Chapter Text
Year of the Realm 860
The Grand Duchy of Rosaria
Rosalith
Something wakes her.
Jill opens her eyes to stare at the ceiling of her bedroom, dimly lit by the moon. A sound, or a feeling—pressure, weighing subtly upon her chest. It’s hard to breathe, as if there’s smoke in her lungs.
Quietly, she pulls the covers back and slips out of her bed, considering whether to call for a servant. Her mouth feels dry, the back of her neck glowing hot as if she were developing a fever.
Her eyes are drawn towards the open windows, where a light breeze is blowing gently through red curtains, emblazoned with Rosaria’s heraldry in white. The fabric billows, back and forth, in a hypnotic pattern. Almost like—
Flames.
Her heart pounds, fire flashing behind her eyes.
Clive.
Central Storm
At the edge of the Deadlands
He feels restless.
The heat of the campfire glows too hot on his skin. Cid takes another drag of his cigar, inhaling the smoke so deep he feels the heat of burning ash approach his lips. It tastes like fire.
Something is wrong.
There’s a strange weight pressing on his chest. Or perhaps from inside it, building up to something. He lifts his hand, lightning crackling across his gloved fingers without his permission. Static before a storm. Whatever is coming, Ramuh feels it. Anticipates it, even.
“Still awake?”
Otto’s voice disrupts the quiet surrounding the forest, the bonfire faintly lighting him as he sits up from where he was resting. The others—Kenneth, Tarja, and Charon—are still in their slumber.
Cid flicks the butt of his cigar into the flames. “Can’t seem to sleep.”
“Can’t blame you.” Otto sighs. “What we’re doing, what we’re about to do, it’s madness.”
His remark draws Cid’s eyes south, through the trees. Not far beyond, he knows, are the blighted lands that have sprung up from the center of the continent. Possibly the only place where he won’t be hunted down for deserting king and country. Months of running and hiding has made him appreciate even the smallest of rat-holes.
“Having doubts before we’ve even begun, Otto?” Cid replies lightly, eyes catching the silhouette of an owl flying overhead.
Otto averts his gaze, staring into the fire between them. “Fears, maybe, but not doubts. Never doubts, Cid.”
A smile forms on Cid’s lips as he stares up at the star-speckled night sky, parting to say something more—
But then the fire consumes him.
Somewhere in the Imperial Palace of Oriflamme, a young Dion Lesage is startled awake, seeing sparks dance in front of his eyes.
Somewhere in a lavish estate in Ran’dellah, Hugo Kupka stares down at his hands and wonders why they burn.
Somewhere in Stonhyrr Castle, Benedikta Harman paces in her bedroom to open up the windows, irritated at the sudden sweltering heat that has overcome her.
Somewhere within that same castle, Barnabas Tharmr peers out into the night. Waiting.
“Are you awake, Mythos?”
Cid is dreaming.
He’s not sure of what. Insanity, perhaps. A nightmare, some sudden bout of madness—Otto must have jinxed him—are the only things that can explain what his mind’s eye sees.
A demon come to life, battling the Phoenix.
He sees it only in bits and pieces, skipping through moments like a stone across water, catching only glimpses he can hardly understand. At the end of it all, once the fire is extinguished and there is only darkness, he hears a boy scream.
The sound cuts through him with a knife’s edge. Its grief is so visceral, its rage so vicious, it’s as if Cid were feeling it as his own.
When it fades, it’s replaced by the sound of rain. Then, daybreak, the veil of darkness lifted to reveal a scene he never could’ve anticipated.
Cid blinks against the sunlight, dim as it is behind a cover of clouds. He’s among ruins, recently destroyed judging by the corpses of soldiers lying around. Rosarians, and imperials. An attack—on who? Where?
Another sound filters through the rain. A soft, but steady, heartbeat. As he looks around, trying to find the source of it, he notices imperial soldiers picking through the rubble. Killing Rosarian survivors.
“Quite a mess that monster made,” the captain of the small group speaks, looking out over the ruined fortress. Cid is standing just a stone’s throw away from him, but the man doesn’t appear to be able to see him, the sight-line of his helmet passing right over him. “Damned shame about the Phoenix, but it can’t be helped.”
What Cid saw earlier was real, then. As real as he trusts a vision like this to be, at least. That demon, some kind of monster, fought the Phoenix and seemingly came out the victor. The Phoenix, whose Dominant should be hardly more than a young boy. The thought turns Cid’s stomach.
Was this planned by the imperials?
The heartbeat in his ears grows louder.
Another figure appears from behind the captain, drawing both his and Cid’s attention. The latter goes still with shock.
“Well, I’ll be—” Cid can hardly believe it, his words lost on the wind.
Anabella Rosfield.
The implications of this are enormous.
“My condolences, Your Grace,” the captain says to her. “Is there aught we can do?”
“Haven’t you done enough, Captain?” she sneers. “Joshua was my world, and now he is gone. I can only pray there will be a place for me in the world His Radiance seeks to create.”
This means the boy truly is dead, but his death was not part of the plan. The ‘monster’ must have been as much of a surprise for the imperials as it was for the Rosarians. The fact that Anabella Rosfield has sold her country to Sanbreque, however, is clear as day.
The captain turns away, walking further through the rubble. Cid follows his movements with his eyes, until his gaze is inexplicably pulled away.
Ripped straight to the body of a boy lying on the ground.
The sound of the heartbeat grows almost deafening. That feeling, the pressure on his chest, returns tenfold, nearly knocking the breath out of him. Lightning roars through his veins, without rhyme or reason.
“Your Grace, over here!” The captain is oblivious to all of it as he calls the duchess closer to look at the boy. “The rubble must have protected him from the worst of the flames. Shall we take him prisoner?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “No need for that. Kill him.”
Someone cries out: “No!”
From the corner of Cid’s eyes, the small figure of a young girl darts into view. The captain raises his sword above the unconscious boy, and she dashes right for them, as if she had any chance of shielding him.
“Clive!” she calls, heedless of the danger. “Don’t hurt him!”
Clive Rosfield? Anabella’s own son?
Cid curses under his breath as he unsheathes his sword. “Stop!”
Before either the girl or Cid or the captain’s sword can reach Clive, however, the duchess interrupts.
“Wait.” A hollow smile plays on her lips, twisted with mocking. “As my husband never tired of telling me, he is a fine soldier. I’m sure he would make an excellent addition to the imperial front line.”
He can’t fathom the cruelty behind this. The naked lust for power that would drive someone to bring her own country to ruin, to sell out her own kin. But then, he has seen it before, hasn’t he? It’s not an unfamiliar fate for a Bearer.
“No, stop, don’t touch him!” The girl rushes towards the imperial soldiers as they haul Clive up by his arms, but once she reaches them, she falls right through them and lands onto the dirt on the other side. As if she were nothing more than a ghost.
She pushes up to her feet, legs wobbling unsteadily as tears stream down her face. The poor thing. There’s nothing she, or anyone, can do. “Clive… Clive, I’m so sorry.”
It is a vision, after all, one they can’t affect, and one whose meaning Cid is uncertain of, but he must have been shown this for a reason.
“I don’t understand.” Another voice on his left pulls his attention, and this is a face he recognizes. Dion Lesage, the Crown Prince of Sanbreque, is hardly any older than Clive Rosfield in age. He watches the scene in pained confusion, eyes flitting over the imperial soldiers. “Why would… my father wouldn’t…”
Ignoring the fact that he is suddenly, bizarrely, surrounded by children—one the Dominant of Bahamut, no less—Cid can imagine this might be difficult to swallow for the young prince at his tender age. But it’s hardly unexpected.
Kings have done, and still do, much worse than this.
“Pitiful.” An unimpressed scoff draws Cid’s attention to his right, his eyes finding none other than Hugo Kupka.
And behind him, a short distance away—
“Benna?” Cid’s mouth almost slackens in surprise. Benedikta, too, is gazing at Clive, her arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face. Her brows are furrowed.
Dominants. He’s surrounded by Dominants. Dream interpretation isn’t his forte, but this must mean something. The strange part is that none of the others seem entirely aware of each other, all fixated on Clive. Cid appears to be the only one with any sense of his environment.
His eyes quickly scan the rest of his surroundings. If all the Dominants are present, then there is one more missing.
He finds him, the furthest away, lurking in the shadows cast by the ruined tower above. Barnabas Tharmr, watching on with an impassive stare.
Unexpectedly, his gaze shifts to Cid. Their eyes meet, and Cid freezes.
The king’s lips tilt up into half a smile, and then he turns away.
“Wait!” Cid calls, starting after him. The bastard must be the only one who knows what’s happening. “Barnabas!”
He disappears from view.
Cid hears a whisper from right behind him.
“Joshua.”
Everything fades.
The Kingdom of Waloed
Stonhyrr
“What did you see?”
Barnabas kneels on the floor, eyes fixed downwards as he replies. “A vision of Mythos. He was claimed by Sanbreque.”
His Master is silent for a moment, an uncharacteristic pause. It almost causes Barnabas to look up at Him.
“What of the others?” Lord Ultima asks. “Ramuh, Garuda, Titan, Bahamut, Shiva. Were they present?”
“Yes, lord.” This time, Barnabas does glance up at Him. “Was this not as you intended?”
The Lord’s face is always difficult to read, as free of human emotions as He is, yet for the very first time, Barnabas thinks he detects something almost akin to displeasure in Lord Ultima’s face when He responds.
“The bond,” He says, “that has gifted you this vision is an abomination. Aberrant, as corrupt as the fragile wills that cage mankind. Yet, it may work to our advantage, for a time.”
Of course, it could be nothing else. The incessant burn in his chest, still smoldering after with echoes of another’s sorrow, another’s anger, another’s fear and desperation—they could be nothing more than sin. Fickle things Barnabas long since cast aside, trying to worm their way back in.
He will resist this temptation, and he will prove his faith.
“We will wait,” Lord Ultima says at length. “It is not yet the moment to act. Mythos will need time to grow, in order to become our perfect vessel.”
Barnabas bows his head.
“As you wish, master.”