I'll light the way.

Absentmindedly, he touches the gash across his arm, and then remembers that the guy who'd done thrown the blade at him is still somewhere around here.

Over there.

As far away from Griss as he can get.

"Scared of a few li'l rats?" Griss hums with delight, eyes set now on Mr. Stick-up-his-ass. He'd probably hoped that Griss would get distracted by the rest of the commotion. Well, too bad for him: he liked chasing his prey, and pursues him like this all might as well be a game, ambling at first, then running full tilt.

That disgust in the man's eyes had been intoxicating - an amorous allure to beat it into swollen folds of blue and black.

"I'm not gonna let you run away. Not when we're having so much fun. Hahaha!"

"—Goodness, me!" An only slightly exaggerated cry predates the push of this 'Finn' into another corner, their formation shifting with it. "You had best watch yourself, ser! What would we do if you'd incurred an injury from that arrow?" His concern feels genuine, though there is no-one on the opposing side who wields a bow. Though, well, the arrow within itself is merely a pretty front for ugly business:

"I will repeat what I said to your lord." As soon as his back is turned, Jakob leans in close, as much as the helpful pretense of a battle allows, and says beyond earshot of all others with a harsh, still-smiling whisper, "and I shall say it less kindly. I've no need for any amount of nannying. In fact, I implore you to examine your own pride. A good knight would center his utmost attentions on his liege, wouldn't you say?"

A good man's smile, an evil man's word; his is the bearing and contrast of a demon, others have said. Most of all, he has said his piece. Quite pleased with that piece, wicked or otherwise, the darkly garbed butler strides away. Primly.

But, speaking of demons. There's an awfully, grossly, familiar green blur speeding into his line of sight. The Ratmage from before. Was he. . .running? No, that couldn't be; no opponent would be so foolish as to approach in such a direct manner. Except, on afterthought, nothing was really impossible, not the living dead, not forgotten dragon-gods, not hidden kingdoms secreted far away in the belly of a chasm, and not—

. . .another glance. Yes, he discovered, the madman was indeed running toward Jakob. Echoing with demented laughter every step of the way. That won't do, either.

"Oh, piss off!" Naturally, Jakob started running as well.

It was a hard pill to swallow, but she knew she was finished. Strength and consciousness left her in waves until her legs could no longer support the weight of her body. Frustration swarmed in her guts and distasteful thoughts threatened to breach her mind, kept only at bay by interpreting that her early demise was a compliment that the practiced enemy duo had prioritized her as a threat. She mentally clung to this conclusion as all others dissipated in the face of a losing battle against wakefulness.

In her darkening vision, she vaguely saw a few silhouettes rapidly approaching with a stretcher and healing staff in their hands. A sigh escaped her, half disappointment and half relief that aid had come so early and quickly. Her venture into offensive strategy proved truly brief. Perhaps she could try again in another battle, or accept a destiny of taking on a supportive role, but that was a question for her future self. For now, she shut her eyes and allowed the warm regenerative magic to pump through her veins as the hustle and bustle of the medical tent drew nearer, welcoming the serene sleep that followed.

Rotten apples, near all, Jakob decides in no time at all as he swings between the roles of target practice and unwilling doll. That putrid green oilslick of a scamp, especially; boast talent as a mage, be able to conjure anything of one's choosing, and who of any right mind would choose rats. Rats! Hoshidan magic ought to stay confined to Hoshidan soil, he firmly decides. That insolent blue-haired spearman earned more than his share of ire alongside. Jakob shot the one he now knew to be called Finn a filthy look. He looked a well-bred sort, and he wore gloves, but the problem lie in that he'd felt the heat of his hand regardless as he pushed him aside by the arm. Disgusting.

Human warmth. Disgusting.

Rats. Disgusting.

The only decent and respectable personnel appeared to be a young brunet - a lord by the looks of it. As expected of nobility. Jakob shines his smile at the foreign scion. He can almost forgive the insult of implying Jakob is a slow-footed liability. "No need, milord. I will admit, perhaps I had been taken aback by the fervor of this battle. This is my first Battle of the Eagle and Lion. But, you see, I am a quick learner, and I am anything but a burden! Now, please behold this taste of my skill."

One such skill, as Jakob liked to say, was taking out the trash. For where did rats come from? That's right, viewer; gutters, sewers, rubbish bins. Sordid men. Jakob balances the shortsword between his fingers as if it were as light as a feather, as if little more than a dart, and sends it shooting toward the wild mage from before. A dozen more where that came from tucked right inside his coat.

"You, there. Ratmage. What crap was it that you said to me earlier? That you'd make me scream? Hah! Well, I shall do you one better. You'll be the Pigmage after I'm done making you squeal."

Unfortunately, the main thing to note is she HAD been quite excited.

And then she noticed Emblem Micaiah, well, the original, fighting alongside her. Putting the pressure on. But still, it’s fine.

And then she noticed her other ally is Griss. Who immediately started riling up the other team, giving them more motivation to prove themselves. Or at the very least beat up the person who summoned actual damn rats to attack someone. But even then, that’s a lot but still, she can deal with it.

The former street rat almost joined the swarm to attack their target, a poor gentleman, but in the chaos of it all the distance became insurmountable; she found herself instead opposite an older looking man wielding a spear.

Not looking to skewer herself like a disgusting kebab, she instead moves to the side, towards the bow wielder in the group.

Who she finally fully takes in appearance wise and realizes is Emblem Leif.

Fuck.

She grits her teeth, steeling her resolve. The pressure feels crushing; she cannot make herself look like a fool in her first proper encounter with Leif or Micaiah. Or whilst fighting alongside Griss lest he be unbearable about it.

For now, she just keeps a very careful watch; Emblem Leif was always quite good at countering attacks, so it would be quite stupid of her to just charge head first.

The scent filled the air of Gronder Field now, too, but of course, it was different.

This, unlike the wars that came before, was one that she voluntarily stepped into. This grand mock battle had captured her attention the moment she caught wind of it shortly after joining the Academy. Eager to test and hone her combat skills, she chose to take an offensive approach, carrying tome and blade instead of her usual healing arts. How truly fared the saying, “offense is the best defense”, she wondered? No better subject to test the results with other than herself, she reckoned.

She found herself unfamiliar with both her foes and teammates. The latter consisted of a strange, assertive tattooed man and a girl who, while colorfully and peculiarly dressed, exuded an air of strength and maturity. Griss and Panette, she recalled their names from the roster.

She returned the nod from Griss and, though disagreeing with the commentary hurled at the opposing silver-haired swordsman, decided to follow the scroll user’s lead in terms of her target. Her spell struck successfully, but the butler appeared far more preoccupied with focusing his ire on the rats and the mage that had summoned them than the gentler (and more hygienic) tickle of light magic.

However, someone else entirely seemed to have set their eyes on her. When she noticed a peripheral flash of brown and the whoosh of an arrow slicing through air, it was already too late. Not a blink later, it hit true to its intended mark: her. It was good bowmanship, worthy of praise and study if only it wasn’t from the opposing side. The metal tip burrowed deep into her shoulder, the initial force knocking a breath out of her and sending stars swimming in her vision.

The staff had assured everyone of the event’s safety measures beforehand, the med tent’s visible presence bolstering the claim, but her confidence couldn’t help but waver against the pain surging across her flesh and bitter blood pooling upon her tongue.

She swallowed them. Now was not the time for doubts. She had no intention of becoming an early visitor to the med tent, as pleasant as she was sure its staff would be. She steeled her gaze, scanning the plains for her next target.

She had jumped in place when the mysterious shopkeep simply appeared in front of them. There was no sound, no signs, no footsteps. The light breeze meandering through the city streets didn’t even seem to affect the cloaked woman as her long curls and veil remained as still as a tombstone.

“Ah yes, the sword, the sword…” A chuckle. The woman’s voice is surprisingly soothing and jovial. "My friends, I apologize on its behalf if it has startled you with its antics. I swear on my life, Little Timmy means no harm and if you had touched it, nothing at all would occur. This blade is merely infused with a powerful yet rather... playful spirit. It simply enjoys using its illusory powers and pretends to bear a curse for no reason other than to gain attention. Of course, I've become familiar with all of its tricks long, long ago, so Little Timmy has resorted to vying for it from unfortunate passerbys."

Micaiah gasps as the woman picks up the sword with naught a shred of hesitation. However, the noise fizzles out in her throat when clearly, it was just as the latter said, nothing occurred. Two seconds, five seconds, then ten seconds pass, and the woman remained herself, completely unchanged.

Relief flooding her, she couldn't help but laugh. "My word! What a peculiar story we have to tell our comrades. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't just experienced it." She gave a nod of thanks to the shopkeeper. "I'm afraid I have no use for a trickster sword, but I wish you the best of luck in selling it one day."

And, if she wanted to avoid scaring away potential buyers, maybe she might consider changing up her look... Hilda thought as she walked away.

“As for using what you have… It’s shameful to admit, but a good portion of the ingredients that traditionally graced a Senator’s table aren’t even sourced from Begnion.” She sighs, ticking off a list with her fingers. “Shellfish imported from the Crimean coast, venison poached from the Gallian forests, tropical fruits sold by the ravens of Kilvas. There was even talk of a Gaddos banquet with truffles foraged from Goldoa, when they know very well the kind of trouble that imposition could have landed us in—!”

Sanaki pauses, both to stop herself from glaring at the wall and to pry the wooden spoon from her own white-knuckled grip. “‘Under the sky, all belongs to the Chosen,’ or so the saying went,” she mutters, stirring the stew with more vigor than is advisable. “Luxury was a show of control, made even more flamboyant if there was enough to go to waste.” It shouldn’t need to be said that, to assert the Apostle’s superiority, her own kitchens had often done the same.

“…So I think what Daein cuisine does is very admirable,” she concludes, more brightly. “I do recall once eating a jar of brined tomatoes in one sitting and regretting it far less than I should have. And we held a festival with deep fried pickled cucumbers, except Sephiran looked at the treat with such horror that I never entertained the thought again…”

A playful and loving smirk pulls her expression into a smile. "Hmm... Maybe you've had a Daeinian stomach all along—yet another reason you're my sister!" She breaks into a chuckle, "Oh, Sephiran... Of course he doesn't like fried or pickled things. Why did I expect that? Oh well, this isn't about him."

Micaiah contemplates Sanaki's offer to make some personal additions to the Academy's meal offerings for the week. She's by no means an expert at food prep or cooking, an obvious fact if one simply looked at the destruction she wrought to the fesenjan earlier (please don't). However, she's still capable of the basics, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't miss the taste of good old Daeinian eats after the past few months without them. Her homeland's cuisine may not be the flashiest or most refined in terms of ingredients or flavor compared to others, but to her and perhaps some other Telliusians on campus, it is the comfortable taste of home and an humble life.

That's when an idea pops into her mind.

"Lady Micaiah," he says, "I came to your Emblem with the same such grievances. That though I wished to devote my life to easing others' suffering, I may have caused more than I have erased. In my weakness, I confided in your Emblem that I may not have enough years in my life to atone for what I've done."

He doesn't wish to attack Micaiah back; even if she asked him to, he's not sure he could bring himself to even pretend to do so. He will remain steadfast, and allow her to unleash however many techniques she wishes, bracing himself for every single one. If any part of his armor is singed or chipped, he hopes the lessons Micaiah has learned here will make them worth it.

"And she sounded much like you," Mauvier continues. "She said that all I can do is continue on my chosen path, and to believe that it is a righteous one. It is still difficult to reason that she was you, and also...not." Mauvier has never been good at explaining the more esoteric features of the Emblems; he never had room to question them much.

"In any case...I believe that is why I was drawn to your ring over the others I could have picked at the time. I think even before I saw you, or heard your voice...forgive my boldness, Lady Micaiah, but I felt we were much the same. The comfort you brought me when I was able to muster the strength to change my course...It means more than I could ever say."

"Mauvier, it is not weakness to confide in your worries to someone. Seeking salvation for yourself and others—that is connection, enlightenment, and strength. I can tell that you are strong, not just in body but also in mind and heart. That strength has always been in you; my 'Emblem' merely allowed you to awaken it."

She wipes sweat off her brow before continuing, her grin never faltering.

"Forgive me if this sounds weird, but... I also feel a natural kinship with you, as if we've known each other for a long, long time. Well, I suppose that is indeed the case for you!" she softly chuckles. "My heart feels lighter after talking with you, and this conversation means a lot to me as well. I'm honored to have you as a confidant, Mauvier. I shall honor your request as well, and put all of my strength into my last strike. Brace yourself, my friend!"

"Good afternoon. May I help you?"

Hilda startled, stepping back, nearly tripping over her own feet with how quickly she'd been ripped from the reverie.

A shopkeeper had appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Hilda hadn't heard nor seen her approach, though she supposed she had been otherwise occupied. Regardless, the woman was... strange to look at. She wore a grey cloak, a grey broad-brimmed hat large enough to cover almost her entire face, and a grey veil that obscured her face further. Hilda could only identify her as a woman by the sound of her voice, the waves of dark hair brushing her shoulders, and the curve of red-painted lips, the only visible pop of colour.

She had jumped in place when the mysterious shopkeep simply appeared in front of them. There was no sound, no signs, no footsteps. The light breeze meandering through the city streets didn’t even seem to affect the cloaked woman as her long curls and veil remained as still as a tombstone.

“Ah yes, the sword, the sword…” A chuckle. The woman’s voice is surprisingly soothing and jovial. "My friends, I apologize on its behalf if it has startled you with its antics. I swear on my life, Little Timmy means no harm and if you had touched it, nothing at all would occur. This blade is merely infused with a powerful yet rather... playful spirit. It simply enjoys using its illusory powers and pretends to bear a curse for no reason other than to gain attention. Of course, I've become familiar with all of its tricks long, long ago, so Little Timmy has resorted to vying for it from unfortunate passerbys."

Micaiah gasps as the woman picks up the sword with naught a shred of hesitation. However, the noise fizzles out in her throat when clearly, it was just as the latter said, nothing occurred. Two seconds, five seconds, then ten seconds pass, and the woman remained herself, completely unchanged.

Her admission, perhaps, is stirring hesitation in him. He might expect humility from someone who went on to become an Emblem, but Micaiah seems outright shocked that she's counted among their ranks. And to call herself a villain? What could that possibly mean?

Mauvier pushes forward and staggers back, breaking the contact between their weapons and giving Micaiah another chance to strike him. "In any case," he says, his breathing slightly labored, "no matter how you view your own actions, you are enshrined among heroes, my Lady. You need not disclose more to me than you wish. At the very least, I've seen your compassion and your capability for healing. That alone is worth being remembered for."

His own words give him pause. What will history remember of him, when his time has long passed? He hopes he'll be remembered as someone who protected the weak, and staunchly served Lady Veyle, but his name need not survive. Even if it did, surely it would only be for his mistakes, not the things he did to balance them.

“I'm afraid I can't bring myself to believe that. People with healing and compassion can still be capable of great evils. Ultimately, it is their conscious choice to stand against evil or become a part of it that truly matters. Still... thank you for your kindness, Mauvier. You have a warm soul."

Her expression softens and she sighs. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is hypocritical for me to preach forgiveness to others but refuse to do the same for myself. It will be difficult, knowing myself and what I did, and the guilt will always course through my blood. But the productive way forward is not to wallow in it; instead, it is to atone for it. That choice to do so matters just as much as the ones that came before it.”

She perks up once more, her gaze meeting squarely with Mauvier's.

“I know not your past circumstances nor the conversations you may have shared with that version of myself, but I’m glad you’re here and that ‘she’ said the things ‘she’ did to you.”

Seeing the other shift his stance defensively, she obliges, her fingers readjusting around the grip again.

As she rattles off half-remembered instructions and guides the two of them around the kitchen, some part of her can’t help but be waiting for the other shoe to drop. It should be difficult, or at the very least, somewhat awkward; they hardly know each other in any way that matters, and there’s maybe a quarter of a regular housewife’s knowledge of Begnion cooking shared between the two of them. But Micaiah smiles, and tilts her head, and listens in the way of someone truly paying attention, and somehow, though Sanaki still isn’t quite sure about all this, her shoulders settle into something approaching ease. 

From the moment they first met on opposite sides of a battlefield, Sanaki had understood how the silver-haired maiden had easily commanded the absolute faith of an entire nation. But as a regular person, divorced from that meteoric rise to power… Micaiah may be her sister, but Sanaki’s beginning to realize that it would also be so easy to forget herself and be her friend.

Micaiah is not sure if she can accomplish the same were she in Sanaki's shoes. She thinks about the layers of silk and formality she had to put on when she took Daein's throne, how heavy they were— physically and metaphorically—and wonders how many of them Sanaki had to carry since her first breath and continues to carry now, how many she still wears between them. The hole in Micaiah's heart that she thought had closed for good a year ago reopens, bearing the hopeless wish that she could've been there by Sanaki's side from the start to double her joy and halve her pain. She knows not the trials that her dear sibling has had to endure throughout her early life—there is no use in mourning that now—but that it is her actions henceforth that truly matter. Her palms clench in determination, her gaze sharp yet warm.

Sanaki's mention of Daein's weather pulls her back from her thoughts. She clears her throat and lets a full smile return to her expression.

Looking around, she was intrigued to find that Micaiah was right. Other shoppers strolled through the market, their eyes tracking from one stall to the next but seeming to slide straight over the one that the two tourists had stopped at.

"No, you are definitely not crazy. I can feel it too, and it's only getting stronger and stronger. Every fiber of my body is telling me to get away from this... thing, but I'll be lying if I said I didn't want to touch it juuust for the briefest moment to see what happens..."

Before her brain even registered the muscles of her arm moving, she caught her hand inching slowly but surely towards in the sword's handle in her peripheral vision; no amount of attempts to wrestle the limb back under her own control proved fruitful. Her body was now suddenly and decidedly piloted by a force completely alien to her own. Was it just her, or did the ruby in the sword's hilt just get a lot brighter?

Her eyes widened, concern creeping into her voice.

She wandered out to the market, slowing as she passed each stall to peruse its offerings. It all looked lovely, sure, but nothing in particular caught her eye.

Until it did.

She stopped in her tracks, unable to draw her gaze away from a peculiar looking stall. It was mostly unadorned, a wooden structure with no clear shop name or prices. There wasn't even a merchant in view. And even more bizarrely, it only seemed to stock one item: a single sword.

Blinking, she saw in her periphery that she wasn't the only one enthralled.

And one appealed to her fancy indeed. As she snaked through the myriad booths and stalls of the market (being extra careful to not touch anything nor accept any shady offers this time—believe her that she has learned her lesson), a glint of bright red suddenly caught the corner of her eye. It came from a unique-looking sword displayed in what she assumed was a shop, a glistening blood-red ruby embedded prominently into the top of the hilt. The blade itself proved unique too, sporting a rare wave-like shape which she recalled from readings was categorized as a "flamberge". There was something... disquieting about the thing, an inexplicable lump in her stomach that hasn't gone away since she entered the weapon's vicinity.

Both her body and mind were practically screaming for her to walk away, her guts wholly convinced that paying the sword any heed was a bad, bad idea, but raw, primal curiosity fueled her against her better judgement. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it hasn't killed a heron... yet.

A flash of silky pink hair and familiar voice calling out her name diverted her attention.

"Oh! Greetings, Miss Hilda! I pray you have been faring well since we fought in arms against the bandits in Ribaut. The way you instantly dispatched of the traitor with your axe in a flash was truly impressive! And, indeed, I agree... this sword is very, very weird."

Micaiah swiveled her gaze around her, taking note of the crowd around them—or rather, the lack thereof.

Micaiah’s golden gaze scans the busy streets and dingy corners of the city of Isaach, searching for a hue freshly familiar in the forefront of her mind.

The woman had come to her group’s aid during their skirmish with the bandits in Ribaut. She identified herself as “Princess Ayra of Isaach”, and it was only after conversations with her fellow Academy members that she recognized the mysterious swordswoman as a professor at Garreg Mach.

During the foot journey to the capital, Micaiah heard that familiar name woven among the whispers of the two remaining guides as they bantered—something about a purported warrior offering free lessons on the art of Astra. (“Isn’t that Princess Ayra’s move?” The first guy squinted in puzzlement. “It’s supposed to be,” the second shrugged, “maybe… not any more?”)

A very different set of rumors she was privy to back at the Black Eagles dorms spoke of a Blue Lions sword instructor whose lessons are as tough as the steel she wields, whose hair is as dark as the shadows she strikes from, and whose weapon can swing thrice in the span of a blink. Micaiah, having grown a strong interest in the art of the blade since becoming a student, has considered signing up for those courses before but dropped the idea before her fantasies could run amok. She couldn’t even dent a stationary dummy with her amateurism and would only be making a fool of herself. It would simply be a waste of time for the both of them; she should at least master the basics first before sparring with someone in an entirely different league.

It was easy to put two and two together. Now, it seems, she is given a chance to learn from the legendary princess and professor without the judging stares of other students or the pressure of passing a course at her back under the guise of curiosity.

It’s then that Micaiah catches it a few paces away from the crowd: purple. The woman leans against an unremarkable fence in an unremarkable spot, appearing every bit as unremarkable as she isn’t.

Her heart nearly skips a beat, a result of the prospect of speaking to a professor, a master swordswoman, as well as a fellow matriarch. The glow of dawn pales in comparison to the brilliance of people like Lady Ayra, who might as well be the very sun itself.

Micaiah gathers herself, a gulp, an inhale, an exhale, then steps forward to announce her presence.

“Ah, you are… Princess Ayra, correct? Or, perhaps, I should be calling you Professor Ayra—whichever you prefer.” Micaiah’s smile wavered between eager and sheepish, unsure of which to lean more towards in the face of Ayra’s ever-serious expression. “We didn’t get much of a chance to converse on the battlefield, and I pray you do not mind my intrusion of your personal time. I was wondering… are you familiar with the art of Astra? From my rudimentary knowledge, it’s a treasure of Isaach’s history, and the guides were gossiping about a man boasting about teaching it to others. I… don’t suppose that’s you?”

Expedition: Holy War; Green Team Week 3 Subteam 3; Isaach

He chuckled at the facilitator of his recovery, enjoying the quick disappearance of his ills and aches at the divinity's hands. The curatives of draconic energy were far better suited to their kind than those belonging to any mundane bout of healing magic. How rare alongside, that Rafal should feel pouring into him what he had once so tirelessly vouchsafed to Nel. No matter how alloyed and defiled by a reverse divine influence, his fell blood sang at the transferal.

Revitalized, he could be led to believe that victory was a thousandfold theirs. Strange, that his every nerve felt as if it were lit aflame in the process.

"To think you were here all along, Divine One. I would question your whereabouts up until this point, but frankly, there is a battle to be won first. I will allow my curiosity to wait. Right now, we—" Words to fly without landing, and end unfulfilled. The sharp glints of arrowheads lodged into the body before him. Instantly did Rafal move to defend the injured god, axe poised to deflect any further arrows. "Alear!!"

That defense, however, was not needed. What followed was not Rafal's rescue of Alear, or Alear's need for it to begin with, but a glorious and uninhibited sight - a return to oldest nature. Recognition occurred in tandem with his silent, knowing expression; hers was no ordinary technique, but that of the Divine Dragon's lost partner. How she had perfectly memorized each of seven strokes was a miracle. But, he allowed himself no more time to ponder it as he ushered to her side.

"Reckless," he sighed in relief, as she received her own welcome healing, "and terribly lucky. You are blessed greater than any person, human or dragon, that I have known. Now, contain yourself and remain here, where you will not tempt those blessings." He nodded at the silver-haired maiden and, unspoken, entrusted Alear to her care. Several commanding strides, menacing, ferried him to the neighboring bearer of the crystal ball whose lapel he fisted, then slammed into the wall.

"I am no stranger to the shadowy tactics of your kind. This is no ordinary battle. We were lured. Are you the traitor?"

The battlefield goes quiet, now devoid of enemies. Baldr hesitates for a moment before she sheathes her blade, making her way over to where some of her allies are gathered around their guides, pointedly ignoring Alear as she passes. 

Baldr, too, harbors the same suspicious they’re showing them. This ambush was no random happenstance, that much was clear. She scans the faces of their guides, eyes narrowed. The tongue that had rose against them would fall, Baldr would make sure of it, but as she looks at the guides’ faces, she finds she has no idea which among them would even be the traitor.

Her eyes pass over the one who had healed her. The other had already been questioned by her teammates. That leaves just one more guide, who doesn’t so much as flinch as Baldr approaches and presses her face right up in theirs.

Hodr had a sense for these things. Baldr did not, despite being the adjudicator of heaven—and though it was her duty to bring justice to the evildoers of Zenith, her sister always seemed to be so much receptive than her. 

“Was it you?” she asks, eyes narrowed. “You may as well tell me now. I won’t be so kind if I find you’re the one keeping this secret so close to your chest.”

Battle concluded for the time being, she watches as the clearing suddenly devolves into chaos as the ire of battle is turned towards their guides, all of which had remained curiously untouched throughout the battle.

Betrayal is not something that Celica has experience with— indeed, to be unable to trust her allies was not something she would even consider, but...

As much as she wished it wasn't so, it was the only explanation. They had been betrayed by someone, someone who had set their route and knew exactly the best place to strike.

She runs to the guide that Rafal currently had pinned, doing her best to pry his hands from the fortune-teller's person. "Peace!" she cries. "Even if—" She bites her lip. "Even if we have been betrayed, we can't accuse someone without evidence!"

She gazes over the faces of the other two guides, both under interrogation of the other members of the party. They look back at her, a range of emotions. Worried. Resolute. Unperturbed.

She tries to search for a facade, some sign of malicious intent, but... as much as she scans, she still does not even know what to look for.

Worriedly, she gives one last glance back before moving to the vanguard of their expedition party.

Behind her back, the guide's serene expression breaks into a sinister leer.

"Well. We made quick work of them," she puffs. Confidence takes hold, and she even manages to sing her last few words. "Is anyone injured? If so, I've got a healing spell with your naaaame on iiiiiiitt."

"Ah, Professor Shade, yes? We did indeed made quick work of them, largely thanks to your eagle-eyed observation. Upon our return to the Academy, I ought to sign up for some of your classes—there is evidently much I have yet to learn, and I sense it would be fruitful to do so from you."

She scanned over the rest of her teammates, looking out for any injuries sustained by Hilda or Lukas, seeing none to her relief. Her gaze fell upon the final, newest member of the party who entered the confrontation: the handsome swordswoman in purple. She appeared unharmed too, but it never hurt to check.

Micaiah waved an enthusiastic arm in the air. "Hello there, miss! Thank you for coming to our aid! Let us know if you or anyone else need to be patched up anywhere, Professor Shade and I will be happy to help."

Still, dealing with them can wait. She owes the student who spoke to her an apology, and there is more to be done besides.

“ Princess Ayra of Isaach, ” she says by way of introduction, bowing and placing her right hand over her heart. “ I’m truly sorry about the chaos of your arrival. As to healing — ”

She pauses, then turns to the remaining guides to learn what they know. There are three parties in total, and they saw one group heading down a path that’s teeming with thieves. They tried to warn the other guides, but —

“ Enough. I’ll hear you out later. The group who went that way — ” she jerks her chin, “ — will be in need of healers. Thank you both, and again, I am truly sorry. ” With that sorted, she turns to the guides again. “ You will escort any who wish to press on, and I want — ” her gaze flicks to the fallen man, “ — no more incidents on the road. Draw your weapons. ”

The pair exchanges a look, and the guide with a staff says, “ My lady, with all due respect, why do you assume we’re ar — ”

Ayra cuts in, “ Are you Isaachian or not?! ”

They both draw poison-coated daggers.

“ Better, ” she allows, though her voice is stern as steel. “ Before you leave, what do you know of the last group? ”

She noticed they said nothing of it on their own, and the pause that follows is all the more reason for suspicion — and for her blood to boil.

“ Our guests are in peril and you dare waste my time?! ” She snaps, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword. “ Speak! ”

One of them stammers, “ K-King Seliph is there, and they want him dead — ”

That is as good as a confession of guilt, but Ayra pays it no mind: The blood drains from her face, gone from boiling to cold in an instant, and her grip on Chrysaor tightens until her knuckles turn white.

“ — Lukas, you’re coming with me! ”

She takes off without so much as a glance back to see whether the man is following.