke me in two like Rosilith. Left me stranded in that storm. Drifting.” He confessed, recalling that chill, feeling the prickliness of that handprint on his chest.

How easily it could come back, he realized…

“That kind of despair is intoxicating. It sucks you into a deep hole, not unlike this.” He scoffed at their slowly melting surroundings. The ribbon rustled in that realization. “It took the words of an unlikely friend to get me out of that pit. Oddly enough she also resembled a Tonberry.”

As he said that, the other tonberry was watching him intently. Curious, but far too stubborn to voice it. Clive slowly smiled, thinking of Jote. “She told me that I needed to choose to hope again. Or I’d never find it on my own.”

In an aside, the bearer mulled over that quietly, head rumbling and brand squirming as she mumbled to herself. She went over over that phrase in her head a million times in a handful of seconds. Like she was an ornery witch preparing some kind of incantation, but aether wasn’t a part of her recipe this time. It was an odd transformation of physicality, as Clive saw her sitting straighter, struggling to find something to do with her hands, staring throughout the cavern.

This really was Jill’s aunt.

Amidst that thinking Fenna recognized that if she even loved Jill half as much as Clive and Eisa, it was far too much to bear. So something would need to be done about it… no more waiting around as the world froze or melted around them. She hadn’t realized at that point she was standing, hands grinding into eachother with a nervous energy.

At her apex, they finally ceased.

“Fine, Rosfield… we’ll do it your way. Just this once.” She announced, turning away to the light.

“We?” Clive asked, confused. “What are we—” Clive flinched into the wall behind him as a swinging object nearly clipped his head off. As it settled, Clive saw Fenna offering it to him. A short groan managed to escape his throat.

In her grasp was that fucking lantern. Rattling softly against gravity pulling it down. Still very broken.

“Someone also said, sometimes all we can do is accept our inadequacies and move on.” Clive grew even more bashful. “Pleasant words I’m sure… but such cowardly sentiment doesn’t actually excise the debt in question, does it?”

Clive scoffed, almost smiling that Fenna was using his words against him. He supposed not.

“Such blatant negligence might work in Rosaria, where the Archduke hands out Frostwolf pups to upstart lordlings and the Duchess can bully children, but we northerners are a very stubborn lot.” Her eyes narrowed. “You made an agreement with my people, Lord Rosfield. Several, in fact.” Her sister’s ribbon gleamed especially well in her silver-eyed notice. “So it’s my duty as both trel and next of kin, that you see them through.” The bearer stood taller than she ever had before. “Are we still in agreement?”

As that lantern waved above him, Clive practically scoffed from such a question. Such a blatant use of a prop. As if his consent was even a concern given Clive was just as much a thrall as she was. Just as much a stray.

Given how much Fenna had compromised herself with such a speech, he’d do similar with far less.

“You have my sword, Lady Fenna.” He bowed and took the lantern, feeling the heft in it once more. Clive pressed that hand to his chest and pulled it out, performing his people’s salute. “For as long as the Firebird’s flames burn in my heart.”

Such ceremony was enough to make Fen squirm with secondhand embarrassment, but she moved on rather quickly. There was still an Eikon in the room left unnoticed.

“Do you think Ifrit is in agreement?” Clive clenched at that, obviously uncertain. He glanced down into the murky water, briefly seeing his reflection. No yellow eyes yet.

“He will be…” He decided. “I’ll make certain of it.”

“Good. ‘cause I’ve a feeling we’ll need far more than just a sword or shield once we’re back in that storm.”

As a knower of Shiva and aether, Fenna of the Fenrir still had useful tidbits to share with Clive Rosfield on the journey. Plenty of stories and lessons. Maybe even a few techniques he could make better use of. Especially if he wanted to wield Shiva’s blessing correctly.

And maybe that was something Fenna needed. To pass her skills on, should something happen to...

Amidst their determination, came an odd sound from up above. They turned, hearing a tapping noise, hailing from their glacial window.

It wasn’t more akashic that they saw, but rather a snow-bound hound with a diamond on his head, eyes gleaming golden. He was seemingly confused about how to get through the ice. Torgal’s happy if anxious breath was fogging it up like glass, so he licked it.

Very much his mother’s child.

It was late morning upon their departure from that hole. The blizzard had waned increasingly, far more than the last days the Jaegers spent treading it. Yet there were only three Jaegers to survey the site… or rather, three strays.

The storm continued its march northward, leaving the frigid group standing in uncanny sunlight, deterring the akashic horde that had seemingly vanished overnight. There was no sign of the neither the Imperial convoy nor the Jaegermen. All tracks were covered and all broken rivers were restored to their frigid glory.

Thankfully (or unthankfully), nothing came out of the webworks as Clive and Fenna called out for Vel, Darun, Gaun and the rest. Torgal howled along with them. Voices reaching far through the tundra.

Without haze covering it, the frozen rivers of the Nix Styria shone with an unlikely ashen brilliance. Clive never thought deadlands could look so… inviting. Stunning, especially far off when he could see the mountains layered upon the horizon. Unlike in Rosaria where everything was shades of green, the grays and white created a landscape of true continuity. He could see far off to the west, where he swore he could see a distant shoreline where more mist rose into the white sky.

Where the north met the boiling sea…

“I hate to say it, but I didn’t think the Hollow Grounds could be so beautiful, even amidst a torturous battleground.” Clive was looking past the bodies. “I guess that’s growth?”

“This is nothing.” Fenna growled. “Get to the Bay and the night sky absolutely lights up like a burning green torch against the night. My mother drew so many pictures of them in her journals.” She droned nostalgically.

Clive eyed her at that, momentarily forgetting this wasn’t Jill. As Torgal was digging, Fen batted away her bashfulness. “We also have whimsy here in the north, I’ll have you know.”

Their surveillance was abrupt, given how windswept the area had been since the battle. Plenty of bodies were half-buried in snow. The only one they managed to find that they recognized was Orla’s, meanwhile Mortley was still under the ice. They also came upon more dead imperial bearers, even the few dead from Clive’s sword. His scar burned a little in sight of them… feeling the regret a tonberry must feel sometimes.

Like Orla, the two paid their respects quietly and moved on.

Of all the remains found, oddities had occurred. A few of the bodies had been tampered with, now missing pieces of armor. Yet the trio found no scavengers amongst their ranks. As curious as Clive was, Fenna was unbothered, focusing more on the lack of closure. In her eyes, fewer signs they found of the Jaegers here, the more they could cling to hope.

This was a landscape that required hope.

Torgal had finally stopped digging. He was at the base of a shattered Fallen spire that overlooked the passage north along the river. The dog yipped and chased his tail in circles to gather the grownups’ attention.

Clive reached him first, midst the spire’s shadow. The marquess paused, taken aback by his finding.

By the time Fenna reached them, he eyes were just as wide, as Clive pulled forth an ashen covered piece of wood, stone and metal melded together with a layer of moondew. A cracked mask with chipped paint, shaped like the face of a fox.

Darun’s Mask.

“Mother’s Chill…” Fenna rumbled in being reunited with that antique. Trembling disbelief overran her senses. “He’d never willingly part with this. Not on his life. It was his father’s.”

Clive turned, looking to Torgal. “Maybe he’s under the snow, he’s—” Torgal was seated, certain there wasn’t anything left to find.

“No…” Fenna whispered, regaining composure. “I mean Darun wouldn’t leave it behind without good reason. Jaegers do this, they leave markers to warn those who come after.” Like them. She stared upon the spire looming above them, realizing it stuck out of the ground like a sore thumb. Anyone venturing to the Bay who came upon that tower would eventually find the mask.

“You think he was taken by the imperials? Maybe even Vel and the rest?” Clive scowled. “I don’t hate that idea, but… it’s not the general’s way to take prisoners.”

He remembered Eastpool especially well. The taking of prisoners was the prince’s decision, not Carrion’s. Fenna clung to hope however, seeing the imperial bodies, oddly reassured. And then there was Torgal, seated and looking northward. Perhaps he had ventured that way before returning to them.

“Look how many he lost to escape the hollows. Perhaps he simply wants more bodies between himself and the Northern Frontier, the Waloeders and Shiva. If Darun was dead, the mask would be with him, I know it.”

“…” Clive scowled at Fenna suggesting such a dark advantage. “You believe in him that much?”

“I do.” Fenna confessed, giving the man far more credit than she’d ever award herself. “Vel as well. They are my family, after all.”

If it was a consolation, they already knew the way Carrion was going. They simply needed to keep following Darun’s directions back into the storm. And they didn’t have to walk on ice any longer.

They could save their friends and rescue Jill whilst stopping Carrion and the Royalists… whichever came first. They were trying to strike two birds with one stone whilst saving multiple other birds… in a blizzard. The metaphor got very tiring, hence why neither shield nor thrall voiced it.

“Venturing through a frigid tempest was my original plan in the first place. It brought me this far, I don’t see why it should stop working now.” Clive half joked and half gulped. “At least the Sanbrequois will be just as lost as we are.” If not more so.

“Hope’s always been a longshot… here especially.” Fenna sighed, staring at that cracked mask.

“But as our favorite-fox likes to say,” Clive spoke up, “for Jaeger’s it’s enough.” He grasped that damaged lantern hanging at his hip. “Strays or otherwise.” Torgal wordlessly agreed.

Fenna looked back to that mask, suddenly so weightless in her grasp. “Or otherwise.”

The trio looked northward along the Nix, seeing those storm clouds layered upon a fresh new array of Glaives in their way. Inviting them in. Feeling that fire burning in himself and the wind rustling with that ribbon, Clive gathered his will.

“Well… we’d best not keep them waiting. It’s still a long way to that Frigid Bay.” He rhymed, about to follow the breeze when Torgal nudged into Clive’s legs, looking back.

Fenna lingered with the mask outside of the spire’s shadow, slowly looking east. She spotting something peeking through the clouds, lingering in the morning sky that she hadn’t expected.

A full moon… miraculously out of place and shining alone.

“So just let me do this once. Let me save you. Let me—” Fenna begged and begged amidst her sobbing, but Eisa wouldn’t hear it. She couldn’t compromise on this. Nor could she allow someone so precious to make that sacrifice.

In the warmth of that star, Eisa grasped her sister’s shaking hand, steadying it. As her magic ceased, that hand was even warmer.

“You already have.” She said simply, looking into Fenna’s tear-stained face, finding all she needed in that moment. That heart-shattering moment. If she couldn’t see her little girl, then at least she could say goodbye to the one that saved her all along. Who fueled her first prayers to that wishing star long ago.

It was Fenna who gave Eisa back her soul when their people stole it away. So she knew it’d be safe with her sister, like her heart was with Jill. Two people so precious to her. Metia would bring them together again, Eisa knew it. In her last moments, that gave her endless hope.

“Thank you, Fen,” She said, offering no more tears. “For being my sister.”

Eisa rasped one final breath and let Fenna go with a smile on her face. In her fading, the fires ‘midst them burned far less brightly, the winds ceased. The world collapsed and the thrall was left alone in that horridly deafening silence, watched only by the burning star above. She knelt there in her sister’s colorless blood, stripped of her purpose once more.

Shattered into pieces.

A reassembled Fenna stood adrift in the recollection, steadying herself. A cracked diamond made whole once again.

Facing that solitary moon missing its stellar companion, she pressed a hard hand to her heart, making a wish. In that gesture, the cold northern air fluttered amidst her, and Fenna felt something. For a moment Fen could feel her on the wind. Her own lost companion.

“We’ll find her, Eis. I promise.” She whispered. “You don’t have to worry, little sister. Our Little Star will be back in the sky where she belongs.” As the chilly wind bit at her brand again, she wiped her eye and smiled, deciding she had all she needed in that moment to push forward.

“And she won’t be shining alone.”

With Darun’s mask in hand, Fenna of the Fenrir replaced her hood, rejoining Clive and Torgal. Their amends made, the trio finally ventured back into that wicked storm, hopefully for the last time. If luck, the moon or Metia willed it, they would see Jill and their friends soon. In that moment they decided there was plenty of hope to spare.

Chapter Text

Betwixt Glaives they found endless deadland forests covered in peaceful layers of snow, defiled by the bodies of dead strangers. Their anguished frostbitten faces were especially pale. It seemed the further west they ventured, the colder and more colorless the world grew. The only upside was that so too did wildlife increase upon the west baring path to the Bay of Frost.

First it was small things that Jill noticed, squirrels, birds, even a hawk or two, nestled in burrows and hollow trees. Then they spotted more jittery antelope, and then a dead fox, its ruined carcass bled out on the snow… hounded by raptors the royalists knew better than to pursue. Jill had lost an arrow in a prior altercation, but it meant one fewer sharp mouth was following them.

But then Luken had the gall to say he saw a white boar during night watch. Jill had to see it for herself, and found tracks. Not unlike cloven hooves. She insisted on following them alone. She was lucky that Benna allowed her hobbies amidst their venture west. Privacy was a treasured commodity. Jill could be alone with her thoughts had she any.

The huntress was especially quiet, single-mindedly stalking through the woods, bow in hand. The deadland trees looked livelier than usual under the layers of snow, hiding the decay. By the trail’s end she spotted a creature in the haze. A white-tailed hare, nuzzled beside a snow-tipped shrub, digging in the flurry. Such a thing Jill hadn’t seen since Rosaria.

It was no boar but she wasn’t in any position to be picky, not when raptors would salivate at such a morsel of flesh. Her own spittle threatened to freeze the moment it unintentionally left her mouth, so Jill swallowed. Her narrowing colorless eyes squinted through passing snow whilst her mark was dawdling, its cotton tail fluttering in the thicket.

Begging to be pierced.

Her nocked crystal tipped arrow extended. Crouched low to the ground, Jill felt the drawstring’s weight bearing down on her, bow limbs bending, threatening to buckle. It wasn’t difficult to relearn shooting beyond that challenge of strength in her decidedly narrower arms. But after days she could make those small micro-adjustments, blowing upwards to push a stray silver hair out of her sight. It wasn’t even hard to get past seeing animals as food and not living beings.

It wasn’t anything personal. Just hunger.

As Jill loosed the arrow, a “Kwee” sound ruptured through the forest, disrupting her aim. The rabbit sprung and the missile missed. In a shattering of that crystal, the hare fled swiftly into the wintry ether. Yet Jill wasn’t able to follow, too stunned.

The sound of a chocobo this far west meant only one thing… but this early in the day?

In the memory of those sickly blue lanterns, Jill sought to pluck another arrow from her quiver when she was overcome by a great blurring pall of white. She tripped back as a chocobo covered in ashen sleet reared and flapped its wings, kwehing incessantly. Dragging backwards through the snow, Jill reached for the blade at her hip when she finally looked upon the ornery creature towering above her. It wasn’t just covered in snow. The bird was white as snow, with a wounded eye. The blade faltered, realizing it wasn’t a waloeder bird. Its teeth weren’t sharp in the least… though that was intuition speaking.

For a moment Jill swore it was her father’s chocobo from her childhood, Caspian or something. But instantly she knew that was wrong. Not as she glanced a worn and sullen rosarian saddlebag attached to it. With it came a moment of familiarity. Feeling as if she had known this bird all its life. That sentiment went both ways.

“Am—” she stuttered with bewilderment, “—Ambrosia?”

The bird cocked its head to that name. Jill blinked profusely, slowly standing, blade retreating back into her waist.

“You… you can’t be here, that’s—”

This was Clive’s bird. Why would Clive’s bird be here?

Would that mean—

“I’m insane… I’m insane.” She repeated to herself whilst the bird drew nearer, curious as Jill grasped her dirty head in painful confusion. The oversized white chicken clucked, adjusting against the loose strap of the hanging saddle. The bird’s pack even looked like it had supplies. It shook more snow from its feathered head and extended downwards to its associate, as if wishing for some neck scritches.

Jill reached out to do so but her cuffed hand froze midair, catching only ash.

No, this was just some trick her mind was playing on herself. Not unlike her delusions of Duchess Anabella. A piece of her was startled by the Frontier, frightened perhaps, wanting her to turn the other way. To abandon Benna and the rest and run back to the Rosarian’s cage. But she resisted that message. Jill was so close to finding the Bay.

To finding Javik…

But of all things, why would Jill’s mind choose Ambrosia? Why not just Clive in the flesh, or Joshua? The Archduke, or even Torgal?

As that sadness returned, her cold hand lowered. Refusing that compromise.

She paced away from the white bird, instead reaching the base of that snowy tree. The rabbit was long gone, as were its tracks, but the arrow imbedded in the bark looked fine if a little cracked. Footfalls came behind her, she could practically sense the clucking apparition behind her.

So Jill sighed, stuffing the arrow into her quiver.

“I’m not following you.” She told it. “I’m not Jill, and you’re not…” She growled with frustration. “Go home, Ambrosia. Get.” She stressed, voice sharp as needles. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” She shouted, perhaps a little too forceful.

With a sad coo, the false chocobo left, leaving Jill behind in the forest. As painful is it felt, she didn’t dare watch it depart and allow her mind that wandering. Eventually she turned, finding the forest empty of imaginary birds and her solitude reigning once more. Sadly satisfied… if still hungry.

Jill considered searching for more tracks when her doddering eyes heaved. Something was left rolling on the snowy ground, a small orb of scarlet left in the false creature’s vanishing trail. Dropped from its imaginary pack.

A very real red apple.

In Jill’s shaking hands, the resemblance was uncanny. Looking and feeling exactly like an apple from the orchards in Tabor. The very same kind she and Joshua used to—

“He needs you… I need you.” Her little brother pleaded amidst that chill.

Her will snapped and the fruit slipped from her wounded grasp, Jill began hyperventilating in place. Reflexively grasping that cuff upon her scarred wrist, her mind struggled in vain to understand what she now knew or thought she knew. There were repercussions for such mind idling, especially if it was true. Instead she tried to excise it from her mind. Root and stem. Immediately.

“He can’t be here… he can’t…” She hissed to herself in a panic, rediscovering her old mantra. “She’s not here Clive. I killed her, she’s dead, I’m not—”

“—Jill?” A separate voice overtook Jill’s self-destruction, her sister’s. Jill buried that feeling back down and pivoted both mentally and physically. She caught an oblivious Benedikta Harman ending her stride upon a layer of delicate snow ruptured under her footsteps, playful. “Or was Luken full of it again?”

“Uhm…” Jill struggled to recall what Benna had just said. “Wha-what?”

“The boar, Jill.” Benedikta enunciated in her ashen accent. “Luken said he saw a boar?” Her question summoned Jill back into normalcy.

“No boar…” she answered. “Rabbit. Got away.” The bow in her grasp twisted.

“Rabbits?” Benna audibly sighed but didn’t seem that disappointed, at least for herself. “We’re getting close anyways. It’ll be better to make the boys work for their supper.” She raised a hand, patting Jill’s head to dust a layer of fresh snow from her coat and quiver. “Next time you won’t miss, Just-Jill.” She shook more of that dust out of her sister’s silky hair.

Jill was about to walk off when Benna glanced down with curiosity.

“How’d you find an apple?” She bent down to grab the now bruised piece of fruit, rubbing the grime off on her coat. It had a nice crimson shine that Jill knew well. “Did Luken’s boar drop this too?”

“It was just lying around. Maybe a merchant dropped it?” Jill lied with disinterest, turning quickly with her cuff in hand. “You can have it, sis.”

With no fanfare Jill walked off to find the others. Her sister decidedly in a mood, Benna followed, briskly chowing down. She’d need to finish quickly and throw it away before Gerulf and the rest saw. Otherwise, they’d keep their eyes peeled for the wrong kind of food.

Aligning to that same thinking, Jill’s fractured mind finally cleared. She left her cuff alone, focusing only on what she came here to do. Whatever else was fated to occur could wait until she was finished.

Torgal was happy to allow fate’s whims at whatever pace his companions tolerated.

Leading through the frost along the Nix, the wolf had a way about himself, an eternally unflappable nature reflecting his species’ resiliency. His nose was a godsend, helping them acquire provisions and follow the lost Jaeger’s footsteps. If the imperials were marching through this territory and they had game to hunt, that gave them an easy trail to follow. It just required being able to look through all the billowing snow that slowed them down.

Darun had mentioned a deadland forest along the Nix that eventually gave way to the Bay of Frost. It was safe to say that the trio had found it, somehow quite alive despite the blight. Both magic wielders could feel the weave of aether coursing through the ground. Deadlands no more… at least mostly.

“My mother’s journals said this place was called Frostedge.” Fenna remarked, patting ashen snow from a solid oak tree, Torgal had ventured off chasing the squirrels that called the tree their home. Leaving it unguarded.

“Meaning Edge of Frost, I suppose?” Clive asked, pressing a hand to the same cold tree. The the frost melted away, an opening revealing quite the horde of walnuts hiding in the hollow.

Gathering was far easier on this side of the Glaives, pleasing Fenna greatly. The old curmudgeon had become something of a nut collector these past few days. She imagined Darun would be impressed with her replenished stocks. Especially as his mask rested right beside her satchel.

“Originally the Iskaldi named it Frostkant, but… don’t look at me like that.”

“What? Your people have such a creative way with a words. It truly is remarkable, milady.” He smirked as she pocketed those nuts like her apple-seeds.

“Don’t flatter me with your southern malarky, Rofield. These are hardly my people.” Fenna sighed, unwilling to retread that tired old lesson of the silver-headed Iskaldi in the west and the eastern magic wielding invading tribes to the east that became the Fenrir and interbreeding and yada-yada-yada. “Nor were they really my mother’s people.”

In Fenna’s eyes, Jill had come from a long line of strays. As did she.

The woman scoffed with remembrance, patting off the ash covering an overturned tree. The perfect place to rest her behind for a moment, wait for Torgal to return from his antics. She opened the sack to munch a walnut and offered Clive one. He easily acquiesced, cooking the nut in his hand before chowing down.

“Did she like collecting nuts?” Clive asked after that satisfying crunch. “Your mother?”

“Hells if I know… it wasn’t like she was really my mother. Just some long gone echo.” She sighed, wiping at her forehead, that brand along her cheek flexing. “A faceless one at that. Might as well be nameless given all who bore her memory are just as forgotten as she is.”

As someone who might have been jealous of the opportunity to not know his mother, Clive kept that to himself.

“Her memory might live on in other ways.” He suggested. “You’ve mentioned Fiona’s writings a fair few times. I don’t suppose you have any of these old journals still lying around, do you?”

He wondered what Jill might think of them, having something of her grandmother whose power she inherited. As a fellow dominant and freshly unwitting student of the Fenrir and Iskaldi, Clive couldn’t help but be curious himself. Not that Fenna had much interest in sating his curiosities.

There was much she hadn’t told him about her conduit magic. The Frostmaiden Fiona was a close second.

“When we moved south, my sister made copies from the originals in Frostburr, but both sets are certainly gone.” She was at peace about that, letting go easily. Which was a shame for Clive, given all his teacher had to go off of was memory of the texts and Fenna was made wholly of gaps.

Clive wasn’t satisfied. “I understand Iskald, but surely something could still remain in Frostburr. That place sounds untouched the way you describe it.” He wondered if his new mentor had some hidden desire to return there.

She masked that desire, answering his suggestion with apathy.

“Untouched because of the blight. There’s nothing for anyone there. Just a rotting unfinished castle, empty stocks and a missing Mothercrystal.” And the memory of a dead mother she lacked who died in that place. “Whatever power you crave from such untoward knowledge holds no sway over our fates.” She answered her student with a smidgen of smarm.

Clive weakly puffed his chest at that insinuation. “I don’t crave power.” He felt Bahamut’s begrudging light in his grasp. It was tamped back down.

Fenna didn’t notice or pretended she didn’t.

“No, you crave death. Like many adventurers I’ve known over the years, that’s why you’re here, remember?” She jested. “Perhaps you’d be better off investigating the Surge with all the dead Jaegers and Frontiersmen. I’m sure Darun would love to take you on such an expedition.” She scoffed, patting the fox mask at her side whilst Clive stared… curious once more. All this venturing to confront the dangers in the west, the Marquess had totally forgotten about what lingered in the east.

Even Joshua seemed stumped about that mystery.

“What exactly is the Surge?” He asked point-blank, earning a grumble. Probably because Fenna didn’t know the answer, and being confronted with the unknown made her feel smaller than usual.

The moment was short lived as Torgal sat down at attention with a sharp yelp. As they regathered their bearings, Clive realized the dog was pointing at a frigid head in the nearby thicket following the ice-laden river. Fenna’s training for him had paid off.

Clive straightened up, nostrils flaring and tuning into the smell his begrudging teacher had detailed. Finally able to parse through days of confrontations, Clive Rosfield knew the smell of aether. How it tasted when dwelling within others. The lifeblood of all living things.

It was sweet scent that stuck to the roof of his mouth, almost like honey. Warm magical honey.

Peering at that akashic, Clive held a hand out, flames building. And then he noticed Fenna crossing her arms judgmentally. With that expectation set out, Clive slowed, the flame wavered as he tried summoning Shiva’s ice.

As Fenna explained, no matter how much power and aether you put into something, a faucet doesn’t produce more water if the drain is clogged. It just threatens to break the faucet. And ice was very delicate. So the power needed to be shaped to fit the drain.

He slowed, breathing inward and holding his breath as if being punctured with a blade.

As Joshua had suggested once, aligning to a blessing meant aligning to the connection one shared with the dominant that bestowed it. But Fenna went further, suggesting it wasn’t as much the relationship as it was the person as they were, the Eikon was just an extension of that, a reflection. Feelings clouded reality, so Clive needed to focus not on his idealized version of Jill in his head, but the very real one. The wild untamed one. The one that haunted his sleep.

To only see her façade diluted her, diluted her chill. He needed her fully.

The flame dispersed, becoming a rough gem of frost slowly snaking from his hand. Yet Fenna’s arms stayed crossed, brow stayed sharp, so Clive further narrowed his look. His thought of Jill solidified, reaching a point. As too did the bolt, as it shimmered and sharpened to a pointed needle. Sharp as Shiva’s fingers on his chest. Now aimed squarely at the thrall. His hand stopped shaking, not swaying with the wind. Perhaps feeling Jill standing beside him, holding his hand up.

Finally Clive released that breath and the ice flung from his grip, as if released from a bow. It span through the air until crossing into the akashic’s chest. The creature detonated instantly, and vanished into sparkling starlight with the storm. Finally at peace.

Clive smiled with relief.

As Torgal barked happily in circles at his master finally succeeding, Fenna’s arms uncrossed. “Decent hit.”

Clive turned. “Just decent? Not great?” He balked, starved for approval.

Fenna continued to observe, mulling over it again as if she was an authority in icicle archery.

“Not bad.” She moved on quickly, looking over the land the vanished akashic occupied. She found something of interest. “Good job, runt.” Fenna called out, handing a small bone from a dead squirrel, pleasing the dog immediately. He happily ventured onwards, whilst Clive grumbled, not knowing why the dog deserved more praise in this moment. Was he actually jealous of a dog?

Founder, was this how Jill felt in Fenna’s household?

A fading afternoon found the royalists, for the first time in forever the blizzard stalled. In that lessening came a better view of their hazy deadland surroundings, taking on new variants. It wasn’t just snow or ash that blew into their faces, but—

“Sand?” Jill spat, tasting it in her mouth, ringing through her flapping hair, the gale intertwining those strands with her bow.

“That’s the thing with winter winds,” Benedikta mused, untangling those strands, her own golden bob flowing with the ncssant breeze. “Beaches become especially unbearable… and the Bay of Frost is a very large beach.”

Given the tight leather Benna wore, Jill could easily guess her issue. Sand was catching in her own binds as well. Gerulf and the rest were similarly perturbed. No wonder the Frontiersmen wore masks. Honor lacking or not, sand in your face was unbearable.

And according to both Gerulf and Lord Murdoch, sand in one’s armor was unforgiveable.

She paid extra attention to the ground they treaded, the winds whipped and lashed, jostling the very ground they were treading. Under that snow was a beach just as white as the drifts running above. The cull of ash was even beginning to vanish as sand joined the breeze.

The group was boxed into paths by rises of blackened stone. Atop these ruinous crags was grass and mangled trees looking down on them, but it was difficult to see what was beyond the maze, especially with the snowy haze permeating all things. The further along they dwelled through that maze of rock, the more so Jill noticed a pep in her sister’s step. Unlike Jill, Benedikta could feel the aether amongst them, in the ground they treaded. That presence didn’t mend her hurts completely, but she was standing far more resilient. Especially in the face of that cold howling headwind Jill and the others flinched against.

“You can feel her?” Jill asked. “Garuda?”

“Like a dear friend on the breeze, sister.” Benna luxuriated. “Each gale is a tender whisper.”

Sadly Jill could not relate, nor did she entirely wish to. Though she did suggest that Benna ask her friend if that gale could offer the band anything useful besides bluster. Benna was very impressed by that pun. Her little sister had come a long way under her guidance.

As twilight began to approach, Jill smelled something on the air. A frigid smell of water. She was reminded instantly of Rosilith and the Boiling Sea. With that childish recollection, she pushed faster through that maze of stone, following her nose like a bloodhound. Finally it opened up to reveal a great sandy dune resting ‘neath a bloody orange sky, resisting both the colorless clouds and the lull of night. But under that horizon Jill’s eyes lit up looking upon a great wide sparkling sea that seemingly went on forever under that hazy sunset.

The Bay of Frost.

Sadly the skies were too consumed with coverage to light up like the stories said, but Jill was shocked by the beauty of this place. Seeing that orange sky across the white sands and dark gleaming waters… Ice laden waves rolling with the tide.

The beauty was enough to pull Jill from her grumpy sand-addled mood whilst the others reconvened to find their place on Gerulf’s map. She reached the shore, wanting to cry, having forgotten what the world could look like. What her home could look like. And then she wanted to cry from how numb she still felt.

Jill was unbothered by the cold water licking at her boots, staring down into her grainy reflection, waves coming and retreating. The last time she had seen the ocean was at Rosilith.

With her brother and…

After that recent sighting of Ambrosia, the thought slowed and stalled with frustration, seeing herself standing in her lonesome. She wished they could have been here to see it, and many others. Her mother especially. Not that the moon or Metia were present to ignore Jill and her unspent tears. Instead came the breeze, sneaking up beside her, listening all along.

“I’m glad someone’s enjoying the sight, at least.” Benna remarked with a sigh, perhaps bored of sightseeing.

Jill watched her visage with Benna in the waves, golden hair fluttering unlike Jill’s dour silver mop. “I suppose Stonhyrr is far better in your estimation?”

“Far warmer.” Benedikta cricked her neck, breath expelling in a brief mist. “Baths there aren’t a death sentence.”

As Jill laughed, her mind lingered on the bay, pulling forth a memory she had to share.

“My uncle said there was a harbor along the southern side.” Her left hand traced an invisible line across the hazy coast. “The only portion of land he and my father’s thralls could keep out of the fiends’ grasp. He told me because the Rosarians took it, and promptly lost the port to the wild frontier.” Byron Rosfield’s greatest naval failure, not that his nephew could ever think any such thing of his beloved uncle. “Thinking on it, I’m not sure if we ever got it back.”

“Well someone did. That harbor holds our vessel, under their watchful eye.” Benna sighed. “So we follow the coast southwest until we find it… only issue is the water. It gets colder the further west we venture along the coast until it’s sheer ice. That’s where the Frontier’s hiding place is nestled, ‘tween us and the harbor.”

Jill’s uplifted mood unspooled in that reminder of purpose. She turned back from her reflection, seeing something in the blowing sand, Faded tracks, belonging to chocobos and hounds. In that realization, a new noise accompanied the howling winds of the bay. Actual howling.

It faded quickly in the haze and Jill looked back to her companions, standing in that eerie silence accompanying the lashing of the wind and waves. Jill saw long dreadful shadows forming behind them. Like long candles waiting to be cut at the wick. With simple nods she grasped her bow and pushed forward onto the sun-fading beach wordlessly. Benedikta and the rest followed Jill into that otherworld.

Countless hours in, the blizzard-filled Frostedge remained just as quiet as their entry. The hazed orange tinged light along the Nix was dying and Clive’s companion shivered begrudgingly, her body suggesting she couldn’t go on all night. Yet Fenna insisted, without nary a word beside a stray story or two. Typically some lesson Darun had accidentally imparted in his antics requiring some measure of healing in the aftermath.

Clive noticed how frequently Fenna spoke of her friend, perhaps to keep herself sane the longer they went without finding any hint of the Jaegers or their captors. She continued to clutch that cracked mask at her side despite the wind and shakiness, looking down into Darun’s fox-face to find a wellspring of resolve. At first Clive thought to broach it, ask exactly what her relationship to the fox-man was. But that seemed especially nosy and Vel-like. So he settled on something a little more tame.

“If you wish to put it on, I won’t tell anyone.” He mused, whilst Fenna stopped eying the mask, perhaps embarrassed to be caught in her devotion to that simpleton.

Instead of responding, Fenna sought instead to weaponize her judgmental silence. At that point Clive found it almost entertaining, even if Torgal was confused (weren’t they past this?). Eventually she looked away, shivering along her frozen reflection once more.

Lacking her dear friend.

“It looks pretty warm.” Clive eyed the mask, “Darun probably wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m fine, Rosfield.” She lied, teeth chattering. “I’ve little need hiding behind another’s mask.”

As she ventured onwards through the frost, Clive held out a palm, tugging on aether to extend his heat between them. A vacuum of warmth that Jill always enjoyed. The shivering ceased, not that Fenna voiced any thanks. But he could tell that she appreciated it, especially as he didn’t say anything else to annoy her belligerently short fuse.

With little else to think towards, their wandering minds drifted towards Torgal, taking off into the snow storm suddenly, only to return as if nothing was wrong. Despite that cold the dog tapped through the snow with enthusiasm. Maybe he thought they were getting close?

“I swear, if that was another squirrel…” Clive groaned..

“The runt has always been a little scrawny, hasn’t he?” Fenna peppered, stony hands clamping down on her hood to resist a wicked headwind. “What were you feeding him in Rosaria?”

Clive wiped melting ash from his beard.

“When he was little, scraps from our table. As he grew, my father made sure the butcher had extra cuts of meat and bone prepared for him. Usually unused material that would spoil by the next day.” Clive explained. “Hog, pheasant, chocobo—”

“He needs bigger cuts than that, more aged, nutritious.” She criticized with a stiff upper lip.

“Chocobos are big.”

“Yes but their frames are hollow. The dog needs something with real thick bones he can gnaw on. Like his ancestors in Frostburr.” She pestered like a nosy aunt. “Think elder antelope, raptors, aevis.” Clive balked at the last one, a creature he had yet to see in these lands. Yet Torgal’s tail wagged in the suggestion, glancing Clive’s bedraggled way expectantly.

He struggled to say no to it.

“I’ll see what I can pick up at the market.” He sighed, patting Torgal’s head, lowering to scritch his furry neck. The dog took all the attention he could get and proceeded to take off, darting off into the haze. Fenna continued staring off disapprovingly, as Clive spoke up again. “You know, if you’re so worried about his upbringing… when Jill and I return to Rosilith, you could come with us.”

While Fenna didn’t tremble in that suggestion, there was trepidation in her gait, realizing the direction Clive Rosfield’s mind had wandered since they left the Hollow Grounds as allies. There was a consequence to friendship, it seemed.

Surely she had to have imagined this was coming.

“Can I say more?”

“If you must…” She tensed. “Just make it brief.”

Clive would try, but made no promises. As she expected.

“I’ll say right up front, when I came north, I didn’t expect… this.” He emphasized. “Like, I assumed that something horrible had happened. But what I’ve witnessed goes well beyond that. If I had known of even an inkling about the Frontier…” He sighed with that guilt, perhaps looking for Torgal to guide his eyeline. Instead the dog was still off. “It’s not all horrible, though. I hadn’t expected the good. Any of it. The Jaegers are not what I expected. Neither are you, milady.” He heaved, uncomfortable in bestowing praise. Just as much as Fenna was in receiving it. “You surprised me.”

“I suppose it’s mutual.” She answered neutrally, unable to look at him. “Ifrit.”

She tried to deflect that, but Clive was too fond of her at that point to be offended.

“I like to think I have a good understanding of you. Probably not entirely accurate, but good. The Jaegers are very dear to you, and you’ve found your freedom here. I don’t mean to intrude upon that.” But then he thought of the dead bearers they encountered that Fenna lamented. “But I can’t help but notice the strings imposed on that freedom, upon you.”

Fenna attempted to answer back with something snarky, but found herself coughing, ash caught in her throat. “It’s fine. Better this than turning to stone.”

“But what if you had a better option?” Clive asked her, “Would that change things?”

The billowing of that wind slowed as Fenna watched him, brand peeking through her hood.

“My father is planning to emancipate Rosaria’s bearers… All of them. Whether wards of the duchy or our citizenry. Any that enter our borders would no longer be called property, but true Rosarian citizens, like Jill and the northmen her father brought south.” He grew impassioned, nursing these thoughts for weeks. A reality his family was making real.

“You could be free in our borders and well cared for. Not looked down upon for your brand or station. You’d never have to use your gift on anyone, a dominant or otherwise. And not just you, but any Jaeger or northerner that’d wish for an easier life down south.”

Fenna balked at such honeyed words, especially when it came to the Archduke, but she realized Clive was entirely serious. That mask trembled in her grasp once more.

“Even if what Darun and the rest agree—” and that was a big if “—what you speak of is impossible. Rosaria would be invaded in mere moments.”

“We’ve already been invaded,” the warrior reminded her, “and just with one Dominant we’ve defended our people from Imperial tyranny and Orthodoxy aggression. My brother defeated both Bahamut and the Ironblood.” His pride in Joshua was never ending, even without a Mothercrystal. “Imagine what the Duchy could accomplish with two Eikons.” Within that boast, Clive found his confidence in that purpose, knowing the joy it could bring others far beyond simply him.

Ifrit could easily find purpose in that. In giving Fenna a new purpose.

“Or even three?” She hesitated, remembering the discussion they had about his father’s inexplicable luck. Clive struggled with that thought.

“My father would never force that on Jill. He’s not forcing it on Joshua either. Using the Phoenix is my brother’s choice.” He burned a little hotter.

“A choice he was born to make. Just as you were. Like how Jill was born to go south.” She prodded. “We may think ourselves free, but these roads were pre-arranged, snow hardly hides the obvious paths we tread.” She could see the dirt road Clive’s warm footprints revealed. “Choice becomes a meaningless afterthought.”

And given how duty bound her siblings were, Fenna imagined Jill to be just as confined to that path. Just as compromised as Clive was.

Clive refused to see it that way.

“But your choice does have meaning. If you make this one, you’d be with your sister’s child.” He stressed. “You could have years together, you and Jill. Like Eisa wanted.”

Hearing that name on Clive’s indulgent tongue summoned a simmering frustration into Fenna, an appeal to emotion that took her unaware. However she couldn’t answer it with vitriol, knowing it came from a place of mistaken kindness. From someone who still believed her wholly innocent.

“That’s not my place.” She said quickly, but Clive saw through her hesitancy quickly. “I gave up on that life long ago—"

“You didn’t give up, it was taken from you!” Clive exclaimed, agog that Fenna would consider remaining, despite lamenting the sacrifice of her kind. Lamenting the loss of so many trapped in the north, her sister included. “And so what? You think you failed so now you don’t deserve happiness? I hardly belong there either, and yet…” His breath hitched, recomposing… thinking of the face Fenna shared. Ribbon rustling.

When everything pulled him away, that face anchored him, made Rosilith his home. Without her, it was hardly anything but a cracked castle. Like Joshua said, it wasn’t home without her. It was incomplete like Clive was. As incomplete as Jill was.

“You’re the last piece Jill has of her mother, her grandmother, of her childhood. Of everything she lost in this place. And the only person who knows anything about handling Shiva.” He stammered as Fenna looked away to her hazy reflection. “You might have made a mistake or two… but she’ll look past it. She’ll see the chance she’s been given and embrace it, milady. Embrace you. I promise. We all would. You’d be fam—” He paused, disliking that insinuation. “You are family.”

“Family?” Fenna scoffed, brand burning, but then she saw Clive’s look. That brief fearful gleam of concern, worry… belonging. And she hesitated again. It wasn’t that she mistrusted that plan, Clive was a lot of things a liar was not one of them. Sentiment and idealism was a lost art in the north, but still she was hesitant. Not just for herself.

“Cli—” She stopped herself from saying that name, weary of growing any more attached than she already had been. “Lord Rosfield.” She settled, putting up those barriers once more. “Despite hardly even knowing your father, I know you are a good son and an even better man. Truly decent. And if even half of what you say is true, my sister would jump at joy for the chance to embrace it.” Fenna offered, decidedly not jumping. “But even so…”

She sighed, assuming the reaction she’d harbor in stating the obvious. That she was not her sister, nor was Jill her mother.

“What makes you so certain Jill wants to return to Rosaria?”

With that, Clive stumbled through that snow like Fenna had, struggling to find a satisfying answer. But he had no hood nor mask to hide behind. Instead he treaded that cold darkness, as the dying sunlight bounced off the frozen river. Chilling Clive just a little more with each look.

Eventually the tension was broached as they realized Torgal hadn’t returned yet. Instead they heard him howling off in the distance, hidden in the storm. Clive’s melancholy was surrendered as he feared the dog’s safety. He took off through the snow, burning hotter whilst Fenna struggled to follow. Yelling for him to slow down, to wait. Anything could be awaiting their entrance.

By the time she had reached the man and his dog, they were in the throes of shock, looking upon northern and Sanbreque bodies strewn across the forest floor, freshly dead and covered in a layer of blowing snow.

“Founder.” Clive shivered. Fenna was far worse… looking up to a hanging man. Brand no different from hers, scoured and defiled.

In the Royalists long march along the sea, none seemed alarmed by the sight of armored bodies submerged in the blowing sand. Least of all Jill.

“Sanbreque soldiers.” She realized, numbly seeing that dilapidated blue and white metal scorched by equal measures of ash and snow. It was the very same make worn at the ruins of Iskald… devoid of color in her eyes. One of the dead men had a punctured neck, torn open by a wolf’s snout. “They’ve gotten this far west?”

“These strays must have crossed the Nix.” Gerulf peered through the wind, only able to see beach. “Such an undertaking ‘cross the territories would require weeks of effort.”

As Jill turned with perturbance, her sister spoke up.

“Sylvestre’s flock has never been smart.” Benna shrugged. “And their General’s leadership leaves plenty to be desired.” She kicked one over, prodding the dead man with her sword. The soldier was a branded, with blackened hands. “Who the hell brings branded to deadlands?”

His mark hadn’t been cut, he went down swinging. Benna almost respected that, Jill ignored such thinking. The bodies had nothing useful on them, many were pierced with now-missing arrows whilst others had opened throats, slit with thin blades. Apparently that was a technique the Frontier encouraged, chaotic precision.

The wetted edge of the Gilded Talon gleamed crimson in that sunset, the body Benna observed was fresh. Hours old.

As Jill pondered a separate body lapping waves, she spotted a dark silhouette perched atop a corpse at the orange haze’s edge. As she drew nearer, her eyes adjusted, looking upon a dark bird busy pecking at the remains like a carrion crow. The teal gem atop its head was squinting beside its soulless eyes.

A black stolas, looking squarely at Jill.

Before the dominant could raise her bow, a frigid bloody hand grabbed for her leg. The armored body she had been walked past groaned, still alive and just as surprised as Jill was.

Jill’s free leg kicked the man’s head, using that momentum to spill her blade from her waist to thrust back down as if she were digging a hole with a sharp shovel. After that wet sound of mangled flesh, those disparate breaths ceased, her leg was released.

As the waves reddened, the dominant was numb, wishing only to wipe off her dirty blade and move on. Death was too horribly normal at this point, and grimy, given the bloody flakes she tasted in her dry mouth. Sand hardly improved the flavor. By the time she looked back, the stolas had also moved on, flying overhead to abandon them to the darkening haze. Jill had reached the body at that point, realizing it wasn’t imperial.

It was a dead man in Frontier blackened armor. Helm split with a smattering of wet silver hair peeking through. She cringed looking upon that fractured diamond once again, now covered in a layer of frozen red ink. It got everywhere, even onto a now discolored ribbon attached to the dead man’s arm. “So they can bleed…” There was a trail of it, she realized, as did her sister.

“They’ll know we’re here.” As Jill looked back, she spotted a gleaming of aether in her sister’s tightening gaze, heightening her senses in the billowing wind. Benedikta could see far more than Jill and the rest currently cursed with mortality. “If they hadn’t already…”

Eyes shining brighter in the ever-blooming darkness, Benna pushed past Jill, her sword suddenly changed directions, flicking away that bearer’s blood. Benna’s free hand grasped an invisible drawstring and pulled back with a closed fist. A snap of aether expelled and suddenly a great gust of wind pushed from Benedikta’s position, blowing sand and frost through Jill and the rest.

Jill flinched through the storm, as the darkening beach was rocked like a tempest and settled. The wind finally slowed and the haze pushed back, revealing what Benna saw. Unnatural cyan hues gleamed from within the mist… growing brighter with each lost minute of daylight. Beckoning the dusk.

How long had they been waiting by the shoreline, watching the group examining their kills?

With Benedikta calling their bluff, the riders began their approach. Likewise, the waloeders formed up, springing arms with their lady standing at the vanguard whilst Jill was paces behind her towards the center. Drawing her bowstring once more. The water lapping at their feet seemed especially frigid.

“When we find Kallus and his ilk… we play along.”

Each night since Jill had decided Shiva would exact her revenge, her sister had taken to doting on her. Sometimes it was in the form of a sparring session, others it was target practice. All had been for the benefit of preparing Jill for the coming war. So this time was the most peculiar occurrence, with a wet comb running through her tresses alongside a shallow pail of boiled creek water they camped beside. Such a routine Benedikta broached like a dictator, ordering Gerulf and the rest to scavenge so they’d be unbothered.

Snow didn’t melt as easily on Jill’s skin, which meant the ash stuck easily along with it. Her flesh could be scrubbed easily enough, but her hair was filthy, blackening like tar. Jill had yet to complain about that frustration, but Benedikta had a way with intuiting these things. Why else would she have the comb? It was a carved wooden piece painted yellow with that same hue of gold like her sword (but was far more agile). It glided through Jill’s hair with slippery ambition.

Perhaps Benna had been a handmaiden in a prior life, or she was simply bored and in need of a doll. Either way, she was happy to do it for Jill. It was the sisterly thing to do.

“Why not just skip the pleasantries and remove my cuff this instant?” Jill asked, minding that annoying piece of metal encircling her wrist. “It’d be two dominants instead of one. We’d have the advantage—Ow!” She yelped as the gold comb snagged, undoing a gray knot plugged into her scalp. Jill couldn’t tell if that was intentional or not (which usually meant it was). Benna kept to her prescribed role. “If you think I’m going to cut and run…”

“It’s not that, dearie.” Benedikta shushed her. “Were that you could even control Shiva… I still wouldn’t allow it.”

“Why?” Jill asked so bluntly, her sister paused, as if Jill was a child who didn’t know better. The comb stayed in place as Benna detangled her line of thought to its source.

“It’s not a matter of faith, it’s a matter of tactics.” She mused. “Kallus mentioned seeing you wearing the cuff. He knows what it does, and he’s shared that with the rest. They’re already uneasy around Garuda, hence why I’ve not seen their sanctuary. But if Shiva is also unshackled… they’ve prepared for such an occurrence, I’m certain.”

Jill frowned, that hate from before turning into frustration.

“You’re worried about Gerulf, and the rest… You think I’d be a liability.”

Benedikta took that with tact, brushing again.

“I think they expect you to be one. And I expect Javik will run the moment you think about priming with that cuff removed. He’s been hiding from his fate for years, and he knows this territory far better than we do, sister.”

“…” Jill quieted up, as Benna continued pushing that comb through her hair, the path through her tresses cleared up. The silver-gray slowly returning.

“These are dogs we’re dealing with, who’ll do far worse than us than we ever could to them, all they need is an excuse to bare their fangs.” Jill thought of her father… wondering what he could have been done to excuse his death. “You wearing the cuff makes these hounds think they’re in control, that you’re just a pretty little lamb with an overwrought silver fleece. One these sheepdogs could lead anywhere.”

Jill and her silver hair flinched at the word pretty. But caught Benna’s drift easily enough. No doubt it was also why Benna insisted on keeping it long, desirable.

“Like to Javik.”

“Like to Javik.” Benna repeated, pleased that the lesson was sinking in. “Honey gets us far closer to our desires than venom. And they’ll be far more prone to making mistakes if these sticky fools think they’re in control. So we let them think so, let them show their hand. And when the time comes, I’ll be right there beside you, holding the leash, little sister.”

How lucky Jill was that her cuff wasn’t a collar, given how insistent her sister was on pulling that leash. It was hard enough to breath in the north already.

“If you’re dictating my actions… you won’t make me do anything untoward, right?”

“Besides murder?” Classically the most untoward act of all, yet Jill had already killed. Instead, it was another untoward act that brought her pause. A week of Benna’s incessant innuendo had a price, as did Benna cleaning her up like a handmaiden, prettying her up. “That depends… would you do it?” Benedikta’s head cocked, Jill squirmed like an embarrassed child, endlessly adorable. “While I’m sure these hounds would love to see what’s beneath your silver fleece, Shiva will be enough, little lamb.”

By then Benna had finished with her very important work, grinning golden and patting Jill’s straightened silver head. Decidedly more pretty now, as Jill saw her reflection in the pail. All she was missing was a ribbon to tie it down. Seeing them together in the visage, it reminded Jill of the many times she had been looked upon with Anabella. Gold and silver. Yet now it didn’t repulse her. Despite her sister’s nefarious nature, Jill had come to accept Benna’s quirks. And she did feel a little better getting that tar off.

But her sister wasn’t done.

“You learn so much from someone in seeing what they compromise on… in what they’re willing to forfeit.” Benna sighed.

Jill looked up from the pail, hearing another of her sister’s unsubtle lessons. Probably coming from her insecurity about her king and that assassin she avoided naming. Marred in compromise.

“You’re saying Javik is no different.” Jill suggested, yet that wasn’t Benna’s point.

“And neither are you, lamb.” She added, putting that golden comb away. “Every sacrifice is a lesson, Jill.”

Despite finding herself ensnared in freezing Sanbrequois blood, Jill’s hair was impeccable, and her breaths were as tight as the taut bowstring shivering along her cheek. She finally spied those dark riders departing the haze. Men in sullen plate-mail upon murky chocobos, carrying those sickening cerulean gleaming lanterns. Snarling wolves following alongside them in lockstep.

A pall of black gripped the beach, long tendrils of shadow extending well beyond the riders.

As that crystal tipped arrow shimmered with the dying light, Jill realized there were far more riders than the ones from before. At least twenty, all armed to the teeth atop chocobo with likely similarly shaped teeth. Yet it was only the outnumbered waloeders who had their weapons drawn, possessing an advantage given who could wield the very air flowing between all things. Benedikta Harman stood tall, not shaking anywhere near as much as she had in her last encounter with the Northern Frontier.

The birds finally heeded that wind and stopped, as did the barking dogs. At their front was their leader, the masked man from before. Kallus. His ashen armor made no noise as he dismounted onto the sand, cloak billowing with the waning wind. There was no bird on his shoulder, the stolas had simply fled, perhaps knowing what could easily happen. So maybe it’d come back like the vulture it was.

How much Jill wanted to release that arrow the nearer he came, to bring this charade to an end. Yet it was Benna’s hand Jill felt on her shoulder, softly pressing her down into the retreating waves. Forcing her bent arm to lower and relieve the drawstring.

“Honey.” Her sister hissed, taking more paces forward and relaxing her dirty blade. Her men begrudgingly followed, meanwhile Jill kept the bow out, still too closely aligned to that grudge for comfort.

Despite that arrow trailing him, Kallus faced Garuda’s Dominant instead.

“So you do remember the way.” That filtered voice answered them. Shakier, as if his cool confidence had been ruptured. Perhaps having something to do with the bodies surrounding them, and a few of their chocobos being riderless. “We’d ‘ve thought you’d arrive on the morrow. Your early.” His old helm glanced at Jill, seeing that full blown scowl aimed at him, lining up with that bow he’d certainly seen before. “And armed.”

Given Jill’s muteness, her talkative older sister was there to make up for it.

“Yes, the wilds provided that… I think it’s stunning in her pretty little hands, don’t you agree?” Kallus’s attention of Jill ceased as Benna strutted forward. “Did they provide these as well?” Her boot stepped off a stiff dead imperial. “I thought you thralls were prepared for company. But this cleanup leaves much to be desired, Kallus.” She eyed the dead Frontiersmen especially.

Kallus stood like a glacier, bitterly cold. “Carrion’s scouts got a little too ambitious for their own good. But the infestation will be dealt with soon enough.” He slithered.

Jill squinted at that name.

“Ambitious… that’s one way to describe this.” Benedikta spat on the ground. “Perhaps you may have more on your meager plate than you can handle. I realize Javik doesn’t like to hear it, but there’s nothing wrong with asking for a little help once in a while.”

She luxuriated in that, standing proudly over a foe’s vulnerability. Especially when the aether made her seem untouchable. Though Jill could still see Benna hiding a limp. Could Kallus?

His helm bobbed. “Perhaps you can tell Lord Javik that. He wishes to converse with you in private, Lady Harman.” Kallus answered, earning a surprise from Benedikta. It gave him enough social currency to draw nearer. “He wouldn’t speak to the topic of discussion, but…” His words slowed, glancing between Jill, Gerulf and the others. “I get a sense he doesn’t want it repeated by any spies.”

Jill could feel the tension as Kallus and his men watched them. She felt herself still clinging to that bow… arm begging to re-extend.

Benedika ignored her. “I suppose that must hurt, being left out of the loop. Especially with someone as careful as your thegn. Last time we were here I couldn’t even get into your Façade. Now it sounds that Javik’s practically rolling out the carpet for us.”

“Much can change in a few weeks’ time.” Kallus grumbled, willfully not looking upon Jill. “Your band will be cared for, like your crew… No harm will come upon them.” He glanced past Benna. “But they’ll have to surrender their weapons and munitions” His eyes settled on Jill, seeing that slim scowl, the faded arrow lining the drawstring. “Jayne will also have to forgo her little bow as well.”

In being remembered, Jill refused to shiver on his watch, re-extending that little bow. She wanted to see how strong that bobbling helmet was. It flinched at the sight of that nocked arrow, but he remained somewhat composed.

“They will be returned, of course. But it’s to ensure their safety and my people’s.” He stared intently at Benna. “Otherwise, your time in the Bay of Frost may be painfully extended.”

Benna painfully cocked her neck.

“To strip a royal knight of his weapons is a high offense in our homeland.”

“As it is in mine.” Kallus answered back as a northman. “But peace and stability require compromise.” All while he was the one still wielding a rapier. “Your king promised Lord Javik your cooperation. But if he’s changed his mind, I suppose Odin can come here himself and make his complaint plain. Lady Harman. Unless you think someone else should.”

Amidst that smarm, Jill’s sister glanced to her, aether continuing to flow as she took in the situation. Jill quietly mouthed no, jangling the cuff, minutely. But Benedikta’s look hardened, whispering that word again.

“Honey.”

It burned Jill’s pride as Benedikta looked back, stowing that blade. “So be it, Kallus. We’ll play.”

Jill froze at the order, rattled whilst the rest begrudgingly proceeded to disarm. The riders dismounted and seized through their property, stealing anything considered a weapon, including crystals… and anything deemed valuable. The Frontiersman’s collection of contraband became astounding that night. How odd it was for these Frontiersmen to be stealing from the living rather than corpses (though some did come by to pick up the corpses of their men, to place them atop their empty chocobos).

As Kallus approached Shiva’s Dominant to rob her, Jill intended to forgo Benna’s will and loose that nocked arrow then and there. But suddenly the bloodied sword at her waist was lifted and the arrows from her quiver were plucked. Jill yelped and prepared a retaliation with that remaining shaft when Gerulf outed himself as the perpetrator.

“Forgive me, milady.” He whispered, just as frustrated by Benna’s scheme. In noticing Gerulf’s own vulnerability, Jill’s anger withered only a little. She forgave him quietly and handed off that last arrow. By the time Kallus reached her, his expression was hidden as he offered a gloved hand to receive the bow. Jill spat on the ground and dropped it into the bloody sand.

The only enjoyment she got that night was watching Kallus begrudgingly pick it up, stowing it over his back for safe keeping.

The last to disarm was Benedikta, as she practically thrusted the sheaved Gilded Talon into Kallus’s dark armored chest. “I’ll want that back, unmolested.” She turned, looking all these blue gleaming soldiers dead in their visors, preparing to manhandle her people even further. “And if any of your men touch any of my mine… remember that like my king, I don’t need a weapon to retaliate.”

Amidst Benedikta’s announcement, her eyes flashed a bluish green and more sand kicked up. Such a gust flapped Jill’s hair into her face and blew out several of the blue lanterns. The masked northmen froze, quickly keeping their hands to themselves. Kallus took it with false grace, climbing his chocobo with Jill’s bow and Benna’s sword hanging from his back.

“Of course… Lady Harman.” He looked back, surveying the royalists and Jill. “When our Lord’s business is concluded, you’ll be free to return to your vessel. All of you… strays or otherwise.”

Jill didn’t even bother to watch Kallus’ body language as he announced that, not believing a word of it. If there one thing to take joy in, it was how disappointed he sounded in this compromise.

Maybe he had sand trapped under his armor as well.

Night and storm seemed to pause as the duo ventured through the drifts from body to body, trying to find some source of living, some source of someone they knew. Some source of someone who had seen someone they knew.

None lived to tell them anything… or just to live.

Some were wounded and afterwards frozen to death. Others had cut throats and piercing consistent with arrows. All picked clean. The northerners were a combination of people not unlike their friends. Imperial prisoners perhaps? Killed regardless, whether silver headed or not. The hanged man was the last they looked upon. Long dead and strung from a noose under a tree, Clive realized it was a silver-haired bearer, dressed differently from the rest. His cheek was enflamed, black brand opened with a knife.

Left to suffer slowly. Until either he ran out of air, his brand was too painful, or the cold took him. None were choices that were his to choose, just to withstand until the inevitable. Left behind as a marker for the rest. As a marker for any who came after and thought to plunder the Frontier’s bastion.

As the north kept finding ways to harm his spirit, Clive had no response. Not like Fenna’s.

With absolute precision and perfect conjuration, an aether-gleaming icicle extended from the bearer’s palm, breaking the cold rope. The first magic she casted in days. The body slid down from the tree and ceased as Fenna caught him in a trembling embrace. She put him down, kneeling beside and removing the rope from his neck, putting a hand over the scoured brand to imagine it missing and him whole. After a long while, Fenna closed his eyes, whispering something into his ear like she had done for the others, branded or otherwise. A prayer, maybe? Not that Clive knew Fenna to practice any real faith.

Clive whispered her name but Fenna moved on in silence, pressing past the bloodshed back into the storm, clinging to Darun’s mask, she continued following the frozen river. Her associates did the same, though Torgal’s head hung low. Clive’s was somehow even lower.

There was nothing to say, not even some plotting of whether Carrion and their friends had been here. Not even a murmur about whether Torgal had been responding to the massacre, or something else. Clive simply projected a bolt of his brother’s magic to light their way, and they walked… trying to get as far away from what was behind them as possible. Clive was unable to stop looking back until the storm replaced that vanishing site.

Hours had passed into that cold unforgiving night, uneventful beyond the akashics wandering the frost (not that they gave much issue). Fenna pushed onwards on the trail despite her ailing shivering body. Clive’s warmth could do nothing for them at this point, nor could his wisp of floating flame. So he eventually stopped, unable to stand it any longer. That silence was too much to bear. He feared growing any more numb to it.

“I don’t understand this place. Any of it.” Fenna’s steps slowed and came to a stop, as Clive shivered in the cold, affected. Ifrit did him little help in that moment. “That man, all those people… Slain all without even a hint of mercy.”

Was this the Mother’s Chill the northmen spoke of?

He struggled to understand what he saw, to comprehend that brutality. It seemed impossible to Clive. Like something dreamt about in fantastical books that could never be achieved in reality. Events that a hero could stop before things got too far. Yet here he was… far too late. Hardly a hero.

All that horror he had been looking upon this entire time seemed purposeless, The violence that had encircled the Twins… that Clive had grown numb to. Numbed to that gravity. Only awakened by the pointlessness of that horror. And what did that say about the violence he’s enacted? Or was that also just as pointless?

“How could anyone hate so much?”

As he said that, Fenna struggled to look upon him. Eventually she managed it, that hood billowing against the cold light of his flame. Darun’s mask resting in her hand.

“It’s not hate… not entirely, not truly.” She breathed, earning a look of confusion. “They didn’t kill my sister because they hated her, nor her husband. Nor was that why they killed these people.”

Or perhaps she just hoped they didn’t.

Clive scoffed as Fenna gave their enemies the benefit of the doubt. “Then why? Why did they do it?”

In being confronted with that question, that chilling wind roared and Fenna’s grasp of that mask waned.

“Hate isn’t something we’re born with. It’s something we learn. Something we choose. It becomes a mask we hide behind. Hate protects our vulnerabilities, our weaknesses. It’s a defense summoned by our fears.”

Perhaps that was the most frightening thing about the Frontier. They were just as human as anyone else. They simply hoped their enemies would forget that. Preferring to seem monstrous.

“Fear did that?” Clive balked. “You call that cruelty a product of fear? Of what? To protect all this? Frigid deadening land that nobody can live in.” That wisp flickered with angry power, more of that snow melted underneath him, revealing ashes sticking to the bottom of his soles.

“Their home’s been dying for a long time, whether they have five years, ten or twenty… it makes no difference to them.” Or her, Clive realized. “They’re northerners, and they will protect what’s theirs to their dying breaths.”

As a soldier, Clive easily understood that. It was a wonderful excuse if only the soldiers alone had died. But the rest? The very people the Frontier had been hunting all throughout Silvermane’s epilogue?

What did fear have to do with that?

“These are men, women and children…. All who had nothing to do with Carrion’s madness. No intention of being here, of being strung up and feared. There’s no reason that could ever justify what we saw.”

As the vexing wind revealed it easily, Clive struggled to look upon Fenna’s brand, in considering that sight.

“In the right hands, cruelty needs no justification. Just fear and a victim to shunt it upon.” Fenna said up ahead, not having the strength to look back. “The Fenrir used my kind to hold power in the north, to control a Dominant. The Frontier are the heirs of the Iskaldi, they remember that. The power we held over them, and the power we lacked in protecting Drake’s Eye and our mistress.” She said, as if it were her fault humanity was so wicked.

“But you didn’t do this, you didn’t harm those people—" She had yet to harm anyone, not even him.

“It matters naught. On soil such as this, bearers tempt more danger here than anywhere else in the north. That threat makes the Frontier vulnerable to their fears. A dominant only increases that terror.”

Perhaps Carrion was preying on that, making the Frontier scared with his branded. And if even more dominants were coming like Clive (And he knew of at least one other coming their direction), then the north was edging upon an apocalypse. Fenna masked herself behind that logic, refusing to see this as Clive did. He just didn’t know why.

“My kind has always served that role. We’re feared and thus they make us scapegoats for anything that goes wrong.” It was always the bearers who suffered first, especially in the north where their kind were reviled. Used as weapons not unlike the imperials’ branded. The only difference was that the Frontier went after everyone, man and bearer alike. “That’s why the Accords were written—”

“Yes, but the Accords were wrong!” His voice cracked and his hands shook, that floating light behind him flickering. “Bearers and dominants are not monsters to be feared, you’re all just as human as I am. As my father, and Vel, and Darun and…” Clive stammered as if he was shouting into a void. Perhaps imagining his mother in Fenna’s place refusing to listen.

Or perhaps imagining Jill in Fenna’s place, believing herself just as much a monster. Just as deserving of this fate.

“Like those people, that man didn’t ask for this. To be born into a world that despised him for breathing, to die hung by his own countrymen as a tool of fear. Neither did these imperial bearers, born in chains and forced to march and die in a foreign land for a madman’s ambitions.” And then there was Fenna, choosing to remain despite it all… “Same way you didn’t ask to be ripped away from your family. Branded and melded into a tool to torture your—"

“Don’t,” The mask cracked and he saw her softened eyes welling, but no tears could stream from them. “Please don’t.” And then he noticed it, that affected shakiness to her hands. Rumbling like balled up rock, drowning in the aether around them. Unable to do anything with that frustration his tongue wagging was summoning in her. Just as terrified as he was. Hiding from it just as much as he had been. Avoiding that truth rather than facing it.

Standing here with her untarnished brand, Fenna was deeply, profoundly afraid.

That was the Frontier’s intention, to shunt their terror onto their enemies. And it was working. Clive was scared… but not of this brutality, not really. When faced with these trees, all he could see was the forest around them. That deadening forest. The very one Fenna refused to leave.

“You say you’re free here. But the more I see of the north… the more I see is the fear you speak of, born from desperation.” He sighed, catching melting snowflakes. “The more I see is the world’s ending. What’s coming for us all. Man, Dominant and Bearer alike.”

He thought of his mother, of the fate that awaited Rosaria without its Mothercrystal. Blight would consume the land, and make the survivors the worst versions of themselves like it did to her. Like it did to the Frontier. All this horror… and for what?

In his somberness, his ball of flame vanished away, enveloped by the blizzard.

“This isn’t freedom, this is just… nothing. A frozen void, a frigid tomb that surfaces heartbreak and ashes…”

This place was beyond limitations. It was beyond understanding… As was his companion.

“How can you stand to withstand it, Fenna? To keep enduring despite all you’ve seen?” She had every day to leave and find something better… to find Jill, to find anything else. But instead she refused to make that choice. Perhaps waiting for a day when she could no longer make any choice.

“At some point how do you not just… let go?”

In realizing what he was asking, Fenna’s cracked façade shriveled away completely. Her eyes lowered, and she struggled to find some way to refuse him. Because in truth she had let go many times… again and again. Clive knew it so easily, having given up himself, only to be pulled back beyond the brink. And yet here she was, just like Clive… shivering in the same blizzard. All she could do was look down and cling to that broken mask for dear life…much like how Clive clung to that tattered ribbon.

Torgal clung to them both, whining softly.

The duo turned from their conversation, glimpsing a gleaming of blue in the darkness. The very light Darun and Vel had long been warning them about. It wasn’t akashic, Clive smelled a different flavor of that honey, something bitter and harsh and drained. He saw shadowy avian steeds. Black chocobos, gaits weakened in the fighting like their riders yet ferocious as ever under those cyan lights. Probably with teeth sharp as knives, not unlike the furry beasts shadowing them.

Hounds not unlike Torgal. Like the Jaeger, the Frontier’s wolves traveled in packs.

With their extra-armed escort taking lead for the final leg of the royalist’s journey, they marched for another hour through that sand. The storm lessened intently by Benna’s will and aether, but the night was in full effect. Situated at the group’s protected circle, Jill wasn’t afforded a much better view of the Bay, now fully immersed in white shining dunes. The cyan light reflected off the ground in a surreal fashion, making the white sands nauseating to watch. Their vision was deterred well beyond those blue lanterns, finding no landmarks in the shadows to offer clarity.

Except for one.

The further they went along, the further that chill increased. It wasn’t long until the glacial water within the Bay had fully frozen, gleaming like a dark reflective stone. A salty ice, unblemished by ash and decay. Solid enough that Jill swore she could see people walking along the ice despite the blizzard, carrying those blue torches. No fear whatsoever if they’d fall in. She’d consider them longer had it not been for the riders they came across on the road, more of Kallus’ brethren. They passed the group like ships in the night, with many staring at Jill and Benedikta and whispering to themselves. Without saying anything half of Kallus’ company turned to follow them, wolves included.

The fighting must have been drawing close.

For a brief beat Jill was staring out in the distance, wondering if Ambrosia lingered in the way the Frontiersmen and their hounds were heading. Or if…

Instead Jill quickly focused on something more useful.

Under the hue of those cold blue lamps (that offered no warmth whatsoever), She was staring at her bow and the Gilded Thorn along Kallus’s back, making considerations towards retrieving them, followed by the cleanest way to cut Kallus’s throat once the need arose. She continued to consider that rapier he insisted on carrying at his left side. Was it dirty?

She wondered how much effort he took in slicing Cora’s brand…

Jill had been so focused on murder she nearly walked into Gerulf, who had paused to make note of a landmark along the bay. Perhaps the most important one, given Benna’s oddly held tongue. It was a great wall of stone, a frigid cobbling of material harvested from the Glaives and their Fallen forbearers. Like her father’s throne in Iskald. But the area seemed far smaller than her father’s keep these men destroyed.

As they came nearer, Jill was able to make out tinges of blue flame atop the barrier, braziers punctuated with dark silhouettes. Stationed there were men bearing the Frontier’s cracked and blackened armor, archers carrying crystal tipped arrows training down upon the company. The blue fire at their side gave them the appearance of ghosts haunting this frigid wasteland… looking down on a gaggle of unworthy souls seeking judgement.

Jill couldn’t help but feel many hidden eyes watching her amidst the jury.

As the group halted, Kallus pressed a dark fist to the splintered diamond on his chest, a northern salute to their onlookers. He then spoke in a tongue Jill had no hope in understanding.

“Gi oss adgang til fasaden. Vi går barbeint i Morens Kulde. Treller til ingen thegn, menn uten navn.”

Despite not knowing that language, Jill felt herself drawn in. She could have sworn hearing something like that before, uttered by her father’s thralls and her mother’s servants. It felt surreal.

Like a forgotten piece she hadn’t known she had been missing.

Jill was shaken out of that introspection by her sister’s hand on her shoulder. Rather than sharing snide words, Benna simply pointed upwards, to a figure standing atop the gate. A man gleaming ghostly in the blue flames, as too did the creature beside him, a black bird perched upon the brazier. The stolas didn’t take flame. Instead it was still looking down at Jill and her sister, as was its presumptive owner, hidden by the shadows and the blue gleam. Obfuscated by both the dark and the light.

Was that…

“You’ve called for us, Javik.” Benna strove forward, despite those crystal tipped arrows now trailing the sight of her. “And like our King, Waloed honors their vassals requests.” She didn’t even bother with the Frontier’s annoying reverence to a dead language. “So let us in before the frigid winds blow over your men.” She threatened, eyes gleaming blue, the cold breeze kicked up for dramatic flair.

A bolt of nervousness struck through Jill in her sister’s insolence. Benna spoke not so much as Waloed’s Warden of the Winds but as a gusty child. Yet as that threat was made, Jill turned back to the figure looking down on them. Betwixt the tightening of drawstrings and the flicker of blue flames, Jill slowly realized the man wasn’t looking at Garuda’s Dominant but at Jill herself.

The silver-haired girl who would be Shiva.

“Velkommen hjem, navnløse brødre.” The figure shouted, his aged voice not filtered like the rest. He didn’t wear a mask like his thralls, not even in this biting cold. “Varm dere ved peisen. Villmarken vil sørge for det.” He raised a shadowy hand in the light, closing it into a fist that beat into his chest like a drum, punctuated with the sounds of surging mechanisms. Like a lever being pulled offstage at the Firebird.

The ground shook and rumbled, sand and snow dancing without Benedikta’s involvement. Was Titan was to blame then? As Jill watched those rumbling stone walls rising up like a fractured drawbridge. It was reminiscent of her little brother’s stories of the Apodytery at Phoenix Gate, impossible fallen creations opening through spiraling gears turning like clockwork. And as the door finally opened, Jill saw no castle nor fortress behind it. Instead she saw a wide fluorescent gap encircled by stone walls. From the hole came more of that blue aethereal light, layered upon frigid stairs.

An opening into the underworld, the lost soul imagined.

Slowly Jill looked back up to Javik, blurred even more by that aetherlight. The stolas nuzzled into his shoulder like a mere pet. “Welcome, thralls of Odin.” He called down in the common tongue, mood lifting. “After your long journey through the territories, I hope our meager refuge can offer you some respite from the Mother’s Chill.” He waved, almost chuckling in the cold. “Come, we have much to discuss and bellies to fill.” Javik turned away, to dart back into the warm shadows. The bird stayed perched on his vanishing shoulder.

As his thralls led the way down, Jill Warrick was frozen in place. That insipid speech summoned a chill down her back. Her breath hitched and Jill was grasping that cuff once again. Her worn wrist hewn wretched in the abuse.

Oh gods above and below… she knew that voice.

It was a mostly forgotten voice that had quieted down over the decade of Jill’s inattention. Belonging to a man her father called brother and who Jill once called uncle. Who had always smiled when seeing his little niece. Likely how he was smiling just now.

Uncle Lorik… The very emissary of Silvermane’s surrender. Now presiding over his end.

The only thing pulling her from that introspective meltdown was Benedikta’s hand on her cuff, yet Jill couldn’t move an inch. Her mind was perfectly aligned with her body. She couldn’t go down there. It was impossible.

“Unlock the cuff.” She begged, “Benna please.”

It was unthinkable to detangle the thoughts rupturing through her numb mind. But at the center of them was a willingness to overlook, to forget. To not sully any more of her childhood than that man had already ruined in her absence. To just let the monster out and be done with it.

But Benna knew none of that. She was too ensnared by her own curiosity, it aligned perfectly with her arrogance.

“Don’t you wanna know what’s down there, Just-Jill?” Her honey-colored head cocked to the side, playfully. Whilst the girl continued her harsh hyperventilating, mind practically on fire. To say that Jill’s answer was “NO!” was a miraculous understatement.

Yet Benna only saw what she wanted to see. Just a little understandable fear of the dark. This would all be water under the bridge once Javik and his men were good and dead, she knew it. So for the second time that night, Jill’s warden and sister refused her. They were on the cusp of the unknown and they were well-past panicking.

She slowly put her hands through Jill’s hair, combing it again and pulling out dried flakes of blood. “We’re almost done… just be patient a little while longer, little sister.” As Jill’s terrified eyes looked up to Benna, those cat-like eyes narrowed. “We see what our host wants. And after that… we can tear down their little sanctuary together.”

With that promise made, Garuda’s Dominant departed into the sanctuary, following after Gerulf and the rest. Jill shivered, but faced with the prying eyes of Kallus, she had little choice but to follow her sister down into hell. In that moment her fractured mind tamped itself down, reckoning it was better to walk rather than be dragged.

The blizzard raged in the presence of the looming Frontiersmen. Searching for more outsiders to kill with those haunting lanterns. At first Clive thought to reach for the Burning Thorn, to empty out his frustrations and flames onto these horrid villains. But a stony hand caught his arm, touching the ribbon accidentally.

In Fenna’s eyes, the last thing they needed was to enter a meaningless fight, to risk their deaths when the imperials they were pursuing were fleeing these very people. Meaning the longer they dealt with them, the further away Vel and Darun got. The further Jill would be. With a brief familiar glimmer of colorless eyes he knew all his life, Clive’s boiling blood ceased its burn. He stowed his frustration, fading into the storm.

Venturing behind a patch of frigid trees near the shore, they watched as those sickly cyan lanterns passed through the blizzard, following the river just as they were. Several riders passed by, unaware despite that gleaming. The storm hid much from them.

The lights were pilfered Fallen technology from the bay. As Vel had explained, the torches didn’t use crystals nor wick to function, hence why they offered no heat. Their function was to indicate the presence of aether, whether in soil or people. They lit aflame for everyone, man and beast alike, growing brighter the more bodies they found or the purer the soil. But they gleamed their greatest for dominants and bearers (to a lesser extent). Hence why the Frontier used them in deadlands. But that drawback made the Frontier’s aether-rich territory a blind spot. Such a blind spot Clive and Fenna could exploit in pushing down that power within them both, resisting its pull.

Resisting Ifrit’s pull…

Perhaps that was why the Frontier also brought hounds with them. All looking much like Torgal, sans the growling. He didn’t seem to like the other dogs, but then again he was the runt in comparison.

“Torgal, hush. Hide.” Clive whispered, but he was too late. The dog was noticed and the humans held their breath. Clinging to the back of that tree with terror. All it took was for one to start barking, and then the cavalry would come charging.

The hounds came nearer, sniffing that frozen air, but Torgal confronted them. In that group he did seem the runt, yet he growled for them to back off, to not come any nearer to his hidden companions. A sharp bark defused them and Torgal growled louder… preparing to come to blows.

In response to that, more lanterns neared, and Clive could feel Fenna’s magic turning the air colder. Three silhouetted riders broke off from the vanishing main group, approaching that clearing on chocoback. One rider dropped to the ground, patting his chocobo and looking upon the frozen river in that darkness… he came upon a growling diamond headed dog at the head of the pack, caught dumbfounded.

“Oh fuck…” A chilled Fenna swore, she considered drawing Clive’s sword herself. Perhaps if they could kill the trio swiftly, the rest would be unaware. But then Clive stopped her, noticing something in the soldiers’ body language. The northerner didn’t seem to react at all to Torgal’s presence, nor even his standoff with the other hounds.

He stepped through the dogs without aplomb, patting Torgal’s head like he belonged to that pack.

“Jakte.” His filtered mask said in a tongue that caused Fenna’s inflamed ears to perk up.

With their training, the other wolves hurried off ahead onto the frozen river and beyond whilst a confused Torgal remained. His initial growl froze and something was handed off to him. A withered old piece of jerky. His fellow riders came nearer, also dismounting but bringing their lanterns forth to light their way. Not looking the duo’s direction even as those sickly lights shined a little brighter.

Why didn’t the first one have a lantern?

“—the imp couldn’t have gone far.” One said in that filtered voice Clive recognized as almost Jaeger-like. But unlike the filtered mask that Fenna clung to, theirs were masks from the Fallen’s era. Old and laborious to maintain. Harder even to understand, especially with how far they were.

“—You sure he was following the water?” A second asked.

“That’s what the dead imps were following.”

The third sighed, perhaps their leader or simply a tiebreaker.

“Yes, but they’re staggering. ‘iding their ‘erds in the storm.” His hidden eyes looked out to that river, hands tightening on his lantern, flame flickering and waning in the cold. “If the hounds don’t find him, the chill will. So let’s leave them to it.” He nodded to Torgal, stepping back to his black ornery chocobo. “We’ve bigger fish to fry than a stray thief. Javik will understand.”

The first thrall patted Torgal’s head affectionately.

“Jakt,” He whispered to the dog kindly. “Og komme tilbake.”

The trio proceeded to turn their backs on the dog and the river, mounting off back into the storm, taking those ghostly lights with them. As Fenna was dumbfounded by their luck, Clive blinked, watching those lanterns fading off. He counted them again for certainty.

“There’s three riders, but only two lanterns.” He noticed.

With sniff from Torgal and barely a squint they spotted a distant blue flashing further along the banks of the frozen river. As if a lantern was being turned on and off to test it. Clive realized what the other hounds had actually noticed. Without even thinking, Torgal took off after it.

After a torch-bearing thief.

As the dog jumped straight onto the ice, he dashed weightlessly, barking like a flee-bitten hound in heat. The thieving torchbearer ran but was nowhere near fast enough. By the time Clive had come upon them, the thief tried swinging the rod like a warhammer… had Torgal not caught it. He was now leaving teeth marks on the lantern’s rod, cold spittle spilling onto the downed soldier’s helm, bracing himself against that rod. Torgal was playing, acting as if this was something of a game.

Did Torgal know this person?

“Fuckin’ git off ern me you little—”

“Torgal, halt.” Clive ordered quickly. The dog backed off, with he lantern in his mouth. The imperial was light on his feet, taking one look at Clive and jumping up to his feet, fleet of foot. There was instant recognition that went both ways. “You…” Clive murmured, an old grudge suddenly resurfacing.

“’ou’ve gottae be fuckin’ kiddin me.” His young northern voice swore up and down. A false imperial caught in the open with hardly anything to defend himself.

As he took off into the frost, Clive decided to end the chase prematurely, vanishing into ash and smoke. He reappeared on the lip of the river the false imperial ran to, catching him. Instantly the boy drew a sword from his hip, hell bent on fighting this out… or running, whichever he could conceivably survive. As Clive surmised, the boy lacked any trueborn training with that blade whatsoever, swinging in wide effusive arcs that Clive evaded far too easily like he was Lord Murdoch evading his new squire’s strikes. He had yet to produce the Burning Thorn to answer it.

Torgal sat upon the ice confused as Clive kept dodging, turning back with the lantern in mouth to see Fenna catching up, going right to the source of the fracas. That gleaming sword turned on her and rather than dodge, she simply caught the blade with a stony grip, petrification coming in clutch. She yanked the blade and the false imperial tumbled down into the ice for what must have been the thousandth time given how unharmed the false soldier was by the altercation.

Luckily this ice was strong enough to withstand their nonsense.

His helmet came off, spilling forth a swath of unkept honey yellow hair and a young mug that Clive remembered. He still had a black eye, iris’s green as emeralds he probably sought to nab whilst he was at it.

Fenna realized this was just a scruffy lad. Barely even a teenager. Yet in her associate’s eyes this was persona non grata.

“Lord Wedge, as I live and breathe.” Clive growled over him. “Still disguising yourself in other men’s stolen armor?” Looking closer, the Marquess spotted the seam of a crimson winter-shirt hiding under that armor. His father’s.

“Oh ‘or the love of the crystal bleedin’ mother…” The blonde teenager crawled further onto dry land, slipping. “GAV, MY NAME IS GAV!” As Torgal continued to happily carry that lantern in his mouth, the boy squinted. “And don’ think I’d forgot' about you ei’r, mutt.”

The sitting diamond headed dog cocked his head, pleased to simply be remembered.

In the midst of this reunion, Fenna was left utterly confused, dropping the sword and taking the lantern from the dog. “Rosfield, explain.” She ordered, shivering utterly vanquished by her bewilderment.

“He’s uhm… a nuisance that showed up in my family’s stocks when Shiva awakened. A criminal from a network of likeminded individuals with interest in Jill. Him and…” Those words slowed as Clive made a connection, recalling the full reason for his grudge.

A part Clive had been dreading for perhaps this entire journey. Not that Gav paid his dread any mind.

“Nuisance? That’s a wee bit harsh, Clive.” He announced, saying Clive’s name like they were old associates despite this being the first actual conversation they had ever endured. A far cry from Gav’s silence in Rosilith’s cells compared to his talkative rescuer he now emulated. “I wasn’t the one that blew up your shite bleedin’ wall. Could’re just lettin’ me out like Martha ‘titioned, but you needed to be the big man of the house, Lord Marquess.” The commoner falsely bowed and rubbed it in, somehow possessing high status. “And still we helped your brother outta the kindness of our ‘earts. We didn’t have-to. But we did! Was that also a nuisance?”

As Clive fumed in this impossible position, Fenna got over the reunion very quickly. She pulled her hood further down, bracing against the wind with that lantern.

“What were you thinking, boy, stealing from the Frontier, endangering yourself like that? Haven’t you seen what they do to strays and outsiders?” She asked, somehow worried for the lad’s safety. That boy pushed past it.

“I’ve seen pleny and was thinking lots of things, mam. The imps I’ve tracked happen to get awf’lly spooked by these lights.” He dusted himself off in the blue flame’s glare. “These Fronties might’ha caught me in the first place, but… it’s all worked out in the end. ‘Spite their noses, their hounds ain’ too keen at night in a bleeding storm when bigger game is afoot and I’m curren’ly the fastest scout in the Territ’ries. And pretty good at meself scarce.” With pride he tried to take back the lantern, but Fenna’s grip was ironclad.

“That’s a bad plan, absolutely dreadful.” She answered back, oddly disappointed. “Had you any companions with sense, they’d ’ve told you that clear as day.” She told him off, clinging to that instinct Vel often employed with her friends.

The boy was not having any of it. Having little need for a guardian. Hence his current lonesomeness, Clive noticed.

“Well, I needed the lantern, mam, so I ‘spose sense could’ waited its turn—” He kept trying to take the lantern, but Fenna wasn’t having it. And neither was Clive. He intervened before Fenna could grab Gav by the ear like a misbehaving child.

“Where’s Cid?” Clive growled, ice melting under his feet and Gav stopped abruptly. He let go of the lantern with a thread of guilt and frustration.

“It’s ahm…” The sighing boy knelt to replace his helmet and dropped sword. “A long story.”

Given the time Clive and Fenna had lost already, they’d have to settle for the short version.

Chapter Text

Their hands were bound, roped to the saddle bags of sleet-and-ash-covered chocobos. The sunny pigment of the bird’s feathers became sullen in the storm, like the faded blue and white armor their riders wore. They toiled endlessly north, only ceasing when the night was too dark and the blizzard too deep to continue. In that relentless deep dark cold, the band seemed devoid of color, spiting the orange flames their bearers and crystals could barely maintain. Not that any such warmth was shared with their prisoners.

Plenty had succumbed to this treatment. Whether it be east-fleeing northerners or imperial deserters… few could resist it. Amongst those few survivors were Jaeger, ones who had withstood far worse than some frigid rope burns and frostbite. Their masks were stolen from them, baring faces that looked none too different from those around them. At least those faces were catching less dust now, meaning their deaths would come soon enough. They had that to look forward to.

In that forest came the muffled echoes of screams, imperial legionnaires and captives finding death at the end of crystal tipped arrows hiding in the blizzard. Yet the general insisted on keeping this layered band together, a group large enough to easily resist the Frontier’s guerrilla tactics along that frigid river. Their size and position protected them, and the yells of erupting warfare they heard served as excellent motivation to make progress.

Lord Carrion was not one to waste effort with a carrot when the threat of a stick did wonders.

Vel’s mask was taken, carried upon the general’s protected saddlebag like an ill-gotten hare-shaped trophy. One of her lens had broken off, mirroring the old man’s half-blind face taking interest in it. How strenuous it was to follow that chocobo’s distant rear, watching her stolen identity bobble in the flame-lit haze. Accompanied by the smug chatter of the silver-headed thief who stole it.

“Impeccable craftsmanship on display from these savages.” He mused almost respectfully to one of his branded who knew better than to challenge his notions. “Too bad the effort’s wasted here.”

“Yes, milord.”

When the man glanced back, Vel refused to match his gaze, sullen blue eyes too consigned to her binds. How boring.

Someone else was more than happy to answer it, similarly faceless. Darun winked towards the general, flaunting the green eye he still had. Somehow it remained in his head, considering that encounter was hours ago. Nothing more was said to the Jaege. They were just pulled faster.

The General trusted they would get with the program and die eventually. So that was all Vel focused on, it was all she had to look forward to. Not seeing Karl and Jasper again, nor even that silly hound. Just death. A faceless death.

Hence her companion’s attempts to distract her with a rather Vel-like ploy. Being nosy.

“You grew up with brothers, didn’t you?” Darun asked blankly in the sleet, the question was repeated not once but two times, earning an exasperated cocked brow. “Hares reproduce and then some, meaning you probably came from a litter.” He assumed. “That’s why you’re so fond of the new guy. He reminds you of Karl and Jasp.”

Vel squinted at that title for their Rosarian associate, a phrase he cobbled together ever since their imprisonment began. Perhaps Clive was one of the reasons they were still alive, kept in the main party, not that Carrion asked them much of anything about the Marquess. Not even about the sordid flames.

Mouth souring, the younger Jaeger spat out more ashen snow, wiping her face with her stiff callused wrists. “Now’s not the time, Dar—”

“I’d disagree. If there ever was a time to sate a friend’s curiosity, now’s probably it.”

Before their inevitable demise, he meant.

Despite that eventual end, he tried to maintain an air of aloofness, not even looking at Vel as she responded.

“Sate a friend’s curiosity?” She squinted, not remembering a time she had ever actively spent with Darun until this expedition. He was always too busy lingering in his brother’s shadow with Fenna. “I didn’t realize we were friends.”

“Well we are, and friends tell each other things. Like where they grew up, what hobbies they have, what made them a stray… why it’s been five years and we know absolutely nothing about them.”

Mateo might have been happy to look past Vel’s silence, but not his brother. Curious like a fox to a fault.

“You know some things about me.” Vel insisted. Not that she could bring up any good examples.

“I know more about Fen pre-expedition than I do you. That’s saying something.”

“Maybe it’s saying that you need more friends if she’s your prime example of social expertise.” She answered with pettiness. “And if I’m your latter.”

Strays didn’t tend to make for good company.

Darun’s pace slowed a little, as did his mouth. It confused Vel considering how inane her comment was. A minute went on through that sleet as Darun stared down at his ropes, perturbed, frustrated. Not unlike their mutual friend she realized was on his mind.

Their mutual friend who could be dead, for all they knew. Just like they’ll be.

So Vel felt like an ass.

“I didn’t mean anything by—”

“She’ll find us.” He whispered. “Maybe the new guy as well, if he can get his burning head out of his arse.”

Vel kept watching him, that glimmer of faith lingering.

“You really believe in them that much? In her?”

“I’ve nothing else to believe in right now. So yeah, why not?” He shrugged apathetically.

Faith was a hard thing to have in the north, something as distant as the Moon and Metia and their lost Mothercrystal. Whatever shrines they erected for Shiva had been long torn down in their world’s disintegration. So all they had left was people, figures of importance. Not that Darun or his kind ever put much stock in folks like Silvermane (neither did Vel for separate reasons).

He didn’t even have that much faith in his brother.

Darun’s faith in Fenna was similarly confused. Some fragment of him hoped to be wrong, that she wouldn’t rescue him and instead be safe and far from this chaos. When she had initially refused to come on the journey, he was secretly relieved. That was also something Vel easily understood. Hoping a loved one flourished in your absence was relatable.

Rabbits really weren’t so different from humans.

“I do have brothers.” She admitted, earning that coveted look-back.

“Alive?”

“As far as I know.” She didn’t see why that would change in her absence.

Lacking a mask to cover his expression, Darun’s exhausted but puzzled look was almost funny. Most times whenever the Jaeger found a stray, it meant their people had been murdered or wiped out by blight and winter.

Not Vel, it seemed. A surprise hiding in plain sight… and didn’t she know it?

“That’s why I don’t tell folks about them, about home. It gets too complicated.” She heaved. “Messy.”

She hadn’t even told Karl or Jasper. Though they hadn’t asked either. The context of being a stray tended to make it easy to keep things to oneself.

“Messy ‘nough that you’d rather be out in starving frost than warmin’ next to your kin’s hearth with a full belly?” He assumed there was also food she was walking away from.

“Exactly.” Vel sighed, somehow not regretting this choice much if at all. At least it was something she chose rather than being born into. Comfort could only go so far when living life as a hypocrite… living in compromise. “This is far preferable to their madness.” At least most of the time.

Amidst their chatter, Darun’s mind made an easy connection and his brow lowered.

“Mother’s Chill… You’re not from the Frontier, are you?” He half-asked-half-panicked, mind going through a litany of permutations, wondering if it wasn’t just Clive he should have been worried about. “Because I swear, if you’re another spy after all we’ve been through—”

“Hush.” She grumbled and shushed him before the others turned to his whining. “I’m a lot of things, but not a bleeding spy, Dar. Just another outcast, same as you.”

“But I was born an outcast, and other ones have to get cast-out first, and you clearly weren’t cast out round these parts. So which is it then? Southern Isles? Ironholm? Rosaria?” That last word was uttered like taboo, but he moved on with his curiosity. “You an Outie, perhaps?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I doubt it’s Sanbreque, given—” Darun nearly tripped forward as the pace increased. It was a miracle his boots were still intact given the abuse he put them through. A hand had risen from upfront, the general’s, not even bothering to look back. One of his dragoons shouted for them to quiet down if they wished to keep their tongues in their skulls.

In that announcement, the soft screams amidst that forest only became louder. More of the chocobo cavalry surrounding caravan broke off wordlessly to engage while the gaps were shored up by their footmen.

Their fellow prisoners glanced back at Darun judgmentally. Even Gaut, with frostbitten ears had become tired of hearing his associate’s painful voice. So the faceless fox gave in and hushed up.

Vel sighed. Perhaps feeling a little responsible.

“I’m a Jaeger, same as you.” She whispered. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Darun didn’t look to match her gaze but nodded, not needing to see through a mask to know she meant it. To know he could still count on her… on his friend.

He trudged a little faster to give himself some slack, eying their captors with bated breath. He watched the rope linking to him to another chocobo, glancing an imperial dragoon moving in that noisy armor. One of Carrion’s favorites, like some of his branded. The old man failed to mask that.

Unlike them, he had an especially dirty sword…

Meanwhile Vel noticed a man in front of them on a tighter leash made from jingling chains and manacles further restraining his arms. He was one of the few who hadn’t gotten angry with Darun, but then unlike the rest, he was wearing a gag so he couldn’t properly voice it. Apparently he was the general’s special prisoner. The one hostage that required the others be present to keep him accountable.

They mentioned his name a few times, not that Vel could remember it. Too much ash in her ears.

Gaut didn’t know it either.

“Sorry Mid, I bet we must be boring you to tears with our gaff.” He mumbled, the man glanced back, gently shrugging with the breeze. His green eyes somehow maintained their vibrance despite this frigid madness. Perhaps he had a penchant for curiosity not unlike the Jaeger’s resident fox.

As some would say, curiosity was more Cidolfus’s element than thunder was. No one could take that away, not even Brennus Carrion. Not while he still had an ace in the hole, hopefully off making friends.

They weren’t yet friends by Gav’s estimate, but they’d have to make do.

Gav kept few cards close to his chest but his new companions had little interest in knowing that hand’s full deal. They were strapped for time like he was. The reveal that Ramuh’s Dominant had spent days in imperial irons was enough to summon that fire back into Clive Rosfield’s pace. While Fenna was increasingly confused by the backstory of it all (that Clive struggled to articulate properly), Gav managed to refocus her with knowledge of the Waloeder forces working with the Frontier, the ones that Cid believed responsible in seizing Jill at Iskald.

Waloed’s Royal Intelligenciers… Barnabas Tharmr’s finest.

Initially Clive wondered if he should have ignored Cid, to use this chaos to get around the Frontier and Carrion’s herd to seek Jill at the storm’s eye. But that wasn’t an option, knowing the lives also in the midst of this war. Knowing the lives he already couldn’t help. And Gav would only help them (or accept their help, as he put it) if it meant helping Cid, to make sure he wasn’t murdered by these Frontie fanatics. He even insisted that Clive owed him and Cid a debt.

And worst of all, Torgal seemed to like the lad. Never a good sign.

It was a compromise but abandoning the Jaeger was a far greater one. And Cid had power they couldn’t ignore, hence his imprisonment. By the time Gav had mentioned hearing chatter of formerly-masked prisoners being pulled with Cid, the decision was made and their allyship began in earnest.

Given Torgal’s struggle to track anything in this storm, they had to rely on Gav’s nose to sniff out any progress along that river. The dog warmed up to him very quickly, though Gav did have some wonderful smelling jerky on his person. Within an hour of scurrying through that storm and waiting on Clive and Fenna to catch up, he nearly (begrudgingly) shared some with the hound… when they were disrupted.

The cold night sky of the Frostedge flashed as noises both auditory and visual permeated the blizzard. Clive and Fenna were wordless, looking up upon distant glimmers of blue and orange clashes punctuating the air. Screams and jeers accompanied it. A cavalcade of Sanbrequois and northern voices fighting in that storm. It was also accompanied by the noises of akashic and other creatures, just as lost to that storm and their impulses as the living. Aether filled the air from all sides.

It seemed they had finally stumbled onto the war. Gav flinched, face growing a bright blue. “Oh fuck.”

Crystal gleaming fireballs missed their targets, combusting in the trees above the group. More snow disintegrated and came down as the woods cracked and bent, breaking in that flare. The tree didn’t take to flame, but Clive spotted figures off in the blizzard, riders atop inky black chocobos, gutting the perpetrators of the magic. That light revealed them for a moment, but quickly the silhouettes vanished. As the darkness reigned once more, sick blue lights began to gleam in their stead.

They began riding for the group, so Clive burned hotter and Torgal growled. Gav however took use of Fenna’s momentary distraction and wrestled the lantern from her grasp, turning it on. Under that blue gleam (which was far brighter than the rider’s lanterns, but obscured by much of the blizzard), the riders stopped… pausing, and then departed back in the shadows. Leaving the band unmolested.

“How’d you know that’d work?” Clive asked the lad, stupefied as they continued their trek.

“Gut feelin. I ‘sume the lanterns are lik’ a protocol, so they can tell each other ‘part from the riffraff.” He pointed out that the blue light from the lantern had a minute difference from traditional magic casting. “They’d prolly investigate further, were they not so busy hunting imps and ‘kashics.”

It was good they hadn’t, seeing as Gav still wore imperial armor. The moment of truth came when he turned to Fenna, studying his scheme with razor sharp focus.

“The armor deters imperials and the lantern deters the frontier… not entirely a bad plan.” She shrugged and Gav beamed in that praise. The lantern shining over him seemed less sickly in its presence. “Still, you shouldn’t be here.” She scolded him.

Gav didn’t entirely disagree.

“Cid was fine with it… but then again our friend doesn’t really think things through. Like he certainly didn’t expect the General to be more than a minor headache before he got caught.” The boy scoffed. “Funny ‘cuz they go back, Cid and Carrion.” Clive turned curiously. “The old man had some hidden history with Waloed. Probably some double dealing with old Barnabas Tharmr.”

That didn’t seem so out of place to Clive.

Brennus Carrion wasn’t dedicated to Greagor or the Imperial cause so much as he was an opportunist, seeking to increase his claim and station. A dragoon in name only, seeking to bring both Ramuh and the Shiva Dominant back south could be very lucrative. Especially considering what Joshua had said about the unreliability of Sanbreque’s Dominant after their bout at Eastpool.

This was a ploy to win back Sylvestre’s favor. And probably get his eventual revenge on Rosaria for taking his eye.

“How is it that Cid knows all these people?” Clive asked, exasperated himself. “It must be so exhausting being him… caught amidst their horrid ambitions like a plaything.”

Gav agreed easily.

“I’se told him, he has far too many friends, ‘specially the fair-weather variety. Not that he listens.” The lad batted away more blowing snow, wincing in the distant glare of more flares breaking apart. “You see, this nonsense is why Cid ‘sisted on just being the two of us. Charon offered to hire him a band of mercenaries to come along, but he said no, they’d just slow us down.” And now here Cid was, slowing them down all by himself. Like a hypocrite.

“Who’s Charon?” Fenna asked.

“A grumpy old dame. You’d like her… probably.” He looked away with a sigh. “Still, probably for the best we didn’t bring so much. Being home is tough I ‘spose but… I had no idea all this was still here. Silvermane’s bleedin’ corpse, still festerin’.” He shook his chilly hands, holding that lantern wasn’t easy. He was almost jealous of Fenna’s affliction.

“Surely Cid atleast knew about the Frontier if they’re Tharmr’s allies” Clive wondered. “Didn’t he only leave Waloed recently?”

“He knew some.” Gav admitted. “The way he tells it, Odin kept him at the end of a short rope. Cid’s been to their hidden city once, but the Royalists ventured there by sea, and I ‘magine it looks pleny diff’rent un’er the guise of a blizzard.”

“Hidden city?” Fenna asked, suddenly realizing the breadth of knowledge she and Clive had stumbled upon in finding this boy.

“He told me a good deal ‘bout it. Weird weird place, full of weird weird people. The Frontier’s ‘ittle Hideaway.” That lantern rocked in his grasp as Gav noticed Torgal sitting, looking up at him. “With plen’y of dogs, I ‘magine.”

The boy returned to the trail, slowing down his pace now that they needed to be careful. Yet the chatter followed him, from Clive’s end.

“So that’s where Carrion’s aiming his men, the Frontier’s settlement? That’s where Jill is?”

“Yep, and probably.” The boy sputtered. “Cid wanted to go around this ruckus… but your general would rather he have a front-row seat.” Gav scratched his neck under that light.

Clive struggled to fully understand this predicament.

“The Imperials may be able to cast their magicks, but the Frontier’s been decimating them all throughout this deadland venture. How could a shackled dominant improve Carrion’s chances?”

Clive trusted there was no universe where Cid would help the Empire. Especially Carrion.

“Honestly, I’m not so sure Carrion wants to win. Not in the right way, at least.” Gav supposed. “If I was a betting man, I’d say he took my mate ‘cause he wants to stir the pot and throw the Fronties onto their backfoot.” The frontier’s weariness of magic was a great motivator for them to act in ways they hadn’t before, to play a card they hadn’t possessed until now. “Maybe draw someone out who could give Ramuh a run for his gil should push comes to shove.”

Clive fumed in that suggestion, reminded almost of Carrion’s tactics at Phoenix Gate. A ploy to manipulate and rob Rosaria of the Phoenix. He used Dion Lesage’s Eikon to threaten Joshua into acting… so now he was trying to use Ramuh to rouse—

“He wants Shiva.” Clive shuddered.

As did Fenna, her stone hands rumbling once more. “He knows she won’t be able to control it… He’s counting on it.” Cid’s consent wouldn’t matter at that point. By the time an Eikon showed up, he’d have to take to the battlefield and fight back, even if just for the sake of survival. “And while the war of the Eikons rages, the Frontier will be vulnerable.”

“And Carrion will use that to his advantage.” Clive answered. “Just like in Eastpool when Bahamut lost control. He used it to escape his fate.” He thought of Jote, who had come so close to slaying him, only to lose Carrion in the burning Dim. Barely alive. In memory of that, Clive’s hand glimmered with light aether. Recalling just how much Eastpool’s destruction came from the General’s callous hand.

The more Fenna learned of this Brennus Carrion, the more sickened she was.

“That’s the thing about fate. It’s not something so easily evaded.” She reckoned, before eying Clive. “Neither are you.” With that boldness, her hidden eyes shined in the distant light of those fires, as they shimmered, went out and re-formed.

Despite it, Clive was hesitant of those flames.

“I appreciate that sentiment, milady… But the last time I faced Carrion, it didn’t go so well.” He’d remember his attempt to slay the man as an effort to protect Jill the Jaeger, but really he was nursing a grudge. Nearly allowing Ifrit to run rampant in that anger.

He compromised himself, and it cost the others dearly. It cost Fenna dearly.

Yet Fenna didn’t hold Clive accountable for that, only what he did next. They hadn’t any time left to feel sorry for themselves.

“Then you’ll do better this time, Rosfield.” She said simply. “Because this time you won’t be going at it by your lonesome.” That stony hand patted his shoulder, almost affectionately. With a link of eyes, Clive swore he saw her lips bent in the slightest of smiles before she turned off to call for her favorite runt. Torgal happily sidled beside her whilst Clive was left scoffing with Gav at his side, somewhat puzzled.

The lad had a feeling he was missing far too much context about their recent dealings but knew better than to ask about those cards. Things had a way of eventually explaining themselves. Yet one curiosity lingered regardless of Clive’s troubles.

“You know… your friend seems kin’a familiar.” He stroked his chin, lantern swaying with the wind. “Have I seen Fen somewhere before?”

Clive stared at the boy, squinting almost a little, not in the mood to spur his memory.

“No.”

When Jill’s old governess taught her of the northern concept of Hel, the crone said it was a cold lifeless place where nothing could grow, not unlike the cold world they inhabited already. Southerners would suggest it was fiery and burning, but that lot was supposedly mistaken… led by a notion that the world could actually be pleasant in its natural state, so hell in their eyes was an overindulgence. To be cold was to be lacking, so for the north, the cold sting of absence was far more hellish. Nothingness became the very cornerstone of their reality.

But Jill realized Mara was wrong. Hell was very warm.

The Frontier’s underground sanctuary began as a descending tunnel, a cavern pushing down through sand and rock and finally ice, underneath the frozen bay itself. The walls, ceilings and floors were all touched by Shiva’s horrid grace, lined with piles of snow, tamped down by hand and maintained with worn wood. Somehow keeping the warmth in despite the presence of Shiva’s dominant.

Jill felt hotter the further inward they dwelled. Was she sweating?

It was accompanied by a warm clucking of dark chocobos at a worn stable where the thralls dismounted. Jill saw the space to house a hundred birds with straw in equal measure, not that a hundred were present, or even fifty. Nor were there that many handlers. Dressed in hooded winter cloaks lined with furs, these looked much like Cora and her companions. Even wearing their hoods to resist the cold breeze that still lingered. Despite being hell, the company’s birds were accepted quickly and without fuss. Doted on. In fact some handlers were rather chatty with the riders, beyond Kallus who was something of a silver-haired black sheep. He pulled off his helm to remind Jill of that.

In that normal lighting, Jill was horrified to realize that Kallus looked young. Maybe even younger than Benna or even she was.

Jill was thankful she couldn’t tell the look on his face gawking at her. Kallus turned away, his underlings (Who were older than him) began rambling off rules like begrudging tour guides (not that Jill was listening). In their lead’s departure, Benedikta followed after him… so Jill was inherently pulled in by that siren call. She evaded Gerulf’s worry to dwell further into that frigidly warm cavern where Jill heard chatter. Her sister was speaking amidst a group of more dark armored men. They all stood before a great shaft of light, whatever the tunnel led them to.

Benedikta squinted at the younger man refusing to answer her questions. She wanted to know where he’d take her sword. A dear gift from her even dearer liege.

The squabble was interrupted by an unfiltered voice Jill recognized earlier… her uncle’s. The voice of a northerner hardened by war.

“Your Talon will be returned in due time, Lady Harman.” Javik sighed, that black owl clinging to his dark shoulder. “We may have been a little overzealous, but our people’s safety is paramount.” The old man leaned on the youngster’s pauldron almost affectionately, but Kallus seemingly resisted it with vexation. Especially as Javik tapped that inexplicable wooden bow hanging from his back (lacking arrows). “That’s all in the past. Now we’re all here, and we can talk.”

He tried to look at the silver lining, but Benna was too busy begrudging the clouds it encompassed. “We could have talked a lot sooner, had you delivered those mounts like you promised.” Still a sore spot in Benna’s memory, like her aching legs.

“Some things can’t be helped, not with Carrion breathing down our necks. Oaths are just wishes and whims aren’t ironclad. Even they have to break at some point.” The old man sighed begrudgingly… perhaps burning his self-worth as a northerner in admitting that.

“I’m sure you know all about that.” Benna hummed and twisted. Intentionally obtuse.

Kallus and the rest of Javik’s men looked close to dogpiling Benedikta for that insolence, yet Silvermane’s killer stopped them, tapping his cane (Jill realized in that darkness he held a cane). He was about to say something when that owl atop his shoulder turned its dark withered gaze.

Jill trembled with beads of terror as Javik’s focus turned with the bird’s, seeing Jill standing there in her lonesome across the tunnel. Much of Javik resembled the man she thought she knew as a girl. Yet her view was still too clouded by shade. She could hardly tell that look on his shrouded face, watching her.

Did he recognize her?

He gave no inclination, patting the owl and nodding respectfully towards the royalists coming up behind Jill, including an exasperated Gerulf. When he finally returned to Benedikta, she could feel it… the odd energy between Jill and the Frontier’s master. An odd energy she encouraged.

“Kallus said the dominant’s name was Jayne?” He asked, watching that dominant.

“I never said she was a dominant.” Benna hissed, “She’s not.” Javik didn’t heed her, not when glimpsed the cuff on Jill’s arm.

“Your actions speak far louder, milady.” He sighed, looking past Jill to Gerulf, Luken and the rest. His guests. “Magic is a taxing subject here, but she will be well cared for. You all will be. And I don’t intend to break that promise.” Javik stated loudly, not for Benedikta’s benefit or even Jill’s.

But for Kallus. Not that he wanted to listen. But he eventually saluted, pressing a begrudging hand to his heart.

“Just keep what you see to yourselves.” Javik added, pushing past his men towards that shaft of light, Jill’s eyes struggled to adjust to it. He tapped the stolas’s talons atop his shoulder, whispering something. The owl took the hint and then took wing, vanishing into the passageway. Javik stretched his strained shoulder, regarding Benedikta a final time. “Seek me down below when you’ve gathered your bearings, Lady Harman. Enjoy yourself but don’t keep me waiting. Time is of the essence.”

Javik fled through the tunnel, followed by Kallus and the rest of his men, leaving the royalists and their begrudging guides alone. Benedikta was wordless as Jill reached her side, preparing to make a comment about this being a bad idea when her sister simply took off into the passage.

As Jill willed herself to finally go past that point of no return, she gasped the Founder’s name in shock

It revealed an enormous frigid cave as tall as a cleaved Mothercrystal in its totality. Like the stories about the innards of Drake’s Fang Benedikta had shared (though certainly not as big). But within that massive cave hid neither a fortress nor crystal… but a settlement built upon layers of excavated ice, wood and ancient stone, layers that continued further down into the impossible cavern. This was an actual town, much smaller than Iskald in area but far denser. Far more alive.

It was a town made up of tents and buildings, and fires and dogs and people. An ocean of silver heads, dressed in layers just like Cora and her dead companions. None hid behind masks or wore weapons like their protectors. In fact most thralls had already removed their helms, wearing only their face masks. She couldn’t tell her uncle apart from the silver-headed crowd, only glimpsing the distant owl disappearing downwards. Amongst them she spotted Kallus, taking a single moment to look up at Jill with a weary sneer and a whisper to his cronies before fading into the crowd, dwelling downward.

These were northerners, Jill realized… actual full-blooded northerners.

Many looked upon Javik’s thralls with tenderness. She spotted a silver haired woman with inky tattoos greeting what Jill imagined to be her black-armored husband, removing a ribbon from his arm (making Jill feel odd). Another was a balding man greeting his armored son, barely even younger than Jill was. And then there were others still, filled with uncertainty from recent events asking Kallus’s associates of their loved-ones who had yet to return… and others lamenting the ones they knew were lost. Despite that tension, it didn’t stop these people from showing their care for one another.

This was far worse than bandits. These were people, actual people. Of all the hells Jill had imagined, this was beyond her wildest nightmare.

As much as Jill tried to resist it, she couldn’t hide that rattling cuff. Least of all from herself.

Like Jill’s sister, the rest had moved down into the city, but Gerulf slowed for her benefit. Benedikta was too nestled into one of her moods to tend to Jill, so her faithful hand acted in his lady’s stead.

“Welcome to Façade, milady.”

Jill repeated that name. She had never heard of any such place. Neither had Gerulf before coming west. “I visited with a few of their merchants outside the walls ‘fore we found you and the storm hit… tight lipped bunch, especially ‘round foreigners. You won’t get much out of them. Stingy with their gil too.” His beard mulled with brief frustration. “If loose lips sink ships, this vessel is very secure.” A natural disappointment given his vocation as an intelligencer.

“They’re allowed to leave?” Jill’s head bobbed, looking amongst those utterly normal seeming people.

“In varying degrees, aye. The few non-thralls with Javik’s permission have the entire run of the territories and beyond. But most are contained just to the bay. That’s what the Frontier is making sure none cross into, to hide their people’s presence.” He turned back as Jill scowled, watching that multi-tiered crowd.

There were northmen from all walks of life. Some with vocations as smiths and cooks, woodworkers, hunters and fishermen (hauling their wares). And also—

“They have bearers here.” She noticed, “But none are using their magic.” Whatever fires were prepared were with hand, ice was collected and melted in boilers to make water rather than sprung from aether. She saw the faded brands on those few people, performing menial labor instead. It reminded Jill of her mother’s servants who hardly ever used their magicks.

“I don’t really understand that myself.” Gerulf shrugged. “These people aren’t too fond of crystals either, all their shards are empty. So here their branded are just servants, a lower class, barred from leaving. I suppose even in deadlands the poor buggers can’t get away from the Accords.” He was only a little sympathetic to their plight, given Jill’s own sympathy rubbing off on him.

She noticed all of the branded wearing the very same bracelet she herself wore. Repressing their magic and numbing their senses. In thinking of Cora, she grasped her cuff and shivered just a little despite the heat.

Gerulf however moved on.

“Their people don’t have a name, so they sometimes refer to themselves as The Nameless.” He added without being asked, perhaps this was intel he had given to Benedikta that he could repurpose. “Splintering from their old tribes and identities when their Chieftain died.” Jill stung in that reminder. “In your customs, I reckon that’s supposed to be a symbolic renewal, a new lease on life. A collapse of identity into something simpler.”

That reminded Jill of something from her childhood.

“Like the thief who lost his name in his contract with the Ice King.” She recalled. “His past wrongdoings were forgotten like his name, he was branded by his loyalty and called thrall.” Though unlike the dark haired thief, such a renewal did little for these people when their very hair color told Jill who they sided with in Silvermane’s demise. Now it made total sense why the Silver-Head clans were also called the Betrayer Clans.

And why Lorik too had a different name after slaying her father.

“So what did the thief get in this bargain ‘sides a branding?” Gerulf asked.

Jill sighed, as if feeling her old tutor’s forgettable scowl on her. “He got to marry the princess and live a happy life of servitude to his Thegn… with lots of silver headed babies, I’m sure.” Whatever lesson Mara tried to impart went well over Jill’s little head. Instead she was racked with sadness, wondering how the thief could live with agreeing to the Ice King’s terms and allow his beloved to be encaged once again.

In sharing that cage, how could the thief’s guilt ever be washed away?

“They’re all prisoners for the same crime.” She numbly realized. “And none of them even care.”

Under the constant threat of bloodshed, the quartet kept pushing through the Frostedge, hiding under bouts of darkness and utilizing the lantern to sneak by around enflamed imperial herds warring with the Frontier’s cavalry. With magic on their side the imps performed far better than they would in deadlands, scouring the northmen’s already blackened plate mail with bright bolts of flame and light. They were doing far better… nearly holding their own.

He didn’t realize it was a much more even fight on living soil… where bearers and crystals could run amuck.

Clive despised the secrecy; it churned his insides. Knowing the chances she could be in that forest… It was nauseating, confusing, terrifying. He felt his heart burning more and more in that understanding. Yet his actions were at steadfast odds with that wish to burn. To avoid the combat seemed detrimental to his very being given the hate he fostered for both sides. Knowing the horrible acts the Empire and the Frontier had performed made him feel especially cowardly in running.

But then each time he felt he was going to push off and engage those forces, Fenna was always there, reminding him in a mere glance of who he was doing this for. That compromise of his pride was essential. She could sense it too, that heat that had been building back up these past few days.

As they treaded all this living soil, she feared Ifrit could only be tamped down for so long.

The frozen river seemed to push up a hill, the group slowed in the drifts, faced with a grotesque sight. Given all the Frontier horrors the quartet had witnessed, now they were faced with dead frontiersmen, indeed they could bleed. And so too could the chocobos. Soot colored ashen birds, slain with polearms like their riders.

Crouching to observe them, Clive realized quickly that the birds were intentionally targeted, to drop their masters and make easier prey. A common if dishonorable tactic that seemed below the empire. His heart palpitated, uneased thinking of Ambrosia again. Torgal was also disheartened, sniffing dead wolves slain much like the rest.

“I ‘spose Carrion isn’t too fond of dogs.” Gav whispered with pity. “Or anyone for that matter.”

The bodies were all left behind, dead on the ground. Carrion’s men didn’t even bother to pick through the corpses. They just moved on. The only sign someone else had even been here was leftover tracks, stopping abruptly in the snow. Not even the blood trail continued.

The tracks drew Fenna’s attention, she smelled spent aether in the air. The scent was metallic… usually associated with an aetherial conductor that could link flesh to crystals. Like mythril, a classic tool of the Sanbreque legionnaires… especially those with oaths sworn to Greagor.

“Dragoons did this.” She surmised, realizing the killers jumped and took off into the storm, recent enough that the tracks weren’t filled in.

“Hard to believe Carrion still has any, given their steadfast loyalty to Bahamut.” Gav answered. “Just hearing about it, it sounded lik’ he and the Prince hadn’ parted on good terms in Eastpool.”

Clive scoffed with agreement. “That is an understatement.”

In their discussion, Fenna noticed the flickering of Gav’s lantern as Clive mulled over that. Over Carrion. But the light settled instead as he reached to comfort the dog, patting Torgal’s head.

“Carrion himself is a Dragoon, but with none of the faith. He knows what they’re capable of, so if any are still loyal he would keep them close. Even at the expense of his forces who could better use them.” He slowly stood, recalling how Carrion towered over him in that rain. Dragoons lingered especially close, much like his branded soldiers. “Everything he does is for security. He never compromises himself.” Clive recalled.

“What a horrible man.” Fenna spat. “Everything comes at the expense of others…”

It reminded Fenna of her sister’s husband, but at least Geir Warrick was somewhat humble. Despite that legend and her dislike for him, the man was constantly struggling. Surmounted at every end by great personal sacrifices. His daughter one of the last few…

Like Eisa, Geir too seemed like more of a shell in those last few years. Meanwhile, what had Brennus Carrion ever sacrificed that was his to lose besides an eye?

That internal debate was lost on Gav, thinking instead of Clive’s appraisal. He read it as more of a suggestion. A map, if he went so far…

“So… if we want to find the herd, we just need to figure out where the dragoons went?” He supposed. The other three (including Torgal) quietly looked to each other, considering’s Gav’s supposition. With no more wasted time, Fenna began sniffing again.

Within moments she found the trail of spent aether and gave Gav and Torgal a direction, pointing through the tree line. They took off. As the two caught up to them within minutes, they reached paydirt… literally.

Gav was astonished to find even more trails in the ground that hadn’t yet been filled in by winter’s whims. There were layers upon layers of tracks, gleaming under that hazed blue light. Slowly filling in as he and his companions treaded them. Billowing with blowing sand.

It occurred quickly to the group how close they were to the Bay and how easily the Frontier could find this chink in Carrion’s armor like they had. All the more reason they had to hurry up…

Despite Jill’s assumption of guilt towards these people, none seemed presently aware of it as she was. Perhaps the unreal locale in which their civilization existed did much to assuage that feeling.

Pushing further down through their haphazard tour of Façade, the royalists developed a better idea of what this settlement actually was. Impossible. Instead of building upwards, this settlement had made the executive decision to excavate into the frozen bay, upon unearthed Fallen ruins hiding under the ice. They then maintained supports of ice, stone and wood to keep the upper layer sustained whilst also continuing the settlement downwards, as if it were underground.

That was how these people hid from Shiva’s storm and they did it without magic. The only thing they could assume to be magic was the sulfurous blue gleaming lanterns. But they didn’t offer any heat, only light. Setting the cavern in a rather cool tone, conflicting with the occasional actual fires that burned throughout, sending warmth out to the entire community. Creating an almost homey feeling atop that still perfect Fallen architecture.

There was an uncanniness to it all, seeing hundreds of these dilapidated northerners using a dead civilizations’ bones as a basis to hide from monsters and other people. There was a wrongness that Jill couldn’t help but feel in this place. Like a will was being subverted. Surely she wasn’t the only one who could see it. How long had all this been hiding under the waves when the Ice King froze the north long ago? How could all this have been unearthed in hardly a decade?

Gerulf, as the son of a miner, had some experience with such excavations. He imagined this hollow place had existed in a similar state for a long while, well before Silvermane’s beginning or end. “Perhaps your father had been here himself.” He wondered.

And perhaps he shouldn’t have said that, given Jill’s grumpy look. “I hope not.”

Despite not knowing the man for a decade, being in this place, walking amongst the nameless made Jill feel like a traitor to her father. Just as complicit as these people were. Just as compromised.

Jill easily detected a thread of uncertainty in these townspeople. The presence of unarmed royalist soldiers clanking through their sanctuary brought many weary eyes. But none brought more attention than the sight of Garuda’s Dominant in her sultry waloeder leathers. A soft gust following her footsteps pushing through flames both blue and orange. Like the bearers, Benedikta was barred from using her gifts for unknown reasons, but the rule seemed softer and malleable in her unfettered grasp. The thralls likely knew better than to tell Benna she couldn’t do something. At least that effort drew more attention from the royalists and Jill.

Not that she needed much help.

For someone who had spent a decade looking out of place amidst dark and fair-haired Rosarians, to no longer stick out was… surreal. Walking through this community, Jill felt something she had never known even as a little girl in Iskald: like just another northerner.

Perhaps she had the cuff to thank for that, to resist Shiva’s urges. But that blade was double edged. When looked upon, Jill felt naked in that crowd without her ice or weapons. Vulnerable. Her anxiety flared, wondering if any of these faces recognized her. Did any know her mother and father? She looked upon nameless face after nameless face amidst the walkabout, struggling to find anyone she might have possibly known.

If any knew Jill, these townspeople kept to themselves. The most they’d communicate was hushed whispers, pointing to her (the children seemed incessant with rumors of a witch). But whether they knew Jill as a Warrick or simply the Shiva Dominant was her best guess and one that she would rather leave unanswered. She dreaded the idea that any of these people were at Iskald like her uncle. That they could simply accept what occurred and follow Geir Warrick’s killers to this place. At least with that distance she could consider understanding it.

And then she took notice of the children… born into that acceptance.

There were more actual children than Jill initially realized, all pale-faced like their parents. She had seen some of them earlier, passing the royalists to run into the stables to dote on the black steeds like they were ordinary chocobo (and none were bitten by those sharp teeth Jill imagined). Some children even wore masks like their protectors and carried rocks and icicles, engaged in play.

The dogs amongst them weren’t any different whatsoever to the wolves she encountered above ground. Not that different from Torgal. As they traversed this middle level, Jill glimpsed a small dog on the wooden facade, hurrying through a marketplace of tall figures, being chased by a silver-headed little girl a third their size. She was calling him naughty. By the time she scooped up the dog, the girl was knelt in Benedikta’s looming shadow. Caught like a mouse in a trap.

Jill tensed up, watching as Benedikta took a knee beside the child, eyes rolling at the incessant barking of the pup. She pressed a hand through the girl’s silver hair, not unlike how she did for Jill. She whispered something, perhaps telling the girl she looked very pretty. Jill noticed that bounce of aether in Benna’s eyes as she blew, releasing a small gust of unnatural air through the girl’s face.

The child laughed, perhaps never seeing magic before… and Jill felt that boiling tension to the thralls watching, unable to intrude with Benna’s status, the girl didn’t seem to understand the danger facing her, like a snarling coeurl playing with its food. Only brought relief when a strange woman came over quickly. Her look and hair resembled the girl’s, but under the breaks of her clothing, Jill noticed beautiful inky black tattoos approaching her neckline, meshing interestingly with her pale complexion and silver hair. She was beautiful.

Realizing this was probably the mother, Benna released her talons on the girl with a grumble, stepping back as the parent grasped her child with worry. Observing her face a close eye. None the worse for wear.

Such a sight oof parental care only seemed to add to Benna’s anger.

“I hope those aren’t real.” Benna stressed, pointing at the woman’s ink. That pointed finger had a rather sharp nail attached to it. “For the child’s sake.” The woman said nothing as Benedikta strutted away, trying to save face and utterly failing.

It could have been worse, Jill reckoned. Her sister could have kicked the child and shouted boo. The puppy acted as if she had. “Cavi stop! That’s naughty!” The dog leaped from the girl’s arms, to sprint towards the bored Waloeder. Before the dog could make contact with Benna’s boot, Jill scooped the wiry dog herself. Her sister kept going, none the wiser… or at least not wishing to appear the wiser.

How odd it was to touch an animal again, one that was still breathing… another old skill Jill thought she had forgotten. He especially wiggly, acting as if he bent himself enough, he could slip from her grasp.

He even had the diamond Jill was accustomed to seeing. And for a moment she didn’t feel guilty, looking at it.

As Jill politely handed the dog over to the child’s mother (who dropped her daughter onto the ground), the girl was bouncing with pleasure.

“Cavi?” She murmured, looking up at her helper, bright silver eyes darting. Pulling Jill further into the child’s orbit. “You came in with Lord Javik, right?” Jill froze into place, suddenly confronted. “The others keep saying you you’re Shiva. Is that true?”

In that immediacy, Jill panicked to find an answer. It seemed impossible to discern what the child knew and what everyone else knew. “Um… well…” She stammered but the girl’s mother was exasperated.

“That’s enough Mari, it’s time to run home, Papa’s waiting for us.”

In that detail being announced, the girl blinked. Jill realized she was thinking of how much she loved her father given that bright smile across her little face. She was about to hurry off before her mother caught her shoulder, directing her at Jill… a reminder that she was raised better than to leave conversations unfinished. Those white ribbons in her hair fluttered in the girl’s embarrassment.

So she said goodbye to Jill, bowing her head respectfully. “I hope you’re her. You’re really pretty. Like an angel.” Mari announced, with her mother’s permission she headed off. Leaving Jill staring with an awkward blush of confusion. That numbness that had been enveloping her quelled for a moment.

By the time Jill turned, she saw wiry dog still trying to escape his owner’s grasp, but she was far too versed in the pup’s nonsense, unlike her daughter.

“I’m sorry about my sister.” Jill felt bashful. “She’s not pleasant company most of the time… I think your patterns are lovely—”

“You don’t have to—it’s alright…” The woman stammered and sighed. “I’ve forgotten how outsiders can get.” She sought instead to push that stinging look on her face aside. So she settled upon that dog in her grasp, her charge. “This one tends to take off whenever that one even thinks about opening the door for him.” Her face scrunched, glancing her daughter lingering in the crowd, waiting for her. “Mari was already a handful when she was born, but this one just multiplies her chaos.” The dog wriggled in his non-existent honor being besmirched. He tried chomping at his owner’s clean face, but she was too experienced.

“It’s alright. I used to have a puppy just like him.” Jill recalled with a slim grin, studying the upset dog. “It took me far too long to learn his tricks.” Her cuffed hand reached over to pat his diamond tipped head when the woman said something that Jill hadn’t expected. Much like her daughter.

“You really do look like her.”

Jill froze again, eyes widening and mouth stammering. The stranger came in closer, careful amidst the eyes on them (most looking away because of Benna). “I was young myself when I saw you and your mother at a feast. Lady Eisa has a resemblance that’s hard to ever forget… I suppose you’ve inherited that.” Her flame reflecting eyes narrowed, focusing on Jill reverently. “Princess.” She bowed her head.

In hearing that title, Jill’s heart was lifted up and promptly crushed. Both in the memory of what it once meant, and now what it was. Like that castle. Yet Jill tried to hold onto those positive embers the stranger intended, to middling results. The dominant stood a little straighter, nodding her head respectfully and accepting the complement.

Before more could be said by either, the two were interrupted by a distant little girl, calling out to her mama. So the silver woman give in and departed, ornery puppy in hand. Jill stayed in place, watching her walk into that crowd of similarly silver people. She took her daughter’s hand and disappeared into the silver-sea.

After a moment Jill realized someone was likewise waiting on her. Her bored golden sister lingering in the billowing crowd walking around her. Not pleasant company, as her silver sister so delicately put.

Benna eyed her with crossed arms, yellow fingers tapping. “Are you finished?”

Within minutes of trailing those tracks, they finally found the herd, a train of those glowing stars, crystals and branded magic. Caught in the same blizzard yet pushing onwards. A caravan of chocobos armed with a multitude of Sanbreque riders and soldiers. Far larger than the decimated herds they passed, at least a hundred men marched here. This was an army, large enough to insulate their leaders from assault, and now they had magic flowing from their crystals once again. The Frontier’s worst nightmare, it seemed.

With dragoons aplenty…

Gav was quick to shut off the lantern, suggesting they find a better vantage point.

It was difficult, but the quartet climbed a tree-filled hill overlooking the road, keeping their distance. The eastern snow-filled horizon continued to flicker with clashes of aether, accompanied with more yells. Yet this group seemed almost peaceful. Insulated by their numbers. Eventually Clive could make out prisoners lingering throughout the herd’s center, dark silhouettes strung along on ropes and chains.

Glorified bait should the Frontier find them.

“Founder’s Fury, Carrion isn’t subtle.” Clive said, peering through Gav’s lent spyglass. The storm and shadows hid far too much detail, as did the movement. But he didn’t doubt their victimhood. He handed the glass off to his associates. Fenna refused it, her eyes weren’t what they used to be. Gav couldn’t find much either in all this bluster.

Clive tried to sense Cid out amidst that group, find his aether. But the technique was still too new to him. He could hardly feel anything so specific, not unlike his difficulties in sensing Jill. No doubt Cid was also fettered, like Joshua had been at Phoenix Gate. Meanwhile Fenna squinted into the army, nostrils flaring. She took another long sniff to confirm her findings.

Her eyes weren’t much good, but her nose was just as sharp as ever.

“The fetters your friend is wearing are made from mythril, similar make to their armor but with a different combination of crystals.” Her assessment began. “Carrion’s keeping him near the herd’s upper center, with the most eyes on him, including Dragoons…” She could sense the rattling crystals, summoning heat into their armor. An utter waste of magic when layers of fabric performed far better for anyone who wasn’t Clive Rosfield.

Gav blinked, staring at her as did Torgal. Eventually those eyes reached Clive.

“Clive, in all due respect, where in the fuck did you find this witch?” Cid would have killed for someone like this.

“It’s a long story.” He lamented, “And I’d rather not tell you.”

Gav pouted whilst Fenna ignored them, taking another deep sniff. “The mythril your friend is wearing is harder to track with the layers of imperial armor obfuscating it. Their branded and crystal magics are also doing well to hide him. But there’s another scent amidst the herd that I can follow.” Her eyes hidden glimmered with recognition. “Vel is with him.”

“Vel has aether?” Clive stared. “Is she a bearer?”

“Who the fuck’s Vel?” Gav casually asked, he was promptly ignored.

For Clive’s question, Fenna didn’t immediately answer. It was always bad form to demand answers from strays… and Vel had never surrendered much of anything from her background. Not unlike Fenna herself. For a long while she had simply overlooked that scent.

Perhaps Vel had come from her own coven of frostbitten sorcerers.

“It’s faint. Subtle. Different from imperial magicks. I can find her, so the rest should also be nearby.” She suggested, hand hovering above her waist where Darun’s mask was hanging.

“Well that’s great.” Gav collapsed the telescope. “Give me some directions and I’ll march on in there and ‘scort them out like a lady of the night.”

“There’s too many eyes. Especially on your friend.” Fenna chastised him. “They’ll catch you the moment you try freeing any of them.” The armor wouldn’t protect him from that, especially when he started running his mouth and gave away his status as a local.

That trick might have worked back in Rosaria, but Carrion’s men were far jumpier this time around.

“I know, I was being sarcastic.” The boy whined. “My plan was to use the lantern to distract some of them, and get inside the herd, take a look around, and then wait for the inevitable attack from the Fronties. Wait for them to get distracted and get Cid out ‘fore someone with more sense murders him.”

The plan easily exasperated the elder.

“Chaos is not a plan.” Fenna remarked. “That’s just waiting and hoping something bad will happen.”

“Cid would disagree. Folks like him thrive in chaos and it’s worked so well so far. There’s no tool like unpredictability!” Gav paused, noticing Clive eying him somewhat vexed. “What, you know I’m right.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s…” the marquess pursed his lips, finger tapping at the tree he leaned beside. “Chaos isn’t a bad plan per se. It just requires you know what can cause it, and what outcomes to expect of it.” He glanced back to the caravan, seeing people very wary of northern chaos.

To expect the Frontier would cause chaos for this hardened army like the akashics had was very unlikely. Clive couldn’t hope it’d work again… not when—

“Carrion saw me. He knows I was with the Jaeger. Meaning I have no chance of even trying to hide from his men. They’ll expect me.” He tapped his cheek, feeling that memorable scar.

“It’s fine,” Gav shrugged. “We might be able to find some more armor, see about hiding—”

“Even if we had the time to get a disguise, they’ll be off to the bay and the Frontier will be upon them, whilst Carrion’s endgame is afoot.” Clive hissed. “And I’d be useless rescuing captives if Carrion’s men are on the lookout for me.” Gav eyed him oddly as Clive grimaced with determination.  “So I say… we give him what we both want, and create a distraction. One we know will work.”

“You can’t be serious.” Fenna stared grimly. “Absolutely out of the question. He has an army, he’ll kill you.”

“He’ll probably try. Hence why I need to stall them, maybe even let them take me if it comes to it.” Clive shrugged. “If I know Carrion, he gives all sorts of gaff about being clever, but then he gloats when he thinks he’s winning.” Not unlike Clive’s mother, endlessly smug and self-assured. That was an issue with ambition, nobody knew what it was unless you slowed down to actually show your hand. A scheme was only a scheme if your victim knew they were being conned.

“And while he’s getting ready to take my head and talk my ears off with it, you both can sneak in ‘midst that distraction, free Cid and our comrades, and hopefully intervene before my head rolls off the chopping block.” Ears also intact, hopefully.

Fenna stared dumfounded, unable to put together words to discern why she didn’t like that plan. Gav could easily, however.

“You know… Now I kinda get why Cid was so fond of yeh.” He looked up at the Marquess, inspired. “Just like him, you’re fucking crazy.”

Clive winced only a little.

Fenna interjected, saying “one moment,” and physically pulled Clive around that tree and away from Gav’s attention like she was a parent trying to hide swearing. Gav stayed put, surveying the caravan with the hound. The lad knew better than to intrude on the adult’s argument. As did Torgal.

As heard from Gerulf and the townspeople, Façade’s lowest level was hidden in secrecy. The excavation’s base was a dark shadowy place where the aether lanterns gleamed their sickliest. The reflections of those blue lights suggested pristine Fallen stonework that had long been hidden from the light of day. They hid a layered Citadel where the entire ground was made not from the Creator’s influence, but the Fallen’s.

It was the center of Façade’s government, where the Frontier’s thegn reigned over hell from below. As such, entry was barred from anyone without the Thegn’s express consent. Jill saw many of Javik’s thralls weren’t even allowed admittance to walk that level, only to stand guard above and deter trespassers.

Even the dogs stayed clear of that place. The only creature Jill had seen enter it was that black stolas, gem as sickly as the lanterns.

Just standing above that square, Jill realized how cold it was, perhaps even colder than the surface. All the warmth of the above layers were fighting against the ever present push of that frigid chill. Jill risked freezing her dark-reflecting eyes the longer she gazed down into that abyss, unable to assign any detail beyond those cold inky blacks.

Yet she couldn’t look away.

She only turned off when she had noticed Kallus there, having sent the stolas back down into the abyss. That stolen sword and bow clung to his back as he clutched his lantern tightly, permitting Benedikta to follow him and his comrades down below into the shadowy belly of the beast. Where his cold master dwelled… unencumbered by any light or warmth.

It was certainly the last place Jill would imagine her once-beloved uncle occupying himself. Nor her father, for that matter.

“We should get of here. Rethink this.” Jill told her sister. “Whatever he wants to tell you… it’s not worth this. It’s dangerous.” She noticed her sister watching Kallus, her torchlit eyes gleamed golden like her missing sword. “They could have more fetters—”

Jill rumbled her cuff but Benna didn’t heed it. Far too annoyed by that sound.

“Dangerous for them maybe. I’ll just prime and kill them before they can even try and bind me.” She shrugged with her typical confidence, hiding that limp especially well. “But Javik should be smarter than that. He should’ve cuffed me the moment I got here.” Hence her curiosity.

What could be so important that he’d allow her entry? To allow her barbs and be seen by his people? To let himself be compromised so clearly? “He’s slipping…” Benedikta whispered, glancing down the abyss… her eyes taking on that dark color.

That sacrifice was supposed to reveal more about him, but instead it left Benna stumped. Enamored with her curiosity. Jill’s scowl twisted, thinking of the man residing at the bottom of that dark hole. She briefly considered her cuffed hand, seeing those distant blue embers reflecting in it.

“Perhaps you should give me the key… for safekeeping.”

Once more Benna refused her, glancing away from the abyss.

“It’s safe alright. Just look after Gerulf and the rest. Make sure they don’t get into trouble as they are wont to do.” She joked, but Jill didn’t even try to laugh. Benna prepared to depart her, to get on with this meeting. But Jill wasn’t finished. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“I know him.” She said precisely. “Javik.”

Benedikta paused in that revelation. After a long pause, Jill’s sister decided she wanted to hear more. Kallus and his master could wait a while longer yet.

“His name was Lorik Riloh, our Lord Commander.” In that admission, Jill quaked. Much she had told Clive and Joshua in memories of her childhood, but to assign such a horrid shadowy façade to that figure she knew, it was excruciating. “I don’t remember a time in which I didn’t know him.”

She could recall the memories of that man showing her proper fencing stances as Jill faced a snowman, cheering when she pierced it with a stick. She asked to try with her uncle’s heavy rapier, but he had already gotten an earful from her mother, upset with how unladylike it all was. Unsuitable for her Little Star.

So instead Lorik promised to show Jill more when she was older. She wondered if he remembered that.

“I saw him far more than I ever saw my father. He and him were like brothers.” She admitted with pathos. It was as if uttering it suddenly made it real again. Benna understood, noticing Jill’s struggle to detangle that. “I thought he died, but…” In truth, Jill wished that he had. If only to not tarnish those childhood memories any more than the ruins of Iskald already had.

“That’s why you didn’t want to come down. Why you’re resisting even now.”

Jill turned away from the abyss. “He was a good man.” That sad admission frightened her the most, wondering how much of that good man might still remain behind the Frontier’s horrible acts. In Jill’s mind, these people were evidence of that goodness.

Yet Benna could see through it easily, how a horrid man could retreat behind his subjects. Behind his power.

“Until he killed his brother, and your mother.” She spat. “Now he’s just a murderer leading a pack of murderers. Silver wolves garbed as silver sheep.”

In that reminder, Jill stammered. “I know that… bu-but these people…” In Jill’s ongoing somberness, hands reached her shaky shoulders. Benna settled them with her will.

“I know this is all so overwhelming for you, being here in this place, around this silver-fleeced-flock. Probably bringing back all sorts of old memories…” She could almost empathize, almost. “But don’t get attached. These sheep are hardly people. They’re a façade, a trick of the light, hostages for Javik to hide behind with their innocence.” She spat like it was a cheap ruse.

“Then… w-we should free them, or—"

“Free them from what? The yoke of their savior who protects their sanctuary from monsters, unbound bearers and imperial invaders? They chose to be here. They chose to be outcasts.”

As Jill struggled to argue sensibly, a frustrated Benna pressed a hand through her sister’s silver hair, straightening it with her gold-hewn fingers.

“That’s your problem, Jill. That reason alone is why innocence is the gravest kind of weapon, one that can make anyone do anything. It’s an odorless poison of silver that dulls your intent, makes you a puppet your foes can manipulate. Cleaves your will from what needs to be done, tempers it instead with rusted half-measures.” Jill struggled to keep eye contact in that, as Benna came in closer. “Your mother was innocent too, was she not?”

Jill didn’t need to answer that, reminded of that faceless woman. The very one whose death these people profited from. Same for Cora and countless nameless faces all forgotten and overlooked.

A random woman taking the time to remember Eisa didn’t suddenly wipe that slate clean.

“Any time you doubt your course, remember what put you there in the first place, sister. Remember that this isn’t your home. The north threw you away.” She reminded Jill. “But I didn’t. I’m your family Jill, not them. We protect our own, not theirs.” Her hazel eyes narrowed, flickering a dangerous possessive yellow. “Nothing changes.”

There was a brief bout of fear in Jill, seeing Benna look at her like that. She got over it quickly.

“Right…” Jill whispered, hardening her heart, that cuff growing just a little colder. “Nothing changes.”

The caravan continued to push onwards as Fenna stared at Clive, regathering her thoughts. Her stony hand was absentmindedly tapping on Darun’s noisy mask.

“The boy’s right.” Fenna said breathlessly. “Self-sacrifice might seem noble down south, but here it’ll get us nowhere.” It reminded Fenna of her late sister’s even later husband, endlessly noble. A fool not unlike Clive. “We can find a better way.”

“We’re out of time to find a better way. This is what we have.” Clive countered.

Sooner than later they’d be out of the Frostedge on the Bay and suddenly the cover protecting Carrion’s caravan would be eliminated. The Frontier wouldn’t need to look so hard with the imperials upon their doorstep.

Yet he wasn’t frustrated with Fen. She reminded him of plenty of folks Clive had known. People like his brother, trying to protect him.

“This isn’t self-sacrifice… this is paying debts.” Fenna turned more so. “Your people found me, a total stranger, another stray. You had your doubts, yet you took me in.” All of them, even Darun. “You all saved me from… whatever I was going to become in my lonesome within that flood.” He stressed, feeling that fire inside.

“We hardly did anything… the runt found you.” Fenna answered, Just as much a stray as Torgal had been. Now sitting by Gav’s side surveying the caravan.

Unlike the lost dog, Clive had been intentionally alone.

“Vel also helped.” He nearly chuckled before turning somber. “My brother loves Jill just as much as I do, but I refused to let him come north with me, because he needed to protect our people. But really it was for my pride’s sake.” He didn’t allow anyone to follow him, only Ambrosia… now just as lost as he was. “I was so proud, thinking I could do this alone. That I had to do it alone, but I’m wrong. Once again I’m wrong.” And if that wasn’t the story of his life…

Fenna and her companions had shown him that, in their ways. Even Darun.

“And I was wrong about you.” Fenna confessed. “But even so, your life isn’t worth this, Rosfield.” She implored, hood fluttering in that cold air.

“No, this is exactly what it’s worth. Just as much as theirs, as yours. As Jill’s, as Cid’s, probably.” His nose twitched, begrudgingly admitting that last part. “I came all this way for Jill… but I could hardly look her in the eyes if I didn’t know that I did everything I could for them.” He could hardly look Fenna in the eyes for a similar reason. The hood rarely hid anything from him anymore. Clive could easily see through any mask now.

“Vel and Darun wouldn’t want that. N-nor would Jill.” Nor would she.

“But I do. They’re my friends, so I want to do it. And this might be the only shot I have at Carrion.” And then Clive revealed his hand, what was lingering still. A score to settle.

“Then I should be with you. Fighting.” She answered. “Their magics would be useless on me. And if Ifrit comes, I can stop him again—”

As her tongue wagged, Clive could hear her cracked fists rumbling with that idea. Despite her willing spirit, her body couldn’t align with that self-sacrifice she’d gladly take upon herself.

Hells, they really were far too similar. Equally as compromised with self-sacrifice.

“Gav will need your expertise and your nose. You know fetters better than most, I reckon. Cid will appreciate that.”

“…” Fenna scowled, just as much a victim of her own success as Clive was a victim of his failure.

Ifrit was the latest in such an unbroken line of things going tits up for him.

“If it comes to it, I think it might be time for Ifrit to have his stay. I can’t avoid him forever.” Clive thought of Joshua and his acceptance of the Phoenix. He wondered if that was the only way to escape this specter standing over him. “And I’d rather not make you his warden… even if it is your choice.”

Her gaze lowered in that unintentional reminder. In knowing she can’t control everything. Knowing Clive didn’t think her life was worth containing him.

“Besides, if Carrion is expecting an Eikon to wreak havoc, than I can’t think of a more willing subject to throw his despotic way.”

And a far more dangerous one, considering his grudge against the general. All the more it worried Fenna… knowing who easily could face Ifrit when push came to shove.

“If… should Shiva should come for you…” She warned, not needing to complete that thought.

Clive looked down with a sigh, finding the ribbon rustling again. He could feel it in his bones, in the storm over them, she was close. “If something happens, you find Jill and tell her everything.” He undid the knot, offering that fabric to Fenna. “And give her this.”

In that offering, Fenna looked upon Clive like he was committing emotional treason. “I can’t. She gave it to you—”

“And now I’m giving it to you.” He said, just as much a steward of that fabric as her sister and niece had been. An unbroken chain linking back to Fenna, the way Clive saw it.

“It’s okay Fen, I don’t need it.” He said sheepishly, knowing he’d grown past that reliance a while ago. It was a symbol of his bond to Jill, something that could never be extinguished. “It’s always given me luck, which you could use in my stead.” He half-joked, not that Fenna understood his reference. Clive gently pried open her stony hand, to press the fabric into her palm. “And should Ifrit come… I’d rather it be safe with someone who knows what it’s worth.” He closed her hand, trusting her. Clive imagined the ribbon once belonged to hers anyways, so it was only right for Fenna to hold onto it. Lady Eisa would be pleased, he assumed.

“Cl-Clive…” She whispered, his name sounded so odd on her tongue. Especially given how much her voice resembled Jill’s.

He patted her shoulder much like how she had done for him.

“Don’t worry… I’m much lighter without it.” He lied.

As Fenna stood motionless, holding another cherished keepsake in her grasp, Clive left her with a smile, reaching Gav who was busy telling them that whatever the plan was, they needed to get a move on. “I’ll trade you too—”

“Huh?” Quickly Clive plucked that dirty imperial longsword from Gav’s waist, swapping it with the Burning Thorn. The blade fit snugly into the young man’s side. Clive’s new sword was similarly suitable hanging at his back… even if its glow was duller.

“Carrion carried my brother’s sword once as a trophy. I’d rather not give him that privilege ever again, even as a feint.” The boy stared at the sword resting at his waist, seeing that impressive Rosarian steel, handle gleaming the faintest hint of scarlet. “You’re good at hiding Gav, if something goes wrong, I trust you can keep it out of his midst. Our friends as well, including Cid.” That last part burned him to suggest, but the boy was too busy blushing in that bestowal of importance. His grasp on the lantern weakened, so Clive took it instead as part of the trade.

“I’ll make my way to the head while you scope out Cid and the rest. Find the best point of entry. When I light the lantern and engage the Sanbreqouis, you’ll know what to do.”

“Right…” The boy murmured with a low head. “What about the hound?”

Clive looked down to Torgal, preparing to suggest he hide. But the beast looked up to him with a determination to not be left behind on the outskirts. Not after seeing all those dead wolves, dying besides their masters. And the wolf could fight just as well as any of them, if given the opportunity. So his master slowly gave in.

It was very hard to tell Torgal no. He inherited that from his mother.

“He’ll be with me. He also knows what to do should I stumble.” The dog barked a quick yelp, earning a pat on the head.

As Clive prepared to move out, Fenna stopped him, finally regaining her composure.

“We’ll get the dominant and the others out, deal with you… and then we go straight to Jill. No more stops. No more waiting.” She told him stiffly tying that ribbon to her arm like she had seen her sister do so many times with her husband. She could feel the thread wearing a bit thin as a result. “And then you can give this back yourself, Rosfield. Untarnished.”

In that vie for control, the woman’s eyes tightened like her brand, preparing to hold Clive’s feet to the proverbial fire should he fail her. The young man nodded.

“I promise, milady.” Clive smiled. “I won’t be dying today.”

Meanwhile for Jill, death would have been almost preferable.

Whilst Benna was away, Javik had tipped his hand early. His thralls had found the nicest locals possible to look after their royalist prisoners (who apparently weren’t prisoners). They were residing in the home of two silver-headed empty-nesters who appeared in equal measures clueless, patriotic and innocent. The perfect hosts to represent the regime, and the husband was an excellent cook at that, Luken attested.

All to try and make Jill feel guilty. To dull her intent.

To converse with them and eat their food felt like ingesting poison, Jill could hardly stomach it. She had missed northern cuisine for a decade, but instead the impressive fish they had seared tasted like buttered ash. Her mind over-rid every synapse in her mouth trying to enjoy that feeling. She’d focus on the words of their hosts, but the wife was busy spinning a yarn about her daughter’s wedding last year nobody cared about.

For some reason this stranger thought Jill would enjoy that story. Calling her a nice young lass. Frankly it reminded her of Lady Hanna Murdoch droning on and on about her wedding Jill also wasn’t at. As much as she enjoyed hearing those stories in the moment, Jill decided she hated them in retrospect. She hated them especially now.

So instead she took to looking out the window with a scowl, hoping the woman’s voice would eventually quiet down on its own. The square overlooking the citadel had been crowded earlier but now looked close to empty besides from the blackened armor of Javik’s thralls standing at attention throughout the level.

A curfew was in effect, not that their hosts knew anything. It was recent, starting ever since the storms hit. All Jill recognized was the current purpose in telling them, knowing that she and her friends couldn’t sociably leave that house. They’d be seen, most of those thralls indeed were facing their way, armed to the teeth. All the Frontier soldiers were missing was a casual whistle to suggest nothing was wrong.

It was just the darndest thing…

When Gerulf suggested they take their rest, their chatty hosts were disappointed but obliged. Jill was just happy (or a suitable equivalent feeling) for the promise of the coming silence.

The couple wished Jayne and her friends a nice night. They’d be back in the morning with their breakfast. As if Jill would be hungry for that either… presuming she could even sleep.

It didn’t take long to settle in. Unlike the men who had to bunk in a single room, Jill had the luck of her sex to share her own room with Benna (or rather, Benna’s things). It was a homely lived-in space with furs and rugs that reminded Jill of home. Even a small fire, not that Jill felt much heat from it The mundanity of it all was especially perplexing for Jill, sitting at a carved wooden chair over a weathered table with a cold cup of water. Absolutely clean, tasting far better than ice her companions had to melt and filter. It disgusted her with how clear it was.

Rather than sleeping, Jill posted herself by the window, counting the minutes until her sister returned. She had excellent view of the stairwell that led down into the Citadel, but that view went both ways. Many thralls in that horrid armor were still standing across the level, suspiciously facing her direction. Hands hovering near their sheathed blades and quivers.

So Jill took to looking them each in the eye, to memorize their faces and eye colors… at least until they uncomfortably turned away. Hand positions disrupted.

At least Kallus was nowhere to be seen. With any luck he was dead by Benna’s hands, yet Jill saw no evidence of discourse in the citadel nor up above the city. No alarms went off. Hell had yet to break loose. That tension had yet to quell.

The longer nothing happened, the more her hands tensed and the cuff rattled.

Supposedly they had free run of the city, not that Gerulf sought to push their luck. The curfew implied much, a sort of soft power, utilizing societal expectations to keep them contained. And it was working, Gerulf wasn’t ready to try anything until they knew for certain what was happening with their lady.

Even he couldn’t convince Benna that this was a bad idea.

So all Jill could do was twiddle her thumbs, looking amidst the room. The hosts said they could do whatever they liked, much of this was storage, old and forgotten. She scoured the room, keeping herself busy looking through old blankets and knickknacks. Jill sat at the bed, thumbing through a ruined quilt, it looked like a novice quilter’s rendition of a silver chocobo, covered in dust and dog hair.

Jill left it be.

The search for purpose led Jill under the old bed, finding an especially dusty rug, nearly hiding  a worn wooden box with no lid. Inside it was a ruined quill (a silver chocobo plume, well and truly plucked), an empty inkwell, some broken pieces of crystal… and an old discolored piece of fabric stuck to the box’s inner side.

A graying ribbon… Long forgotten and splintered from its original purpose.

.

..

…

Jill spent so long knelt over the fabric in her scarred hands, her buckled knees went numb.

Instead of going through any more of these people’s belongings like a thief, Jill settled on going through her sister’s. Benedikta’s bag had been left behind on the bed by a thoughtless Luken. If Gerulf had realized, he’d consider flogging the lad considering how private their lady was with her belongings. Jill however wasn’t so cruel… only curious.

Despite all of Benna’s constant threats to keep away from her stuff, Jill would gladly summon her sister’s furor than whatever she was feeling in that moment. She was also secretly hoping to find the key to her cuff. All Jill found in the bag was some emergency supplies, potions, gil, toiletries and a familiar gold hewn comb.

No key… as if it were that simple.

Jill had returned to the wooden chair, pushing that gold comb through her tresses in hopes to calm her nerves with that rhythmic motion. It just made her feel more foolish, snagging on silver knots she couldn’t see properly. How odd she must be look to anyone watching her window.

Not that anyone was watching her.

The town kept boiling, with nervous townsfolk vanishing into their homes. Not unlike their hosts. Even the children were growing anxious, feeling the tension leaking into the air like smoke. And Jill didn’t know what to do with that tension, especially with how it misaligned with Benna’s words.

“Nothing changes.”

“So what if these are… people?” She asked herself, “Why should that matter?”

Jill’s mother was a person, as was her father. Yet Javik killed them both. Cora was a person, as was her companions… and Kallus still slaughtered them and stole those children. The Jaeger and everyone else had been hunted by the Northern Frontier for a decade were very much people. So what if the Northern Frontier wasn’t a faceless band of sadists?

It wasn’t the concept that Javik and Kallus needed to die that disturbed Jill, not entirely, at least. It was everyone else, their hostages, caught in the crossfire of a coming invasion. To hope for the Frontier’s victory upheld the necessity that Geir Warrick and her mother needed to die for these people to prosper. To hope for the latter, meant to embrace foreigners who’d do far worse than uphold the wretched status quo.

But then there was that horrid part of Jill, the piece that spoke in Anabella’s voice. It was far quieter now, but even with that cuff silencing those words, she could still feel its influence. Feel her influence.

Knowing that all these people had profited from the misery of the north, of dead bearers and Jaegers and her dead family. These were all accomplices, plain and simple. Even the ones born into it. Even the ones who weren’t allowed to leave. Under the gleam of those sickly blue lanterns, these weren’t people. Just worthless livestock preying on the misery of others. Unworthy of her regard or care. So who cared what happened to them?

“They’re not people… they don’t matter.” She whispered to herself, like a mantra that had yet to stick. “They’d make you their weapon just as easily. Use you to hurt others. They’re not people, Jill. None of them are people.”

The ribbon she unearthed bumped her fidgeting hand, she froze, looking upon that white fabric. For a moment she thought that innocent little girl with similarly pure ribbons in her hair, playing with her innocent little dog. A wolf only a year or two younger than the one she killed.

Like Torgal.

With a great amount of effort her gaze returned to the cup, even colder now. Jill watched her frosted reflection, looking past her reddened eyes to see that pretty straightened silver hair. Bereft of knots. She didn’t look much different at all from that child and or mother… or any northerner here. She pulled away that golden comb, struggling to look upon it much like the stolen ribbon.

Perhaps gold and silver didn’t mix as well as her sister had suggested.

“Are you… a person?” She asked her sullen reflection.

The Jill looking back didn’t answer with words. Her only response was a slim overlooked teardrop skating down her cold cheek, dripping on the shaking cuff. It stuck to the metal, freezing on contact.

Despite Jill’s solitary oath to the heavens when she was young and frightened, neither the moon nor Metia were present to witness that tear escape her sight. Nobody was present, not even the wind.

As the night raged on, the prisoners were far quieter, which their captor appreciated. Silence had a special unspoken quality to it that kept senses sharp. Brennus Carrion was already half-blind and his rear was half-sore sitting upon that uppity chocobo. So the goddess willing him to be momentarily half-deaf due to some northern savages rambling beside their chains seemed in rather poor taste. Not that he offered Greagor much stock even before this journey. Nor her servant, Bahamut.

“You are fallen from the light warden’s esteem and the dead god’s favor. Graceless.” Barnabas Tharmr’s creation had droned weeks ago at Manus. Winking Carrion’s missing eye with glee. “You wander back into ashes… seeking another’s quarry.”

Unlike the others, he didn’t flinch at the rupturing of those screams. Each one was a sacrifice his men made to allow their herd’s passage, to allow their mission to continue. So he had the upmost respect for that, even the branded screams (which one could notice with enough care and attention, as Carrion put in). The armored bearers returning from the storm weren’t screaming however. Carrion had trained that out of them. He remained atop his chocobo, as a fair haired branded soldier saluted.

“Did they find it?”

A weary bastard nodded, that brand crinkled. He was called Tiamat, Carrion’s favorite. “Of the scouts we sent out, only one returned. He said we’ll be upon the beach in a few miles. Perhaps even within the hour.” That pleased Carrion, but not as much as the next question’s answer.

“And what of the fortress?”

“He says the markers were as you described. His herd witnessed reinforcements being retained before the hounds found them.”

Carrion groaned, not much of an enjoyer of dogs. Their barks were worse than their bite, but he could only handle so much of that noise. Hence why he told his men to kill any wolves they see.

“Did any of them see the dominants?”

“No Milord, but the survivor said the storm’s eye seemed to have moved out onto the ice. Idling.”

Carrion held back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. How easily Shiva revealed herself… her allies and enemies alike. She had a gravity that attracted all sorts of madness.

“If Javik intends to make this a mere game of attrition, that fool’s picked a piss-poor enemy to spar with.” Carrion droned. “Unlike Shiva, Garuda legendarily doesn’t have the constitution for northern niceties.” Neither did he… the only northern trait Brennus Carrion had acquired from his upbringing was that dreaded gift of gab. The silver hair tended to pre-empt whoever he spoke to.

Yet the bearer listened intently. The context was important, given what they had discussed earlier.

“My men are prepared to pursue the targets… all we need is the word, Lord Carrion.”

In that deference, Carrion one-eyed the branded. He’d never admit it, but he was a little resistant to their scheme given the time they had spent side-by-side. Wandering deadlands and fighting off akashics, northmen and tonberries with a bearer made them seem almost human.

Almost.

“You and your bastards have it.” Carrion nodded and accepted that sacrifice. “Take the survivor with you as a guide. He’ll obey you.” That lone eye squinted, as did the scar alongside it. “After you infiltrate, deal with the Thegn if you can, but he’s incidental to your greater target. Get it done and end this blasted storm already.”

It wasn’t the General’s way to brand his chocobos until they hatched, but he could only squint into the wind for so long. If it meant cracking some eggs, so be it. He already knew which ones were rotten.

“Yes General.” Tiamat saluted with feeling. His master begrudgingly accepted that notion but he didn’t salute back.

“If you haven’t noticed, these thralls don’t like branded. So try not to get caught and killed. Not when Greagor still has use for you.” He whistled. Tiamat bowed in that offense and hurried off. The bastards vanished into the storm on foot, and Carrion patted that broken rabbit mask he kept as a good luck charm.

He was probably going to miss him. Unlike Tiamat, these other lingering branded he inherited from the prince were far less loyal. Poorly trained. Especially the ones who tried to run. Catching Telamon brought them some peace, but fear was a difficult thing to train out of branded soldiers.

They were almost human, after all.

As minutes passed and the herd continued onwards, the General’s beloved silence vanished as their travel slowed to a crawl. Overcome by chatter melding with yells up ahead, the yells of their scouts he realized. At the sight of a Frontier lantern, three riders from their front-facing cavalry rode off… and were quickly cut down.

With dragoons beside him, Carrion rode to the herd’s front… squinting through the storm to see a single blue lantern lit up ahead. Accompanying it was a tall dark silhouette of a man standing atop the downed soldiers, the swinging lantern flickered brightly beside him. Shining like his gleaming blue eyes. That cerulean glare focused intently upon the General, aligning to a dull sword in his grasp. The blade was aligned in the typical Rosarian salute he had thought he escaped. He was mirrored by a snarling, yellow-eyed wolf beside him… aligned to a similar grudge.

All Carrion could momentarily do against this undue surprise was sigh.

Perhaps he had sent Tiamat away a little too early.

Chapter Text

In the city of Façade, Shiva’s Dominant soberly sat alone, her sister had yet to return from the abyss…

Uncertain if any onlookers had witnessed that spent tear, Jill willed the sorrow away and tamped it back down, forcing that chafing cuff to cease its quaking. She paced to the cot to return her sister’s comb (and maybe to collapse), discovering Benna’s pack was missing. The sack had tipped over the side of the cot, its contents poured onto the wolfskin below. Several stray coins were immersed in that dusty layer of old fur.

Seemed in her somberness, Jill hadn’t heard it fall.

“Fuck me…”

Jill was on her knees gathering her sister’s things into a pile to shove back into the bag. An anxiety took over with the realization that Benna would notice the difference in item placement, especially her money. In that moment Jill compromised herself in considering the tried-and-true method of avoiding accountability in Benedikta’s court: blaming Luken.

The plotting of a half-hearted betrayal simmered as Jill stumbled upon an unnatural bump in the sack’s lining. It was a brass button under a carefully quilted fur fronting. With tension she plucked at it, hearing a metallic snap, releasing an alcove expertly sewn into the bag.

Could the key to her cuff be tucked in there?

The cuff rumbled in that excitement, perhaps this was the distraction Jill so desperately needed. Hence why she gave her sister’s privacy no consideration whatsoever. As she pawed through that opening she didn’t pull forth a key, but rather a small envelope with some heft to it. On the backside was an aged wax seal, one Jill didn’t recognize. The wax was cracked from one end but wholly unbroken. Intentionally untarnished? Upon its face was the scrawled word ‘Benna’. It was a man’s handwriting, Jill presumed from the solid strokes. Written with care and attention.

Was this a love letter, her sentiment-starved mind rallied?

In that nosy pang of curiosity, Jill was flummoxed, like she had been whilst poking through this room for its residents’ belongings. Like them and their ruined chocobo quilts, to suddenly intrude upon her sister’s privacy felt… callous. Especially minding that crack in the seal, a leftover wound. If the state of this missive was any indication, it was a lesson that clearly hadn’t healed or faded for her sister.

Jill pursed her lips and looked away, preparing to push the letter back into the alcove. Instead came a swelling of that compromising temptation and unbound curiosity. With eyes shut she broke the seal, ripping open the envelope in a crude motion. In realizing what she did, Jill nearly flinched, as if expecting to see Benedikta watching her from the window with vexation.

Nobody stood there, Jill was safe, for now… whatever safety meant at this late stage of compromise.

Not finding repudiation in that moment, Jill’s unwatched fingers drew parchment from the envelope. A letter intended for Benna, written in the same hand as the front. Having sealed her fate, she no longer quivered with this breach of privacy, now being faced with what her false mother would call prime gossip material. Jill gave into her lowest inhibitions. She read that letter… again and again and again.

Benna,

I would have sent a stolas, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t return alone if at all. And I rather you have something solid to remember me by. So for the first time in my life, I’ll be brief and to the point.

I’ve come to realize our king isn’t who we thought he was. He believes us a flock belonging to a master none know but him. Barnabas is a twisted beast, seeking to plunge the twins into the abyss for the sake of his false devotion to a shepherd that long abandoned us. I can perform my part in this charade no longer. I have to depart Waloed and my station as Lord Commander, better that than continue playing Barnabas Tharmr’s witless pawn.

I would ask you to come with me, and perhaps you did and never received this message. If not, I want to take this chance to say goodbye, because you deserve that and far more from me. But alas, if you’re reading this, than I indeed am a wretched coward, eternally marred in compromise.

Regardless of my fate and whichever one Barnabas intends in secret, I beg that you take care of yourself, Benna. I beg that you fly far away from him and this cage I weaved you into. You were given wings for a reason, I promise you. Let that reason be your own rather than mine or anyone else’s.

With endless care and affection,

Cid.

The missive crinkled with her unsteady disappointment. It wasn’t a love-letter… at least not in the way one would expect. Despite the writer’s intention for closure, all Jill had afterward was questions.

“Who the hell is Cid?”

She had many more she knew her sister would never answer in her right mind amidst this breach of privacy. Once Benna learned her postage was opened, Jill would find herself well past the permission phase and onto forgiveness. Something her sister was decidedly no good at.

And Jill couldn’t easily blame that on Luken…

In that concern, Jill pulled a final piece from the envelope, a gleaming piece of metalwork, a pendant attached to a thin metal chain. It depicted a winged creature she knew not, guarding a gorgeous turquoise gemstone with twin blades. Based on the metalwork alone she imagined it hailed from the outer continent.

Perhaps this was what Cid intended Benna to remember him by.

In that moment of admiration, Jill failed once more to notice the rapping at her door. By the time she looked up, Gerulf had misconstrued her silence as approval and appeared in the doorway with leftover food from supper. Those rewarmed salmon skewers nearly jumped from the plate at the sight of Jill knelt before Benedikta’s opened things, the necklace slid from her grasp (and into the unsorted pile). The winding door shut immediately in that discovery.

The letter was out of view, hastily folded back into its envelope and secured under her dress’s sash. In that moment Jill considered praying to Metia that Gerulf wouldn’t see it. But he saw much, his green eyes were wide as saucers looking upon his mistress’s privacy being intruded upon. And by one she would call sister, no less…

“This… isn’t what it looks like?” Jill felt the letter crease behind her, poking her back.

“Are you certain? As it looks like you’re scouring our lady’s effects.” Those green eyes squinted. “Like a common cutpurse.”

Jill’s face scrunched in that easy observation, secretly relieved. “Okay, this is exactly what it looks like.” She dwelled on the bag. “I was… looking for the key.” That cuff jangled until Jill stopped it for dramatic effect, using that same jangle to hide her hands sliding over the pile to sneakily scoop up the necklace. A chain-linked thread of metal she quickly assumed didn’t belong in the bag.

As Jill covered up her lies with a fragment of the truth, Gerulf’s narrowing stare softened. Looking amidst the room, he realized they were both incriminated in this moment. Jill for her thievery and Gerulf for his ineptitude. If Javik didn’t murder them, their mistress probably would.

Unlike with his lady, it was a far easier gambit to seek Gerulf’s forgiveness. Shackles had that kind of effect.

“I suppose you didn’t find it.” He answered with a smidgen of pity.

Moments later Gerulf was kneeling beside her, plucking stray gil pieces from the rug and returning them to his mistress’s overturned sack. He seemed quite experienced in this endeavor, like some kind of artist. Out of hidden guilt, Jill ate from the skewer plate (they were pretty good), allowing the professional to work his magic.

“You do this often for Benna?” She munched.

“Clean up messes? This is old hat.” Gerulf chuckled with loose gil in hand. Jill felt a story coming on.

Early on before her appointment as his Commander, Benedikta Harman and Gerulf were looking into an engineer at the University of Kanver, a Dhalmekian stray who vanished from Ran’dellah. One that did not like strangers poking through his belongings, which was problematic given he was a shut-in with a dark abode. So naturally a vase had broken during their initial casing.

“I imagine Benna broke it?” Jill supposed easily, Gerulf answered with silence, which said far more than a simple affirmation could. Instead he moved on, plugging more coins back into the satchel.

He glued the shards back together well enough, the duo were strapped for time. Lady Benedikta hoped the shadows would cover the vase’s flaws, hide the cracks. But engineers are a fastidious lot, seams are easy to spot for the well-initiated. By the time they re-entered, hoping to confront him, the stray had departed through his window. They feared he would have ran off north thinking they were the same Republican interlopers he hid from. But hours later, one of their associates had subdued the engineer, finding leverage to afford the runaway’s cooperation. A secretive community out in the Velkroy he was sending funds to under Parliament’s itchy nose.

An easy weakness to exploit once unearthed.

Yet the storyteller offered that tidbit with disappointment, stemming from himself and Lady Benedikta being unable to procure the results on their own. Their cracks were noticed and mattered. “Our Lady was vexed but counted her blessings. She was also grateful I didn’t tell our superiors about the vase.” Which he trusted Jill to keep to herself.

“What did Waloed need the engineer’s cooperation for?”

“Our former Lord Commander had a pet project His Majesty was indulging in… but the less said about that glib snake, the better.” He’d say nothing else, not even Cid’s name. Jill’s ears perked up, aligning to that letter behind her sash. Cid was Waloed’s former Lord Commander, he had indeed left.

The skewers were finished by the tale’s end, so Jill tried to find a way to ask more about Cid but Gerulf had already returned to the task at hand. “If our lady notices anything is amiss, she’ll blame Luken before she blames you. So I guess I’ll have to stand up for him ‘fore she gets wise to the deceit.” Gerulf used deceit lightly. “But she’ll forget all about it in a day or two… and find some other whim to enrage herself over.”

Like the breeze, their lady was ever changing.

“Presuming she comes back.” Jill added, brow furrowing once more.

“She’ll return, we musn’t doubt her in absence.” He said with certainty. “Lest we face her wrath.”

As Gerulf continued his important work, just as diligent as when Jill had met him a week ago, cleaning goblin blood from the Gilded Talon. Whatever task his lady pushed on him, Gerulf never turned vile nor bitter. He was always studious, stalwart, dedicated. To a level that Jill felt guilty watching. Not entirely because she caused this mess (and proceeded to lie), but because she felt as if she were intruding on something deeply personal.

Not unlike the letter prickling at her back. She wondered if Gerulf had known Cid sent Benna a message she wouldn’t read?

“You really do love her, don’t you?” Jill blurted out. The work stalled and she panicked, tightening her grasp on Benna’s hidden necklace. “Sorry, I um… I didn’t mean to pry—” She lied, again.

“Settle down, it’s alright.” The man breathed, hoping she’d do the same. “When I heard ladies from Storm had a nose for gossip that outclassed their Ashen counterparts, I didn’t quite believe it. But your nose is impressive, milady—” He poked and prodded “—And also wrong.”

In that observation Jill nearly squirmed, scratching at said nose.

“I won’t say Lady Benedikta and I have never had our moments. Spending years at someone’s side… surviving the twins, you learn a lot about them. You witness them firsthand… their strengths, their weaknesses, how they grow beyond their flaws or further into them.” He sighed, given how flawed his mistress was. “But more importantly, you see them in a way they never will. Not what they want to believe themselves to be, nor even what they fear being, but as they are. Without the façade they’ve constructed over their gaps. You see that every day in how they carry themselves, both in victory and defeat. They unconsciously reveal themselves.”

And this was a man that had witnessed plenty of losses beside Jill’s sister. Lots of broken vases.

“Every sacrifice is a lesson.” Jill suggested, earning a stern nod from Gerulf.

“I admire her, I truly do. She’s earned that from me and then some.” He nearly smiled, it ceased. “But I willfully draw the line at admiration. Anything beyond is a step too far. A step too dangerous.”

The man was endlessly practical, Jill noticed. Loyal but easily amenable. Exactly the sort that Benna would value as a confidant. Something impossible to tarnish despite the surrounding dangers, especially those nearest to him.

“You think she’d hurt you?”

Gerulf steadied himself with Jill’s query, knowing the fine line he was treading in this discussion.

“Not per se, but… our lady has had difficulties in defining that line when it comes to others.” He sighed. “Others far greater than me have been immersed in her tempest of obsession. And many have paid the price for trifling with her winds. And then there are some who linger still… who wouldn’t seek to entertain rivals to possess her attention. Ones who could have my head for merely thinking it.”

He said that last part absentmindedly, almost jokingly. But Jill didn’t find it very funny. By then Gerulf was observing a gil piece in his grasp. Nudging closer, Jill realized it depicted a dark armored knight of Waloed (where the coin was minted). Far more imposing than the symbol atop that gemstone in her grasp.

She imagined the coin’s resemblance was Odin’s.

Given Benna’s adoration for her liege, Jill wondered if that dangerous obsession went both ways. And if so, how dangerous was the other end?

“They say affection and possession are something of a ‘twined and twinned madness, my lady. With dominants I imagine that’s doubly so. So distance is a far more acceptable alternative.” He almost chuckled, depressing her. “Sometimes the best way you can care for someone is to act as a stranger. Sometimes that’s the only way you can protect them.”

Hence his support of Benna despite her intent to handle Javik alone.

 “Right…” Jill absentmindedly clutched the cuff, thinking of Ambrosia from that morning. She willed that guilt away before she could picture Clive’s wounded face looking upon her. Much as Gerulf settled, more than happy to will away his complicated feelings on the matter.

It wasn’t that Jill necessarily disagreed, such a saccharine ideal seemed impossible for her sister. But what bothered her more was the sentiment behind it all. In his eyes, Benna wasn’t Gerulf’s possession to trifle with… she was their king’s.

Like Jill was.

Barnabas Tharmr was a phantom that had been staring down upon her this entire venture. One that held her sister’s willful mind in a vice grip. A man whose court had been unraveling at the seams given their inability to speak about him. She glimpsed the cracks they struggled to cover in darkness. Noticeable by someone with a nose for gossip like she had.

Perhaps Cid was right to leave. Because he realized a truth they refused, that there seemed to be far more to their king’s intentions than they were willing to admit and he could take it no longer. Cid would rather compromise himself in running than compromise himself in staying.

Compromised like Jill was, hiding in this place, amongst these people, threatening to mar herself like Benna and Gerulf.

“Gerulf,” Jill whispered, watching her satisfied companion finishing up with the bag.  “Of all that you and Benna told me, about your king and Ash—” She thought of those stories he said about bearers having equality, things thought impossible in Storm, “—Of all those fantastic things you said, how much of it is actually true?”

“…”

In Gerulf’s troubling silence, that story he and his lady told Jill slowly began to unravel like a poorly threaded ribbon. The coming wind only added to that disparity.

The letter at Jill’s backside fluttered but she caught it, feeling that unnatural breeze pushing into the room, rustling the pelts. The duo turned, peering out the window to glance Javik’s men pushing upwards through Facade. With nervousness, Gerulf walked in front of Jill, to obstruct the men’s dangerous view. But none were watching them, and Jill spotted something betwixt the dark thralls, a familiar bob of flowing golden hair. Benedikta was with them, being escorted up through the city.

Was she shackled?

They weren’t the first to take notice.

Gerulf was faced with his men at the door, warning of armed Frontiersmen enroute to the residence. Their commander was quick to give Luken orders to stall them, keep them out of the premises. They needed a guarantee that their mistress safe. But by the time he turned back, Jill had leapt out of the window, faster than the breeze. Luken watched as Gerulf swore, their charge fleeing into the city with zero disregard for neither that cuff on her wrist nor even for them.

Perhaps Jill and Benedikta really were sisters.

Worry blinded Jill like a bull seeing red.

She sprinted fully on instinct through unmemorized corridors of ramshackled city. She couldn’t even think of what contribution she could make, armed with a stolen letter and knickknacks. Given she lacked pockets, Jill unconsciously fastened the metal chain around her hand, forcing the seemingly cherished pendant down into her blemished palm.

Jill hurried up through the levels, weaving and avoiding more of Javik’s thralls. The curfew became a blessing with fewer bodies in the princess’s path. Even the supposed guard dogs let her pass. Chatter erupted from the nearby buildings, with onlookers hiding and preparing for the imperial invasion. Though that became confused when any looked upon her, a girl reminiscent of their dead lieges. The warning of invaders shifted quickly to word of a runaway (supposed) dominant. “Lady Eisa’s silver ghost,” she heard a tattooed man whisper.

Rumors moving on the cold breeze.

Jill neared the middle level, where she intersected with those thralls leading her sister up those stairs. As she thought she spotted them, hope fluttered into her numb heart. It was dashed to the steps like Jill’s vision. Armored hands rained down upon her, heaving Jill into the stone ground. They caught her.

“Unhand me! Let me go!” She shrieked amidst that strong arming, resisting like a wiry serpent. “Benna! Benna!” That name escaped her bruised throat, like a child’s voice calling for mother.

Jill was unable to look up from that rough grasp, until for whatever reason the hold weakened and she was let go. Finally she looked upon a familiar pale face, Benna’s. She presided grimly over the steps above Jill, at hands were no shackles. In fact hovering beside them, Jill spotted a weapon hanging from Benna’s waist, the Gilded Thorn. Untarnished.

What was going on?

Benedikta wouldn’t answer that curiosity, she was too busy studying a discarded piece of parchment that had departed from Jill’s backside with the flow of wind and violence. A letter written in a familiar man’s hand, one that Jill could hide from Gerulf but not from her. She was unable to look past that broken seal but noticed a drip of fresh red atop the parchment. Stemming from Jill’s hand.

As Benedikta’s gloved hand opened it roughly, she found a familiar pendant threaded to a chain. One of its small blades had unintentionally dug into Jill’s wound. Deepening in the fall.

“You nosy little cunt… You just can’t help yourself.” Benedikta mused. Still clutching that sheathed sword, Jill feared she was about to draw it. She heard footsteps, summoning a growl instead, her sister began to beat her chest as if to get the similar colored blood in her heart pumping.

Summoning aether.

A tempest rushed ‘twixt and past them, tossing any thralls thinking to intercede down those steps. Jill resided in that sudden storm’s eye, silver hair billowing through her eyes as Benna’s flickered azure and golden and began to rise like more parchment in the breeze. Two great feathery wings sprouted from her back, edges gilded like her sword. The gold was overwhelmed by that sickly green aether surrounding her. Benedikta Harman became angelic in a way Jill had never expected.

Beautiful, even.

“A semi-prime,” onlookers whispered. Such a thing never witnessed in Façade, earning their fear.

With that rampant power fluctuating through her, she approached Jill. Benna expected the girl to lower herself down those steps with fear, especially as her sister’s hand toyed with her sword’s handle. But instead Jill was motionless as a statue, refusing to back down and be afraid like their onlookers. Even to shake. The cuff numbed far too much… it made her very brave.

“You’re scaring them.” Jill said simply, unsure if that was an observation, a warning or just a request to stop.

“They should be scared.” The angel whispered, taking Jill’s wounded hand and plucking the chain and pendant from it (which also billowed with that rushing breeze). “They should be terrified.” She reached furth up Jill’s bandaged wrist, golden fingers acting like needles and that silver chain as thread as she weaved a clumsy line around the cuff again and again. At its end she tied a knot of steel with the pendant pressured onto that band.

As Jill studied that new addition (chafing her bandaged wrist ever so slightly), her sister reached up to clench the cheeks of her worried face like a nosy aunt. That aether made her grasp so sharp.

“Javik wants to see you, dear… So hold onto it for me.” She said, sounding inhuman. “I’ll be back by the time you’re done with him. And don’t forget the Honey.” She hissed closer, pressing her dry mouth to Jill’s forehead. A perplexing kiss like something a mother would bestow… or an older sibling. Afterwards she tousled more of that recently disturbed silver hair, golden fingertips gleaming like that comb as Jill stared, put off by that display of torturous affection.

Was this the obsession Gerulf spoke of?

“I’ll see you soon, little sister.” She stared into Jill, eyes cyan like the Frontier’s lanterns. “And then we’ll have plenty of time to talk about that dead snake.”

Whatever thralls witnessed this abuse of magic were scared shitless as Benedikta Harman took one look at them, and then up to the underground skies, using her speed and claws to cut up and through the top layer of the Façade in a swift if unsteady oval. Jill cringed in seeing a smattering of raining ice, overwrought with frustration and confusion. Abandoned as her sister joined the storm. But that was nowhere near the top of her worries now.

Finding their mark, the unlikely pair of northerners glimpsed a gleam of azure off at the caravan’s frigid head. Apparently the closest the Frontier’s lanterns had gotten to them without being immediately snuffed out. With that fact came an immediate shift and re-order of the forces. Gav squinted at the sight of Sanbreque footmen and steeds wordlessly departing from the forested sides to investigate. So the duo aimed for back-half of the group, where most would be depleted in Clive’s stunt. And Fenna was right, she smelled the steadily departing mythril.

It was a decent vantage point they had discovered quickly in the minutes following the carryout of the Marquess’s inane scheme. But some were left over in the brief bolt of burgeoning chaos. Frosty guards in dirty mythril armor (more acclaimed than Gav’s paltry chainmail) watched them, spears not yet aiming, but that could change at any moment. All it took was an upgrade in their suspicion… but luckily Gav had already made a suggestion to his new associate that she reluctantly agreed to.

Her hands were behind her back, constrained by a loose rope the boy held.

“Just another runner I caught fleeing from one of the fract’red groups… pretty unlucky if you ask me.” Gav tried his hardest to suppress that accent, speaking as Clive and his old rosarian jailers did. That attempt to sound bland and forgettable had mixed results until Fenna resisted, calling the lad a churlish bairn and growling like a chained animal, forcing the boy to tighten his grasp on her wrists. He was astounded by how cold and stony those hands felt under his false tyranny. “Honestly, I don’t even know why we hold onto ‘em.” Gav then ad-libbed.

Despite Fenna’s suddenly panicked glare, it somehow worked.

“I think the General said the frontier thinks they bring bad-luck?” He shrugged and squinted at Fenna, pulling back that hood to glimpse a classic faded brand along her cheek. Aligned to it was a slim decade-old scar that had also faded. “Not a bad looker, apart from the gnashing teeth.” He ogled her with his eyes.

Under the guard’s presumptive touch Fenna vibrated with anger but managed to tamp it down, only making the vague threat of biting his fingers (and nearly doing so). He eventually unhanded her, with more chatter coming in from the band’s head summoning more bodies.

Clive’s work, no doubt.

“Watch your knots tacking her to a mount. This one’s wiry. I swear, northmen don’t know how to tame their fuckin’ branded.” The soldier moved one whilst the surrounding footmen opened a further gap. Gav would of sighed in relief had Fenna not pushed forward, clutching Gav’s fleshy hands tightly like she were his nan.

Not that he’d ever say that, she was too busy being angry about something else he said.

“I don’t know why we hold onto them?” Fenna hissed.

“It’s a fair’ question, I’s trying to be conversational.” He whispered.

“You were trying to get my head chopped off mid-conversation.”

“I wasn’t! These imps wouldn’t do that, not when they’re this cold.”

“Yes, and that one seemed in dire need of more than just a blanket.” She flinched, willfully abolishing that memory.

She hushed up as they ventured further into the caravan, surprised by the multitudes of imperials they found subsisting in that blizzard, hiding their numbers. Many were heading off in the same direction. As Gav suggested, many of these hardened soldiers were shaking in that terrible frost. Much like Fenna’s chattering hands.

She was jumpy, he realized. Nervous as hell, but he wasn’t sure if it was just the natural nerves given their predicament.

“I wouldn’t have let him try anything, mam.” He whispered. “These imps don’t have honor but I’m a northman m’self, and…”

She seemingly ignored him but tightened her stony grasp on Gav’s hands. He noticed the wind picking up just a bit as that burned teal ribbon she now wore fluttered. Fenna took a deep sniff of the air, breathing in that frost like the dog they had just split off from.

She mouthed a name on her breath that Gav didn’t quite catch. But Fen moved on quickly.

“Vel and the others should be up ahead. Including your foolish friend. Let’s get a move on.”

Ideally before Clive also lost his head.

“I thought I was the jailer here…” The boy murmured, rushing after that wiry hostage like his life depended upon it.

The imperial caravan stalled and ceased with the murky sight dead scouts being presided over by a blue-eyed Rosarian ghost and his trusty hound. For those imperial invaders, a line was drawn in the snow by the haunting duo, decreeing: “No Further.” So the onlookers seemed to back up. That unstated demand would be kept for a handful of minutes, even if the main caravan couldn’t account for the other Sanbrequois that had already pushed through in the intervening hours.

The lantern beside the noticeably warm-blooded soldier seemed to shine brighter and brighter in his presence. Despite that burgeoning strength, that voice of static stayed hidden. Ifrit wasn’t here yet.

But Carrion was.

Through that wind and bluster ensorceling the forest, Clive and Torgal squinted at a pack of riders pushing with warm orange torches. The Sanbreque general, Brennus Carrion, approached, presiding over a chocobo as filthy as he was (very unlike his first meeting with Clive). Despite that spear holstered at the bird’s side, the one-eyed old man didn’t deign Clive with a dismount. He had his men to cover for that, marching footmen and astrologers prepping their lances and magicks. Further behind their ranks Clive could hear the mechanical prepping of rusted crossbows hiding within the storm. Aimed squarely at Clive’s literal hot head.

Hell had yet to break loose, Carrion was too curious to signal Clive’s immediate end. Too compromised by his own nature.

“I see you’ve caught up.” The chocobo stopped perhaps ten feet away from that line, that single eye strained itself to watch Clive in the blizzard, cold hands settling on his reins.  “You’ve picked an auspicious time to show your scarred face again.” His stubble flexed with misgivings, eyeing the sullen marquess who had gotten ahead of his invasion. “How unfortunate… for you.”

“…”

Clive was on standby, mind whirring through the scenarios had the general stopped nearer to his position. He offered nothing else. The nature of this feint held his tongue, as did the little he felt for this creature besides that burning anger that hardly boiled in this moment.

Carrion found that restraint very boring.

“Sadly, you’re not the most important thing going on this night, Rosfield. We’re far too busy to deal with your antics. So how about you crawl back into that hollow crater I left you in and we kill you there?”

Clive’s face crinkled. He prepared to say something snarky when he spotted a familiar glint at the general’s saddlebag hanging beside his sore rear. A broken rabbit mask.

Fenna was right, Vel was here… and still in danger like their friends. All the more important that he stood where he did for as long as he could. So instead he raised that sword, forming the classic ducal salute his people were known for.

“Turn back and surrender your prisoners, General.” Clive breathed gracefully. “The Northern Territories and its people are wards of Rosaria. You and your men lack jurisdiction here. The same way your emperor lacked jurisdiction to invade Rosaria.”

Carrion rolled his eye at that notion of legality. They were both well past that excuse.

“Are you still mad about that, lad? Because I’m already over it.” Carrion blinked his missing eye, pale miscolored flesh flexing under the grime. “I’m more than happy to let bygones be bygones, but I suppose you just can’t help yourself. Even after besting our poor prince with your ill-gotten magicks. Just as much a persistent prick in my boot… Perhaps that’s how your wretched mother felt.”

“Turn back and surrender.” Clive repeated simply holding that stance atop those dead men, unfazed at Anabella’s mention.

The lack of back-and-forth banter vexed the General to no end. One-sided misanthropic ramblings could only last for so long. Same for the grudge of some petulant lordling. Surely that couldn’t be what brought Clive Rosfield this far north through glaives and deadlands and akashics and tonberries.

No, he knew Rosfield was brought here for more than just that. The fool’s mother indicated as much.

“Do you think she still cares for you? Your runaway bride?” He chuckled falsely, trying desperately to poke the bear, force a reaction. “Do you think she’d be disappointed to know you abandoned not only your own blood but also her to bother me about some useless hostages? I almost feel sorry for you. Almost.”

Clive assumed that was a lie, that the general was far too numb at this point in their grudge. And he was right, seeing that lone eye darting up from the sword once more. His shaking hands pulled back on the reins.

“As an extension of my sympathies, I might just keep you around a while longer, Clive… so I can send your cowardly brother and Archduke a fresh blue eye each.” He scratched his wounded eye, bird slowly pivoting. Halfway through the turn he heard the snarl of that obnoxious wolf, dirty claws scraping the snow, having no tact for chatter. “And your beloved Shiva a pelt.” A hand raised as Clive was shown Carrion’s back. “Kill the dog.”

The bolts and magicks trained on Clive shifted and propelled. Clive prepared to intercede when the blue lantern behind him swayed and gleamed even brighter. Torgal acted first, eyes shifting into that same shade and azure. He leapt and somersaulted with an echo of his master’s magic. Fenna had explained it briefly that her old tribe naming themselves after a Shiva’s frostwolf companion wasn’t a mere fluke. These creatures too shared in that magical boon much as Clive did. Eikonic in their own way…

Joshua’s flames and Jill’s ice barreled into the frontline and brazenly dismounted two riders, their chocobos immediately took flight (figuratively) into the frigid woods. Three more approaching footmen took that chance to strike towards Clive but found the claws of a flipping wolf cleaving through their arms, and his jaws suddenly clenching the third’s neck. He breathed hot air on the terrified imperial and released roughly. That soldier went limp and was tossed aside to the ground, right beside the other two, knocked over and shakenly backing away.

Clive’s blue gaze heightened with a similar light focused on the other onlookers, his free hand gently slowing the dimming blue lantern. “Don’t kill the dog.” He answered with a similar growl, leveling that sword back towards the general and his shaking men. “It’ll go poorly… for you.” He promised.

Not that the stubborn general was listening or watching him any longer, unable to perceive anything beyond his grudge. Not even the slow brightening of that distant darkness hanging behind Clive. Turning blue. To be fair, Clive hardly paid the hue much attention either, as that frontline disobeyed his very sound advice.

With the caravan halted in its tracks, the prisoners at its core were afforded a brief reprieve. Vel was grateful to know that nobody else had perished in the intervening hours but their pace had increased to a level of inordinate rampancy only to finally crash and cease with this lull. At that point most who remained were seated in the frozen muck, besides from Darun who was too stubborn to show weakness and sit (or even speak, given the prior altercation).

There was a begrudging shake to him, not summoned by chill but exhaustion. Vel could see her now quiet friend standing at the end of his metaphorical rope. The real one was also taut, anchoring the faceless fox in a standing position. Vel wasn’t much better herself kneeling in the grime, nor Gaut or anyone else.

The momentarily relief did nothing for them, not with that building tension as their Sanbreque guards departed. It became clear that the lull came about from a debacle ensnaring the head of the convoy, word of a guest pulling away their wardens with a nervous energy. Ever since the general had departed (with Vel’s mask), their stress became especially taut, earning sudden acts of aggression upon their hostages. Gaut received a kick in the stomach from an especially nasty imperial bearer. He would have done more, but a new order had presented itself in the movement of the chocobos. The prisoners were pulled and further to the fringes of the convoy.

Had the Frontier finally discovered them? Was that long awaited death finally coming? She assumed not, given none of them were currently riddled with arrows.

With that consideration, Vel spotted dragoons in their sullen armor marching back through their hobbled ranks, spears trailing the prisoners as always. These ones were the dragoons that followed the General closely as his guard, they inherited much of his malice. They approached the party’s heart, where Carrion’s special prisoner was kept.

The gagged fellow with the chains and crystal fetters. Mid, was it?

“Remove him.” The head goon whistled. Those chains were busily stripped from the chocobos, the prisoners watched with confusion. Seeing the attention Mid had wordlessly summoned to himself.

“Where are you taking him?” Vel asked without thinking. A shaky spear neared her equally shaky skull again.

“Hush, the General wants him looked after.” Meaning that he didn’t want the rest looked after.

“And what about us?” She asked, growing bolder, even if she certainly wasn’t tall enough to seem imposing.

“What about you?” The dragoon looked down on her. “You’re just a distraction. A means to an end with handling the rampaging horde.”

A not-cute term Carrion’s followers attributed to the northmen.

“Have you no obligations to protect us as well? As demanded by your pact with Greagor?”

“And what do you as a nonbeliever know of Greagor, savage?” The dirty dragoon huffed and puffed. As Vel knotted and twisted in that term, she struggled to find an answer to it.

Someone else answered it instead, the faceless fox.

“Don’t call her that.”

He was hoarse, grasping that taut rope at his wrists but stood more solidly. He willed away the trembling as he looked upon the tall dragoon, refusing to afford any more of that vulnerability.

“Dar—” Vel whispered but the dragoon pushed from her, confronting the Jaegerman.

“And why shouldn’t I? That’s what you all are. Feckless ingrates fleeing the gifts of Greagor and the crystals. The whole lot of you… worse than heretics.”

It wasn’t just that these Jaeger and the likes were dirty savages, but so too were they outcasts, refusing the blessing of the crystals. No different from the Frontier.

A waste of everyone’s time. So they were better off dead in the imperial’s eyes.

“I chose to be here, same for her and the rest of us. Even Mid over there, I’m sure.” The gagged man eyed him oddly, surprised another would stand up for him at this late stage of insanity. He could almost forgive his name not being known.

“Even when threatened with your chains we made that choice. And we’d make it again. But what about you, Imp?” He spat, resisting the pull of that chocobo. The imperial flinched in hearing that title, but the Fox continued. “Did you choose to come here, to willfully abandon your goddess and your crystals? Because right now… you and your General are trapped in the mother’s chill, same as the rest of us. Bleeding the same savage blood.”

“…” The dragoons nearby gasped at the mouth on Darun. To regain dominance that same dragoon smashed a mithril gauntlet through the Jaeger’s face, forcing him to the ground. The chocobo leading him fell back a little, giving a sudden degree of slack that the head dragoon walked over with smarm, kicking Darun in the ribs several times. Vel tried to reach out to him but immediately one of the dragoons underlings pressed down on her shoulders, gloves digging into her bared skin like claws.

The dragoon striking Darun stepped over him, looking to his associates.

“Take the prisoners besides Telamon to the outskirts. Prepare them to meet the chill’s embrace. Their service to the Holy Empire of Sanbreque is concluded.” By then Cidolfus had been stripped of metal thread, with imperial gauntlets forcing down on him like they did Vel. Two dragoons pulled him forth, whilst the lead sneered, looking at Vel again… not forgetting about her.

As she turned away from him, his rough gauntlet grasped her face, pulling it back to him… staring into her blue eyes flickering with the torchlight. Her shaky face glaring and resisting that pain… even as he drew blood. Her face had an odd unfitting shape the more he looked at it, as was that smell that clung to her. No wonder they wore masks.

“None of you belong here, or anywhere for that matter… Greagor was right to leave your kind behind. Savag—”

That word didn’t finish escaping his throat. A slacked weathered rope looped around the dragoon’s ornate neck, turning taut in an instant. The shaky man holding both ends of the rope was at his back, kicking at his knee and using that leverage that the weathered binds at his wrists finally snapped. Darun nearly fell over in that freedom, but redirected himself away from a swipe of the dragoon’s wild blade. He ran into and promptly kicked the armored chocobo still attached to the line. Its rider fell and the bird took off, running over its rider with a choking imperial dragoon clutching at his neck, dragged away into the uncompromising frost.

And then hell proceeded to break loose.

With Benedikta’s departure, Jill turned back, looking down the steps to see those Frontiersmen rising back up, pausing at attention as a younger silver-haired thrall climbed the stairs, with him were royalist prisoners.

Oh Founder, Gerulf… she had completely forgotten him. And now Kallus had him. He had watched Benna leave, now he was focused solely solely on Jill, rapier coldly drawn.

Cora’s bow was missing from his back, she realized. Not that it detracted from the smug look behind his face-mask.

“You’re defying curfew.” He informed her with a blade at Gerulf’s unflinching neck. “Luckily, Lord Javik wishes to see you… to have words. But he didn’t say what to do about your associates.” He cricked his neck.

“He has nothing to do with this!" She breathed and clenched, not that Kallus cared.

“If you resist, we might not be able to ensure their safety, or yours… Jill.” His soulless eyes squinted, as did Jill’s in hearing her true name on his insipid tongue.

Unintentionally loud enough that others could hear. Jill looked past Gerulf to glance upwards, spotting more northerners peering out their windows, seeing them at the source of Benedikta’s commotion. Including that ribbon-haired little girl with the puppy, she imagined.

All watching a steady trail of snowfall from above.

Their gazes all eventually gravitated to Jill and Kallus, a child of Silvermane and a servant of his killer. She eyed him with the coldest of glares, coming nearer and staring down into his cruel face. The frigid cuff and pendant rattled again, but Jill caught it, feeling it freeze ever so slightly… infested with her chill.

Not that Kallus noticed, too busy feeling smug and superior.

“You know who I am?”

“I know of the traitorous blood you carry, yes.”

“My father wasn’t a traitor.” Jill hissed.

“And how would you know? Southbound Ward?” That title stung especially coming from him. Someone who was too young to have been involved in her family’s collapse yet knew all about it. “You were sent off to live in a lap of luxury with Elwin Rosfield and his fucking bearers whilst the rest of us had to settle for ashes and forgotten promises.” He mocked her, a stand in for both her fathers. “It’s almost fitting, you coming back to answer for his and Silvermane’s transgressions.” He spat with superiority. “Once you’re dead, we can finally put this storm behind us and move on.”

Jill realized that Kallus could only run his mouth because he didn’t think she had any power. That cuff was probably the only thing keeping her alive in that moment, allowing Kallus’s victory lap in front of his people. And she would have just let it go, had he not pushed his luck.

“Presuming my liege doesn’t intend other uses for you. Uses only suitable for Rosaria’s Silver Whore...”

In that crude statement, Jill wondered if it wasn’t Javik who intended such uses for her… but Kallus rather. She wasn’t the only one to reach that conclusion.

“How dare you,” Another young voice snarled from behind. Luken’s, his rusting armor chafing with loyalty. “You honorlacking swine, unworthy of even a modicum of Lady Jill’s attent—”

The thin blade at Gerulf’s throat lost interest, thinly piercing into Luken’s instead.

Jill rattled in the sight, motionless and grasping the cuff as Kallus expertly pulled the rapier back out and her stunned companion grasped his neck, finding red ink leaking onto his armor. It introduced a shake, not unlike Jill’s quaking. Tremors of confusion stained in leaky red.

“Forgive me, my lady—"

Lower on the steps, he was a head shorter than Jill. That became five as Luken collapsed backwards. Armor clanging down three wooden steps until one of their companions could catch him. It wasn’t Gerulf.  He was too busy forcing his fist through Kallus’s arrogant face, marring his knuckles on the boy’s facemask. A sudden bout of turmoil shot through the stairwell as other royalists were caught between backing up their commander and supporting their fallen comrade. Jill made a swift and sudden choice, as Gerulf’s actions opened up a gap between the Frontiersmen busily trying to manhandle him. She ducked under a wild swing of that rapier and scampered down those bleeding steps (marring her dress) to reach Luken.

Unconscious.

Jill trembled, pouring over him… trying to apply pressure to his bleeding neck, despite seeing the wound on his head from the fall. For a moment she was reminded of Clive and his traumatic wound, knowing she saved him. Benna had used her aether to heal Jill once, maybe she could…

But that was right. Unlike then, the magic wouldn’t flow. That cuff strangled her gift and all she felt. All she felt was that coldness, especially as she held his frigid hand.

Or maybe she was the frigid one. Sapping his warmth.

In that realization, Jill let him go, shaking more and more covered in his useless blood. Enough that one of her companions quietly took her place to keep pressure on Luken’s wound and she was left of the outskirts, overwhelmed by that noise that she ceased hearing anything. Her companions yelling out against their hosts, onlookers decrying Kallus’s cruelty, nor the screams of children witnessing something their parents said they were safe from. Nor could she hear Luken’s heartbeat ending, his pulse ceasing.

And worst of all, Jill felt nothing. Not even a spare tear like the one she had shed for these people Benna told her weren’t people. Did that mean Luken was even less than them? Or was she just that empty?

That swarm of confusion grew abrupt when the bloody end of a rapier tapped her shoulder.

“Get up… Lord Javik’s waiting for you.” Kallus ordered. Gerulf’s screams and the other voices beside had ceased in their grappling. And Jill shook again, seeing Luken still shaking. Somehow still alive. And here she was, doing nothing whilst Kallus acted like nothing was wrong. Like this was somehow normal.

“He needs bandages, a medic.” She told Kallus, turning then to a manhandled Gerulf further up the steps. “And you need to call them off.” The order was refused, as the sword tapped her shoulder again.

“I don’t need to do anything, Warrick.” That fresh bruise upon his cheek flexed with misgivings. “As long as he has you, Javik will get over it—"

In that suggestion, Jill recognized the cruel freedom in the confinement that fiend lorded over her. So she decided to call his bluff and remind Kallus who she was. On the third swing Jill caught the blade with a bloodied cuffed hand, rising up from Luken’s side to stare into Kallus. Cuff getting colder with each passing second.

“And what if he doesn’t have me, Kallus?” She whistled his name sourly like Benna would. “What if he knows you dishonored yourself even further, with all these innocent witnesses watching you? What’s he going to tell my sister?”

With a step nearer to her captor, Jill’s middle and index fingers, guided the sharp blade away from her shoulder and then to her own neck, far preferring that blade’s weight be upon her rather than her friends. Especially as she knew all the eyes from above watching with trepidation.

If these people were greatly upset about Luken, how would they feel about hers? One of their own, a girl with that same pretty silver hair they shared? How would Javik feel, if he truly was Lorik Riloh, hearing that Silvermane’s only child perished on his city’s steps at the hands of an unruly youth? And during an imperial invasion… where a stray dominant might be the only thing standing between Façade and annihilation.

In a glare she dared him to go ahead, feeling the well-kept metal trembling in such a challenge, especially as Jill came a step nearer, forcing the weapon to draw blood and more worried chatter. Yells even. It didn’t sting a bit due to how numb Jill felt, staring at him.

That hatred she felt seemed so precious. Everlasting.

Yet in that moment she needed him, because his fear was revealing itself. Unlike Jill, he still cared what people thought of him.

What Javik thought of him.

“What do you want?” He snarled behind that mask. Finally obedient.

“You will ensure their safety. For all of them.” She ordered like the Queen she never was. “They are your guests, and you thralls will keep to your oaths at hosts. As Javik said you would.”

“…” With all those eyes upon him, Kallus was proven the coward. He nodded and pulled away the rapier, waving the others to let go of Gerulf and the rest. He whispered to one of his toadies, to fetch a surgeon. As he looked back, stowing his reddened rapier like a sullen teenager, Kallus realized Jill was still staring up at him. As if to memorize his face.

Silently promising to kill him.

Moments passed as a tight gauze and fabric was wrapped around Luken’s neck. The Frontier prepared to carry him down the steps back to the house. A silver-headed doctor had already made himself known. Luken would need stitches, but at least the bleeding ceased. So the royalists prepared to return with him. All except for one… despite Gerulf’s pleads.

“My lady… we just need to wait longer for Lady Benedikta, and then—"

“I can’t delay this any longer, Gerulf.” She whispered at those steps, watching Kallus waiting on her. “He’ll hurt more of you… and I can’t allow that. That compromise is too much for me.”

Even if it wasn’t for Benna.

Gerulf struggled to sully that logic, but he kept staring at Jill’s wrist, watching that cuff… glancing the jangling of that pendant atop it.

“There is no key, milady.” He admitted, and Jill froze on the spot, studying the metal once more. Realizing Benna had intentionally resecured it in her departure.

Somehow there being no key didn’t seem to surprise her in the least.

The cuff seemed to be the Frontier’s very own design, meant to constrain their bearers. Gerulf surmised it wasn’t meant to be taken off without some elbow grease and a well-angled pry-bar. A key was a last resort that Benna would deny herself. It exemplified why Jill needed her sister just like the others did. Benna just hadn’t expected to be distracted by the Frontier’s antics. And she’d rather compromise herself than stick to their agreement.

As Gerulf turned bashful in acknowledging his lie, Jill seemed almost at peace, quelling that beat of terror. “I guess this has just been another one of her fucking tests all along, isn’t it?” Jill scoffed, eyes rolling.

“She shouldn’t have left you alone…” He said simply, worried. “You deserve better. Far better than us.”

While Jill struggled to agree, she hugged the sheepish man, feeling him tremble with awkward confusion. But he accepted it, knowing their time together was coming to an end. Jill shuddered, weary about the thought of leaving her friends behind. Yet Gerulf nodded. Somehow trusting her despite all this madness betwixt them all. Trusting his men as well.

“We’ll see you soon, milady.” He promised, as the others whispered their farewells to Lady Jill. She took that moment to approach each of them, surprising them with all of their names she had memorized. Though Gerulf’s was the most difficult to let go of.

“Goodbye Gerulf.” She whispered. “If I don’t return… break a few vases for me.”

She saw him smile just a little.

They faded down the steps and Jill was left with Kallus, not that she afforded him any more attention. Not when was too busy staring into that dark abyss at the bottom of the settlement. Jill began walking down those horrid steps, Kallus following as a begrudging jailer.

“We best not keep my uncle waiting any longer.” Jill mused.

Not when he’s been waiting just as long for this as she had. Waiting for closure.

Clive would have to wait a while longer yet. He had only so much time to indulge the general’s whims for warfare.

As swiftly as Carrion departed that front-line did his troops engage the Marquess in earnest. The assault was initially negligible against Clive’s flames and Torgal’s bite. Even just the two of them easily resist magicks and crossbow bolts given the advantage of that frigid haze and Torgal’s nose. Even the footmen who couldn’t keep up with the duo gave little issue. But then came the dragoons spearing into them from the treetops and the complexities of multiple classed combatants with no backup forced a shift in tactics.

At least Torgal was smart enough to follow Clive into cover, rather than standing out in the open upon their meager pile of (now) bolt-ridden bodies.

As Clive hid behind splintered trees, suddenly thrashed with dirty mythril spears only narrowly missing his thick head, he was perturbed to find Ifrit had nothing to contribute in this asymmetric bout. Instead Clive had to parry a dragoon’s lance and push him in the way of more crossbow bolts deflecting off the mythril. By then a second dragoon swept in, stabbing at Clive’s leg but only missing because Torgal lunged at the man with his fangs, instead bruising Clive’s shin with its blunt end.

In that reaction, the first dragoon kicked the dog off into the frost while Clive growled and answered with tendrils of that unstable ice sticking his attackers to those trees. He then stuck a third, stabbing that borrowed sword into a footman, cleaving into a tree like a burning kebab. The man died instantly whilst Clive floundered, feeling the sword stuck with a wobble.

Of all the goddamn times…

Amidst his struggle to retake that blade, Clive stuck to that tree, his left hand peppering his attackers with stray bolts of that ice. He tried to summon flames, but the cold wanted its stay for now, and it waned in continual use. Even Fenna’s haphazard advice couldn’t steady his aether.

Torgal’s control was far finer, somersaulting back into the fray with a burning arc erupting from his claws and splintering a dragoon’s armor. The solider fell back into a group of footmen Clive peered marching forth in the frost.

Clive struggled to pluck that sword (unintentionally bending it) when a buildup of light aether was suddenly unleashed, but not as an attack. The soldiers paused their march and a white light appeared behind them, crystals armed by their astrologers stood at the corners of each company. Clive fired a bolt of flame to try and remove them, only for another crystal to take its place, more lighting up to overwhelm his view. Mixed with the already blinding snow, it was beyond blinding.

Just another of Carrion’s cheap tricks.

Stray crossbow bolts fired off in Clive’s direction, but the attackers were just as blind as he was. As too were the dragoons that took that opportunity to strike at them before vanishing back into the void. It became a struggle to defend against those attacks, chance becoming just as much a foe. So it became a game of endurance, of how long their luck could last against Carrion’s stretching resources.

For half a minute Clive withstood it well enough, when a crossbow bolt suddenly ruptured at his armored shoulder. Not piercing it, but enough to bring Clive to the ground, growling with frustration. And then Torgal began to howl. Again and again, endlessly into that white speckled void that surrounded them. It was enough that Clive could hardly hear himself think.

The only sense Clive had left was smell, and he could hardly…

Wait… he could smell the aether.

As Fenna had tried explaining once, aether had a unique scent based on the way it was cast. Or even the source, given the shards of each mothercrystal was aligned to the element of their respective guardian. An adept nose could easily tell the difference between, crystals, bearers and even dominants. And Somehow Clive realized he had been able to predict the dragoons charging with their crystals aided attacks and the augurs firing magic upon him. The only thing he couldn’t track were the crossbow bolts.

And with his connection to Dion Lesage’s dominant, he felt a bond to the light magic being used upon him, in those bright gleaming crystals. He could almost feel that connection, as if it were a physical thing, threads of aether waiting to be plucked, like the string of a lute. Clive wasn’t much of a musician, but in that moment he felt he knew that song in his very bones.

So Clive reached a hand out into that void, closing it into a fist and ripped the chords.

The humming of the crystals faded as one by one the shards flickered and deactivated. One confused astrologer took that moment to shake his crystal. It proceeded to combust breaking apart into shards that imbedded the man’s face. The others promptly threw their crystals away, not taking the risk while that frontline seized up, and back-peddled. Even their dragoons who prepared defensive stances looked wary.

Whatever begrudging orders Carrion gave, Clive couldn’t hear them.

The howling continued.

“Torgal, that’s enough… I think they get the—” The dog looked up at him, mouth closed and normal. Yet the howling persisted, permeating the frost. “—point?”

Clive looked behind, to where the source of howling came from. He discovered an unnaturally blue horizon. Aether lamps gleamed, revealing the silhouettes of howling beasts responding to Torgal’s plea. Amongst them were far taller and far numerous shades, frigid men atop dark chocobos, with spears and crystal tipped arrows nocking, bows extending, aimed not for Clive’s thick head. Torgal’s presence and Gav’s lantern momentarily protected them.

In his smug excitement, Carrion had forgotten the Frontier just as well… and recalled them with blinking terror. “Fall back you bastards—”

The General’s warning was late, by then hell broke loose with blue-lit arrows imbedding the frontline’s throat. They smashed it, riders and wolves lashing through dragoons and footmen. Striking at their invaders. Clive beheld unbridled chaos and had no choice but to behold behind cover, watching as chocobos came crashing down and dark armored axe-men cleaved down into dirty spearmen. Crystal lacking astrologers had no choice but to run.

And then beyond them, Clive swore he saw the general’s visage glancing his direction before riding off with his entourage.

Fleeing into the storm. Ever the craven.

Torgal took off immediately, pausing if only to bark at Clive, plucking his sword from the tree, finally. The dog took off and his master followed his guide, knowing exactly where he’d like to leave that sword.

The Frontier probably wouldn’t mind… Jill neither.

The abyss at the bottom of Façade seemed cold enough that her guards trembled. Even Kallus, whose breath she saw under torchlight. Beyond it was so dark that Jill wasn’t sure if they had entered Javik’s Citadel, only noticing the soldiers not following them at Kallus’s command. He chose to lead her alone, feeling pride at stake.

Too bad he was also a terrible tour guide.

The pair wordlessly traversed that void into a maze of oddities Jill struggled to comprehend. A place even more hollow than the city she had just wandered. A place borne of the Fallen. It was a factory forged of unbreakable meticulous stone, left perfect and untouched by their forebearers. Yet there were no automatons walking the premises as Joshua once said. No moving parts, lifts nor even lights. Beyond those blue torches, the factory was dead. So Jill found herself looking out over the edge into a deep unlit abyss. Unending darkness.

“If you fall nobody will be there to catch you.” Kallus warned under the glare of his blue torch.

“Nor you.” She offered, recalling that wordless promise to kill him. Perhaps that’s why Kallus moved on quickly, hand remaining steady at that rapier he pierced Luken with. Every few minutes he thought to look back and made a snide comment. But words struggled to escape Kallus’s throat the further they dwelled. Peace was integral in this dark place where they both could easily fall to their deaths with a flare of tempers… no matter how justified.

It was a cold empty hollow, devoid of any life. No guards nor hounds stood on standby here, the only faces they came across were masked ones garbed in layers of protection from the frigid elements. Departing members of Javik’s inner circle, given the way they unsteadily nodded to Kallus and then stared at Jill as if she were a spirit they recognized.

“That can’t be her,” lingered on their whispering breaths. “The ghost has grown…”

The path ended with them, leaving Frontiersmen standing guard over a great Fallen era door. But unlike that perfect technology Joshua spoke of, she saw several great seams in the stonework… as if it was cut by an impossibly sharp blade. Over it a clumsy wooden façade had been put down. A door made by modern carpenters… probably embarrassed given the great technological marvel that surrounded their crude creation.

There were four guards, flinching in the darkness, ready within a moment’s notice to draw their weapons if Kallus had been an imposter. But instead, he spoke to them in that dead tongue.

“Gi oss adgang, vår herres fange har ankommet.”

Jill watched the guard’s faces turning to her. Unable to look at her face. She imagined some had to be survivors from Iskald. Sworn thralls who betrayed her family. Traitors among traitors who now protected Silvermane’s killer.

Perhaps that was why they couldn’t face her, their dead mistresses’s child. Now their prisoner.

“Hun er tidlig ute. Javik ventet henne ikke ennå.” One answered, spurring Kallus given the frustrated glint in his stare. “Han er ikke fornøyd med deg.”

The boy said nothing, though Jill wondered if he wanted to draw that sword again.

“Ta henne med inn, men gå raskt, bairn.”

The door opened, allowing the unlikely duo’s passage. Their gazes averted as Jill walked by them, yet she found no satisfaction in that ascribed guilt. Kallus seemed especially prickly after that conversation.

What did bairn mean?

The doors revealed the maze’s heart, a thin room covered in that layer of darkness obscured with wall-hanged blue lanterns. It encompassed a wide table with chairs beside it. She looked elsewhere, feeling a stalwart shift in the air and color. There was a hearth at the room’s back, overlooked by chairs. But rather than cyan, Jill saw a gleam of orange flames. A sitting room of some sort. In the burning presence she noticed a dark stolas perched atop one of those chairs, eerie cyan eyes blinking into the warm flames baking the room in that light.

The bird briefly glanced at the intruders before turning back to eye the flames. Utterly disinterested. Interesting given how Jill had seen Kallus command the creature before.

In that moment Jill realized she and Kallus were very alone, with no pits below them to tumble into should a fight break out. And she recalled the callous threats this despicable human being spoke towards her and her sex. So she balled up her fists and braced herself to retaliate, eying that sword hanging at his side.

It remained stowed. Kallus retreated, deterred for a reason she lacked.

“Lord Javik will be with you shortly. His stolas will watch you until then. Don’t pester it if you don’t want your eyes pecked out.” He said seriously. “And don’t touch anything. We’ll notice.”

“Wait!” Jill called out, pausing the coward in his tracks. Sheathed blade jangling with dried blood. Luken’s, but not just his. She momentarily thought to ask about Cora’s bow. Ask what had happened to it? But that wasn’t worth her attention at this point.

“That woman from days ago, the bearer with the brand you slit… She said you took children from her people.” She heaved in the memory of a dead woman. “Are they safe?”

Having to rack his memory, Kallus stared at her, eventually she spotted recognition. And then scoffed that she’d waste her worry on such matters. But then it was well known how fond Lady Eisa was of bearers. Having been reared by their ruinous kind.

“Those weren’t real children. They were part of the problem. Born defective just like her. Just like you.”

Jill was speechless as the villain departed, fleeing through those closing doors without another word. The only company she had left in that room was a disinterested black owl pecking at its feathers.

Given the bird seemed to be off the clock, it gave Jill no notice whatsoever. So she tried to give it that same curtesy, pacing the stone table rather than the hearth, finger sliding on carved grooves. It was a stone map of northern storm encompassing the territories and their immediate southern neighbors (Rosaria, Sanbreque and the Iron Isles), Lines of twine stood as territorial borders (one such border was around the Bay of Frost). Small carved wooden figurines then served as stand-ins for troops, with some units bearing the Frontier’s cracked diamond alongside a smaller group with a mark of Odin, and then multitude bearing Sanbreque’s wyvern tail. Further to the map’s center were rugged masked tokens she didn’t recognize. Including one that looked like an owl.

Looking through the spread-out imperial figurines occupying the Frostedge forest, Jill then noticed a line of black twine nailed into the board, with dark paint covering everything it contained. It created far more complicated shapes than the territorial lines. That paint cut through the forest into the Hollow Grounds and overtook much of the Glaives, Iskald, Frostburr and the entire Emerald Coast to the east. She could even see it encroaching into Rosaria at the south and taking over the empire’s northern territories.

“Blight…” She murmured to herself, recalling a child pointing that out on a similar table in her father’s court.

Speaking of Rosaria, Jill was heartened to find no trace of their symbol amongst the tokens. No sign of Clive or Joshua… but there were other carved pieces that brought her pause. One was the profile of a bearded old man with a thunder symbol, nested betwixt the imperial forces in the Frostedge. Another was the profile of a lady-faced bird with a wind symbol, on the outskirts of Façade towards the Frostedge.

Ramuh and Garuda…

As Jill pressed her hand down on that pendant, she spotted a third token residing within Facade, with a profile Jill knew. A regal woman with pointed ears and a thorned crown made of ice. It was that very same visage she used to see in her reflections.

“Shiva…” She touched it with her index finger, shaking just in that contact.

For a moment she glanced down, studying that cold cuff on her arm. The added pendant atop it gleamed, reflecting both the orange firelight of the distant hearth and the looming cyan everywhere else. And then she spotted a blackness beaming into the cuff. Jill yelped the Founder’s name in surprise finding the black owl suddenly perched on the table before her, staring like it had in all their encounters before.

Javik’s dear pet. Such a bird Jill had no recollection in her childhood. It must have been new. Probably a rare ashen breed of some kind. Maybe a gift from Odin given they were supposed to be allies.

“What do you want from me?” She stared intently, trying to match its feathered glare. But instead the bird remained perfectly composed, no hooting whatsoever. Utterly content. Unlike anyone else in this city fearing Shiva, her stare nor even the cold couldn’t affect it.

It didn’t even react when Jill reached out a hand to try and scare it away. Though she did notice its teal eyes looking upon that hand, expectantly. Did it think she had food or… did it want her to pet it like it’s master had?

Jill was reminded of Torgal, always vying for attention. With that consideration she sighed, recognizing that despite its tendency to peck at corpses, it was a gorgeous bird. Those black feathers had a lacquer-like shine to them. She did wonder how they felt…

She nearly acquiesced to her curiosity when her eyes adjust to the light and Jill spotted something clutched in the bird’s dark talons. A piece of aged and curved driftwood. Shaped like a bow, one that Jill knew very well, currently unstrung (where had the drawstring gone?).

And did she smell fresh hide glue on it?

“Where did you get that?” She reached out to take the bow from the owl when the bird’s feathery head swiveled away from her. Watching the entrance, sensing before Jill could detect the doors pushing open. With that came the fading sound of an argument on the other side. Jill swore she could hear Kallus’s filtered voice… but he didn’t enter the war room, only his master, looking back with a fatherly reprimand. Voice not constrained by any mask.

“Du er unnskyldt. Ta deg av forsvaret, Kallus.”

Just what was their relationship?

Jill bolted from the table and left the bow alone, staring upon a three-legged shadow backlit by those cool lights. The doors began to shut behind him, but the shade didn’t come closer yet. He instead stared at the creature on his map.

Holding onto that bow.

“La det være. Av.” With that command, Jill’s hair fluttered with the air as the black owl hurried through the shutting ancient door. Leaving Jill and his beleaguered master alone. As well as the unstrung bow. “I hope Loki didn’t bother you too much. He’s not supposed to be on the table.” Javik apologized. “But nothing beats his eyes… I figured you’d need someone watching you in my stead.”

In hearing that old voice again, Jill felt an uncertain tremble summoned back into her. She was so distracted by that voice she overlooked learning the bird’s name was Loki.

Jill remained upright as Javik paced closer through that blue light, still silhouetted. “I didn’t mean to make you wait. Harman was supposed to ride with our men to their destination but she chose to blow a hole in our ceiling instead. I needed to start the process of covering it up.” He mused, face strained in bureaucracy. “Well… starting the process of starting the process of covering it up.” He sighed more deeply. “Giving Kallus an excuse to bring you in early and stir up trouble. Thinking you were gonna run off like a convict fleeing the stocks. Or so he says.”

On that topic, the man hummed with displeasure.

“Your sister spoke about his antics distressing you already. So I sincerely apologize for the boy, your friend will be well cared for.” His unsteady cane tapped as he sighed nearer, orange light beginning to reach his bowing head. “Kallus’s threats and posturings can wear thin. As do his insecurities. Some would say he’s young and doesn’t know what he’s doing… but he does understand. He just thinks my favor means he can do whatever he wants without consequence. That I’ll just look the other way.”

In that consideration, Javik came nearer.

“He’ll need recalibration and a good measure of humility once this imperial crisis is behind us.”

That brought Jill pause. “Us?”

“Yes. Us.” The older man stepped closer, leaning on that cane with unlikely certainty. His hidden face turned ever so slightly, allowing those warm flames to light up his profile. His eyes were silver like many northerners of their breed, hair the same colorless hue like her father’s, but cut short. At his side he carried no weapon, no rapier (Kallus wore it, she realized). Indeed, he had replaced it with a cane. “You and me and everyone else, Façade. The last bastion of the Northern Territories.” He reveled. “Our sanctuary… our home.”

In suggesting Jill was a part of his tribe, she trembled, weary of such inclusion. Weary of such ascribed belonging. But that seemed expected in his gaze. Trust was hard to gain and Jill had clearly been burned far too many times given the look of her unsteady palms.

“Did the Rosarians do that to you?” He asked quietly. “Or Harman?”

“No.” She answered and closed her hands, before pausing, knowing both admissions were lies. “These were my fault.”

She couldn’t tell if Javik believed her, coming nearer. He could already see the mark Kallus left on her neck.

“Marks of a warrior, in either case… he used to say.” He suggested uncertainly. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through… the horrors you’ve faced coming this far on your own two feet.” He sympathized. “You’ve endured so much. Weathered far more than just that storm.” He came nearer, warm oranges lit up his pale face, and an offered hand for consolation. “But you’re safe here, Little Star… I promise.”

Jill shuddered in hearing childhood nickname, a word she hadn’t heard in a decade. Something she thought had died with her mother. A title she had no recollection of her uncle ever calling her. Yet of course he would know it. There was a degree of innocence he suggested in recalling it.

“Little Star…” Jill repeated to herself, at odds with herself, knowing what the true value of his oath actually was. Yet she wished to be wrong, so deeply. She didn’t know whether to strike that hand away or embrace this long-lost parental figure. Because this was him. Her father’s best friend and mother’s confidant. Her still-living uncle who had watched that little girl depart Iskald. A face she hadn’t watched go like she hadn’t watched her parents go. All that remained of her childhood.

“Is it really you?” She quaked, terror and relief at odds with one another. Both measures equally compromised her. “Uncle Lorik?”

Like Jill in hearing hers, he likewise flinched at that name. Yet he accepted it nonetheless. Unwilling to enforce those boundaries on his guest. That hand lowered to the rim of his cane, nearly satisfied.

“They call me Javik these days… But you don’t have to.”

“I don’t?” She stared.

Lorik came nearer, cane hushing with his gentler intent.

“Of course not, Jill. You’re family.” He offered, bringing Jill pause, hearing that word. That endlessly complicated word. The very word she had been chasing this entire time, only to find it burned to cinders. “My favorite little niece.” He chuckled, quoting himself from bygone days. Jill was infected by a similarly compromising nostalgia.

“I’m your only little niece.” That little voice in her head used to say…

Brennus Carrion blinked repeatedly through that hazy blizzard overtaking the forest. A begrudging fear had overtaken him amidst the ride, as his followers rode more carefully and paid the price. Whether it was frontier arrows or leaping wolves, the general didn’t stop for any of them. A burning longsword crashed through the man at their rear. Carrion spied a dark silhouette with burning blue eyes focusing onto his dark colorless one.

“How is he still not dead!?” Someone asked, before dying. So Carrion didn’t bother answering the dead man’s query.

Blade in hand, Clive Rosfield leapt from each chocobo to the next, charged with that very light a dragoon spent years mastering. He kicked off a tree, evading a blast of crystal magic to spear the astrologer and jump from another chocobo. At that point Carrion couldn’t look away, kicking harder as more of his men died and dismounted, Rosfield pursuing him like a hot knife cleaving through butter.

Given that sudden skill involved, Brennus Carrion imagined his former pupil, Dion Lesage, was chasing him instead. Now that he thought of it… why did Clive Rosfield suddenly have Bahamut’s Light?

The marquess caught up, about to cut through Carrion when the elder extended his mythril, predicting when the strike would fall. They clashed, Clive Rosfield foisting more and more energy downwards in that strike, eyes aether blue like Carrion had never witnessed before.

“What in the hells are you?”

“Hell itself.” The boy spat and snarled. “Coming for you, bastard.”

The old man believed him wholeheartedly. Hence why he disengaged the strike, ducking under it to swing with his spear’s blunt end, clocking the Marquess across the face.

It worked as Clive fell from that blow, speed ceasing right into the snow. Carrion nearly lept in his saddle, laughing and cheering with a tone unlike him. He also hadn’t taken account of the aether-stained wolf that had been catching up all along. Eyes shifting to blue like his master’s.

The beast made a wild swipe at his bird’s feet, bringing it to wark and shake, tripping at such a high speed. In that collapse came Carrion’s as well. The only act of defense he took in that moment was raising a hand to protect his good eye. He didn’t lose it, and the armor protected him well enough… despite the aches that shot through his body. His spear had fallen way back in the rebound, but forward he spied the marquess’s stolen weapon, poking up from sand and snow.

As the general tried to reach for it, he realized quickly that he had fingers bent in the wrong direction, not that he could entirely feel it. That same arm was dislocated… a small blessing that spared him from some pain. He could instead focus on that shadow pacing through the blizzard, trail burning with every step towards Carrion. Rosfield’s eyes shone even bluer, like in those stories from his boyhood about sky-eyed sirens in deadlands who drowned unruly children.

The gentler-eyed wolf seemed made of similar stuff, politely seated and barring the general from dragging himself away.

By then Clive Rosfield had stepped past Carrion’s chocobo, the bird still lived but a similar pain had overtaken it. Despite his grudge, he did pass a gentle hand over the poor creature’s beak. He took note of the damaged rabbit mask at the bird’s saddle, but moved past it. He realigned to his grudge instead, drawing forth that damaged sword from the ground like it were Excalibur exiting the stone… in search of a new foundation to be left in.

“Perhaps…” the elder stammered onto his back, watching the bird drag itself away. “Perhaps we can talk about this.”

“You’ve talked enough, milord.” The blue-eyed tonberry answered, the very same one that General Carrion had dropped down that hole had finally caught up to him. And lunged.

The blade made contact, but the elder’s armor held up well against the thrust. Carrion’s age slowed him, but his strength wasn’t gone, wounding his hands in catching that steel piercing his belly. Whilst drawing blood, still the elder resisted it, refusing to buckle and let his heart be imbedded. Clive tried pulling back to thrust again, but narrowly missed with a spasm of that fiend’s plate-mail shunting it. And then came the third strike, which never finished.

The blizzard had ceased, but the storm in Clive’s head raged, fluttering with that static. Torgal had taken that chance to bite at Carrion’s wounded gauntlet but whined with confusion as his master fell to a knee and grasped his head, that sword clattering into the snow.

Meanwhile the general had slapped the dog away, backing up and watching the skies. His silver hair rustled in the rising breeze. As Clive’s mind cleared up, he heard laughter, actual trueborn laughter. The man had backed up, back at that tree, as he slapped his knee (with his good hand) and laughed. “What’s so funny?” Clive demanded. Revenge overwhelmed by confusion.

“I had forgotten about you, Rosfield. And in all this frigid excitement I’d almost forgotten about…” His bloody broken nose winced past that admission. “Of course she’s taking her damn time. Nothing like a woman to keep us waiting.”

“What woman?” Clive clawed back that sword as the wind picked up again. “Why do you speak in riddles?”

“You should pay attention to them for once, boy.” The elder mocked that breeze of confusion. “As I said before. Did you really come here with your grudge and your flames thinking this night was all about you? You’re not even the guest of honor. Compared to her, you’re just the appetizer.” He warned, looking up to the stormy horizon. “And she likes to play with her food.”

“Who is she?” In seeming agreement with Carrion, more of that static overtook Clive’s mind as he smelled aether in the air, burning his nostrils. He spotted a figure far above the waning blizzard. A silhouette of a winged creature… his mind first considered Shiva, recalling that terrifying sight. But then he spotted the shining green aetherlight following its presence. He could smell it on the breeze. A scent he didn’t know.

It wasn’t Jill.

“What in the world?” Clive’s mind was too frazzled. He fell again in that fog, vision blurring as that angelic silhouette came nearer, as if departing the very heavens. A tempest blurred around them. And then he could assign detail. The figure was draped in dark billowing leathers with a gilded sword holstered at her waist. Her flowing hair gleamed golden, but her eyes were cyan.

Clive suddenly realized those eyes were on his.

“You don’t know her song yet…”

“I sensed something here… but you’re not—” Her voice was ethereal, raw and shaken. The silver-haired elder had risen, leaning on a tree to find his footing. “—Carrion, what is this?”

“A living roadblock.” The man sneered and corrected his nose, observing his bent arm. “Lady Benedikta Harman, Dominant of Garuda and Warden of the Winds…” His unfeeling broken hand stretched out, struggling to point at Clive. “I introduce Clive Rosfield, First Shield of Rosaria and Plunderer of the Phoenix’s Power.” The pained hand solidified, embracing his spite. “Weeks ago he bested and stole power from Sanbreque’s prince, and now he has followed us north for the Shiva Dominant. Your new Lord Commander hadn’t mentioned his presence.”

As the mundanity raged on her mood darkened. “That sounds like more of a you-problem.” She mocked, blinking the eye he was missing. “I only want what’s mine. What you deigned to take.”

“You’ll want what this thief has. Believe me. He’s far more interesting than your fettered traitor.” Carrion announced, almost a little impressed by this sordid outing. “And if you claw out his eyes… I’ll give you Telamon, as a token of my gratitude.”

She wanted Cid?

In that offer, Clive sensed the woman’s eyes rolling, not trusting Carrion in the slightest. Maybe he could use that. “I don’t know what you’ve arranged…” Clive answered the stranger. “We may not be allied, but I have no quarrel with you, my lady. Only with the general. Whatever ire you have for Cid, no matter how deserved… perhaps we can discuss it—"

She scoffed quickly, nearly agreeing with the Marquess before thinking twice. Her eyes lit up, intrigued, as if she knew something Clive didn’t. The wind hurled as she mouthed the word “discuss” with disgust.

“Rosfield… I know that name. the Archduke’s son, the Phoenix’s brother. Shiva’s intend—” That voice rumbled, wind shifting. Clive could feel his spine tingling in consideration of that odd discovery. Hers was too, endlessly curious. She chuckled, deciding the discussion was over. “—Go on then, whelp. Fetch Cidolfus. Try not to die by the time I’m done playing with my food.”

With that permission, Carrion smirked a little before turning off to flee. His rival was too distracted to follow, confused by the sudden challenge being foisted upon him. Torgal missed that warning, he growled and leapt towards the elder, only for the Wind Dominant to draw her sword and slash towards the hound. Twice.

Both times the weapon didn’t connect, but Clive could feel the sickly green energy that followed each swipe, blades of wind, wounding and hurling the dog off into the storm where he heard a sharp crack of overturning trees.

“Bad dog.” Benedikta whistled on the wind, golden blade flexing in her grasp.

“TORGAL!” Clive cried out as more of the forest came down. He would have come nearer, had he not felt that golden sword lowering to his shoulder from behind, the woman’s semi-prime raging with energy. Noticing his similarly beckoning flames.

“Did that make you mad, Lordling?” She asked, as that fire returned to Clive’s upset gaze. “Let’s make this quick. Before I get bored.”