Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Princess Gunnthra was alone.

She stood, hair cascading in uneven waves down her back, in her nightgown, a vast hall stretching on before her. The floor, though wrought from weathered stone, felt smooth beneath her feet, and the very air that surrounded her faintly resisted as she spread her fingers.

This, she knew now, had to be a dream. But dreams, as Gunnthra well knew, were rarely unimportant things, and so she began to walk forward.

Every step felt as if it sent ripples through the world around her, even as it shifted in the blink of an eye.

The hallway was gone now, and she found herself somewhere nostalgic and familiar.

The warmth of a central fireplace pervaded the air, providing the small room with a comfortable warmth that seeped into your very bones. The scent of aged parchment and deer-leather bindings gave the library a cozy air, despite its tall arched ceilings and winding stacks. If she tried, Gunnthra could hear the distant footsteps of staff browsing the shelves, but her attention was focused on the pair seated at one of the polished wooden tables.

The man was just as she remembered him, tall and stick-thin with a conical cap that made him the shadow of an icicle. She stifled a laugh as he cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles, leaning across the table to address a young girl not even half his height.

The girl, with her vibrant pink hair in pigtails and a stuffed seal with button-eyes in her hands, was leaning back to meet his gaze, an awed expression on her face as she seemed to cling to the old man’s every word.

Gunnthra knew well, however, that the young girl’s mind was still on sweets and snowmen, and that she was only putting on this act for as long as it took to be dismissed from another day’s dull and dreary lessons.

She remembered those days well.

“And so…” puttered the elderly man, whose name seemed to hover just out of reach of her thoughts, “The Frost Dragon’s gift lives on, a blessing housed in the very blood of those who trace their lineage back to the First Queen. It lives on in your parents, Princess Gunnthra, just as it does in you.”

“And does it live in my brother and sister as well?”

The older Gunnthra couldn’t help but laugh, grateful that the instructor could not hear her and ruin her younger self’s ploy. After all, adults loved to be asked questions they knew the answers to, even if you did too.

“It lives in every member of the royal family, but in none stronger than the heir to the throne.” The man nodded his head as he spoke. “And so you see, Princess, that you have before you a resplendent destiny, one that demands your proper education and training. Dear girl, you must…”

Both Gunnthras recited along.

“Stand tall and unflinching as the ice itself.”

And then the memory was gone, as quickly as it had come, leaving Gunnthra standing beside her younger self as she cocked back an arm, eyes set on a training target.

“Throw!” commanded a familiar voice, and Gunnthra watched as a blade sailed through the air, plinking harmlessly off of the stone wall to the target’s right and clattering to the floor beside the others. The smaller Gunnthra let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers bunching up the silk of her skirts as she glowered at the fallen knives.

“Pick them up, and we’ll go again.”

Both Gunnthras whirled to face their instructor, but while the younger girl’s eyes fought back tears of frustration, the grown woman’s blinked away tears of a very different kind.

“This is silly! Why can’t I just use my tome?” moaned the training Gunnthra.

“Because,” replied her father, as he stood from his seat, “These are meant to be concealed weapons, little pearl. You can’t expect to carry that bulky book to any formal events, now can you?”

“So I just won’t go to any silly “formal events”!”

A tinge of sadness lit up the king’s features, quickly chased away by a forced smile.

“Oh? You won’t? Then what of the annual division of the Hjarnhof Silver Mines? Shall they be forced to squabble amongst themselves with no guidance from the crown?”

“They…they could…” The young girl blinked, her eyes slightly widened. “They could figure it out!”

“Ah, perhaps…” The king raised a hand to his bearded chin, rubbing it as if deep in thought. “That would only leave the Aegir Shelf without oversight, which would reflect rather poorly on our relationship with the southern clans who rely on its fisheries for food.”

“Oh…” Gunnthra replied, confusion written clearly on her face. “That sounds bad…”

“And of course, when you are a woman grown, you must select from the candidates the clans have sent to be your spouse! Or do you simply plan to tell all comers you are too busy for their “silly events”?”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Defeated, the princess set out to regather her fallen blades, even as her father chuckled under his breath. Those sounds of joy quickly turned to a hacking cough, and even the dreaming Gunnthra felt the urge to extend a hand in her father’s direction, her face falling as her fingers passed right through the illusion.

Even here, it seemed, there would be no saving him.

Again, her surroundings changed, dissipating and reforming in a nigh imperceptible blur.

Gunnthra found herself in a small room, lit only by the flickering of a wall sconce. Her cheeks reddened slightly upon noticing the two young women by her side, in the midst of a passionate kiss. Then again, she supposed, it wasn’t exactly voyeurism if it was on yourself. Slowly, one of the lovers pulled away, her sharp features and unruly brown hair a sight that had lingered in the Princess’ memory.

“This must be the last time.” the woman whispered, her eyes on the stone floor below. Her partner gently slipped a finger beneath her chin, lifting it until their gazes met once more.

"Thank you, for sparing me the pain of saying it again." Gunnthra replied, a joyless smile tugging at her lips. This Gunnthra was much older than the previous two, the spark of mischief in her eyes now diluted from years of training and the weight of expectation.

The other woman stepped back, correcting her hair with her hands as the storeroom went painfully silent. The dreaming Gunnthra saw the way the brunette’s eyes struggled to leave her younger self, watching silently as she carefully rearranged the rumpled folds of her gown.

“But if it wasn’t-”

The words had slipped through her lips, and now hung heavily in the air between them.

“Yrsa…” The younger Gunnthra spoke gently but firmly, the name weighted with intent. “Please, we’ve spoken about this.”

“But your Highness…” It was rare to see the stoic shieldmaiden vulnerable, Gunnthra knew. The memory of the guard’s first confession still lingered, even after all this time.

“The ministers are already seething that I’ve delayed the Dawning ceremony for as long as I have. To postpone choosing a spouse any longer would destroy what little favor the throne still carries with the clans.”

Yrsa grimaced, the scar across her cheek made more apparent by the severity of her expression.

“Forgive me, Princess. I shall not allow my…personal desires to surpass my duty to Nifl.”

Slowly, Gunnthra shook her head, stepping forward to gently interlace her fingers with Yrsa’s. “You needn’t ask for my forgiveness. I must thank you for allowing me to spend this time with you while we both were able. The dream has been lovely, and now I simply must awaken.”

Yrsa’s response, one that had never left Gunnthra’s mind, was swallowed up as the scene began to twist and distort into something new.

As the world reformed itself around her once more, Gunnthra felt her heart sink in her chest.

Snjarhof’s dense snow was trickling down from an amber sky, the last rays of daylight illuminating the foreign army before her, and casting shadows on the one amassed behind. Her sister stood with an arm outstretched, horror on her face as a familiar deep laughter grew louder and louder.

As the smell of smoke began to fill her senses, Gunnthra closed her eyes.

That morbid scene had clung to her since the day she died, through a revival and to another world. She had no need of a reminder of burning, as the sensation had never left her.

When all was quiet once more, she looked up again.

A vast field of snow stretched on in every direction, gleaming beneath a shining sun. There was no wind, no sound, and no movement. The only thing that Gunnthra could see was a figure, kneeling amidst the sea of white.

The woman wore black armor, and a cape with the pattern of flame. Around her, the snow began to melt, revealing faded grass gripped tightly in her gloved hands. Relieved, Gunnthra exhaled, watching her breath fog up in the air before her as she approached.

Gingerly, she kneeled before the other woman, and wrapped her arms around her shoulders.

“Laegjarn…” she whispered, and her lover’s eyes snapped open.

Gunnthra felt a warmth blossom in her chest as Laegjarn pulled her into a matching embrace, their lips meeting in the frozen air, as if drawn to one another. As they kissed, the snow around seemed to disappear, replaced with the green grass of the Askran countryside, speckled with blooms of every shape and color. Gunnthra allowed her chin to sink onto Laegjarn’s shoulder, the tension that had gripped her heart but moments ago beginning to evaporate as Laegjarn’s hair tickled the base of her neck.

In Laegjarn’s arms, Gunnthra felt safe, loved, and home. And as she opened her eyes once more, meeting Laegjarn’s passionate gaze, there was no doubt in her mind that her girlfriend felt the same way.

And then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a flicker of flame.

It started as merely a spark, a flash of light in the grass below. A thin wisp of smoke rose shakily from the spot as it grew into a tiny flame. Slowly, the fire began to creep towards the pair.

“Laegjarn?”

Gunnthra pulled back from the hug, watching with widened eyes as her girlfriend refused to move. It was as if she couldn’t hear her at all, her expression still as a statue's as the fire licked at her armor.

“Laegjarn, please!”

Gunnthra’s pleas went unanswered as the fire crackled and spread, climbing up Laegjarn’s legs as she knelt motionless in the grass. Desperately, she called on the ice magic in her blood, trying to materialize it to quench the flames. Bursts of frost crackled in the air, but the inferno roared in response, growing to consume the magic as if it were food.

Glowing with unnatural might, the fire continued to spread. Gunnthra felt her stomach churn as it swallowed up the still and silent Laegjarn. She could only watch as her lover burned, soon totally invisible beneath a blanket of flame.

The vibrant greens faded to soot gray as flame washed insatiably over the field, the tendrils at its limits whipping and flaring like tentacles dragging it across the earth. Gunnthra’s own instincts urged her to back away, to turn and retreat, but she couldn’t stop the pounding in her heart as she stared at the place Laegjarn once was.

She couldn’t let this happen to her.

This would not happen to her.

With trembling steps, the princess who burned rushed back into the fire.

Slowly, Gunnthra woke from her fitful dreams, the light of a midday sun shining through her dormitory window. The feeling was less like being gently awoken by its warming rays, and more like being dragged from sleep by its unbearable luminance. She had never been much of a morning person.

Even as she rose to a sitting position, stretching her arms high in the air as a belabored yawn escaped, the images that she had seen in the dream were at the forefront of her mind.

The musty tomes of the castle library.

The gentle curve of her father’s smile.

The chestnut color of Yrsa’s hair.

Laegjarn, aflame.

Even as one born with rare power over dreams, there was much about their significance that not even Gunnthra understood.

Her eyes wandered to the other side of the bed before she closed them once more. Once, her power had been used to reach across nations into the dreams of Askr’s summoner, to offer a warning of King Surtr’s conquests and ask for the Order’s assistance in defending her homeland. But that was a world, and indeed, a life away, and she now sought access into the dreams of another. Still drowsy, it took Gunnthra little time at all to slip back into the realm of sleep.

She could not describe the place in which she found herself, shrouded in haze and shifting slightly each time she reconsidered it. It was the nature of some dreams, she supposed, to be fleeting and skittish things, unwilling to reveal all of their secrets even to one who could willingly plumb their depths.

And yet, when she focused her mind, Gunnthra could walk the shifting paths with her eyes closed, sensing the faint presence of the one she sought even within such a place. Each step echoed in her eardrums, the sound different with every step.

As the Princess opened them once more, the sight ahead of her brought a sigh of relief.

There, in the eye of the churning fog, was a scene, defined though it was in wavy shapes and muted colors. Gray stone stretched out before her, the ground covered in spidering cracks. Though she could not make out its shape, she could sense the gentle glow of a lantern, casting the shadows of rock formations onto the walls. In the center of it all lay a simple leather sleeping bag, and within was a familiar form.

With her vibrant hair spread across a pillow, Laegjarn’s chest slowly rose and fell as she slept.

“Checking up on me, I see.”

Startled, Gunnthra whirled, both surprised and amused by the playful lilt of Laegjarn’s voice and slight smile on her face as she appeared behind her. Still, she smiled.

“I had hoped to find you in a nice, fluffy inn bed.”

“That is how I know you have never been to a Muspellian inn. The caves are preferable…and Plume’s wings began to tire before we cleared the borderlands.”

Laegjarn did love to dote on her wyvern. If she listened closely, Gunnthra swore she could hear the gentle snoring of the great lizard himself…unless it was another member of Laegjarn’s party. Bartre, admittedly, came to mind.

“I must admit…this dream feels quite strange.” Laegjarn motioned towards her slumbering doppleganger. “I don’t often…watch myself sleep. At least, as far as I know.”

Gunnthra nodded, glancing once more around the murky space. This had never happened before, the dreams she arrived in had always felt all but real in every sense.

Rising flame. Acrid smoke. Burning. Burning. Bur-

"Perhaps this is not your dream at all, then." she said. "Perhaps your mind was quiet when I reached out, and this sort of…projection is all that could be prepared."

Gingerly, Gunnthra extended a hand towards Laegjarn’s shoulder, not terribly surprised when it seemed to pass through, as if her body was merely air. As Laegjarn watched, she began to speak.

“I think you have the right of it. For any dream of mine in which I cannot feel the warmth of your touch is no proper dream at all.”

Gunnthra’s eyes widened, and physical form or not, she could feel her cheeks slightly heating up.

“When did you learn to so casually say such things?”

Laegjarn chuckled, brushing a strand of deep red hair out of her face.

“I have had an excellent teacher.”

They took a moment to themselves, quiet enough to hear the distant howls of wind through the cavern mouth. It was nothing short of miraculous that they could share such simple moments, once divided by nation and even now across such a great distance. In Laegjarn’s presence, Gunnthra felt as if she could show the sides of herself she’d spent so long trying to hide.

She felt safe. She felt loved. She felt home.

There was a twinge of sadness as Gunnthra noticed the edges of her vision beginning to blur even further. Even the parts of the dreamscape that were discernible seconds earlier began to distort, colors gradually fading to gray as sounds blended together into a dim hum.

“You are waking.” Gunnthra said. Laegjarn nodded her head, her once-clear expression now difficult to make out, though Gunnthra had known her long enough now to catch the flash of disappointment on her face.

“So it seems.” Laegjarn took a few steps forward, closing the distance between their phantasmal forms. “We hope to reach Castle Muspell within the day’s travel. I shall give my sister your regards.”

“Please do!” Though she knew the gesture was somewhat futile, Gunnthra reached out her hands, letting them hover as if they rested upon Laegjarn’s shoulders. “Be careful, Laegjarn.”

“Of course, my princess.”

Gunnthra felt her senses melt away, conscious only long enough to hear Laegjarn’s last few words.

“I love-”

Though Gunnthra had lost track of how many days she had been a part of the Order of Heroes, the sense of novelty to being in Askr had yet to fade.

As she walked through the mess hall of Castle Askr, she, once again, excitedly scanned the room. Assembled inside were a crowd of summoned warriors from across the worlds, all shapes and sizes amongst their ranks. At one long wooden table, a renowned team of mercenaries crowded around a young empress, while the adjacent group was formed entirely of those who could transform into animals during battle. Elsewhere, a pair of students of Fodlan’s Officer’s Academy ate with the twin regents of Renais, all while a robed mage who spoke with many different voices sat in discussion with a dragon renowned as a demi-god. It was all at once incredibly inspiring, like seeing childhood tales of heroes brought to life before Gunnthra’s eyes, and utterly humbling to stand in their presence.

Those conflicted emotions continued to simmer as she sank into her seat, resting a simple breakfast of buttered bread and fruit atop the table. From across the table, an old man smiled, nodding at the princess as she arrived.

“Princess Gunnthra,” Jagen said, “A pleasure to see you this morning.”

“Good morning!” she replied. Though Gunnthra had originally met Sir Jagen, knight of Altea, when watching over Laegjarn after their emotional first encounter, she had not spent much time with the man her girlfriend regarded as her mentor. With Laegjarn away, she saw the opportunity to accompany and get to know the paladin during her early meals as a prosperous one.

“If I may…” The knight made a gesture with one hand, petting the air in front of his shoulder. Perplexed, Gunnthra mimicked it, only to find one of her braids sitting atop her meal.

“Oh!” Quickly, she pulled it back into place, using her napkin to sop up the butter that had unfortunately transferred over. “I apologize...that’s…not supposed to happen to me. Often, I mean.”

Jagen laughed, quietly but robustly. “My lady, I’ve attended Prince Marth since before he learned to speak. You needn’t fear judgment on your table from an old soldier like me.”

“Perhaps…” Gunnthra mused. She smiled, a hint of mischief on her lips. “Though it doesn’t mean you won’t tell Laegjarn when she returns.”

“You impugn my honor, Princess. Though a bribe of one of your strawberries couldn’t hurt my silence…”

Tapping a finger gently on her chin, Gunnthra obliged, spearing a red berry with her fork and getting it halfway to Jagen’s plate before a deep voice interrupted.

“And what’s goin’ on over here?”

The table trembled slightly as a towering Muspellian man pulled up a chair. “Ain’t the two of you old enough to know you shouldn’t play with your food?”

Gunnthra smiled. “Forgive me, Helbindi. It is a matter of great secrecy, you see.”

Though he rolled his eyes, it didn’t escape Gunnthra’s notice that Helbindi settled into his seat right next to her anyway. “Whatever you say, Princess.” He cleared his throat. “Or…uh…Queen? Do we call ya Queen? Since after…

Helbindi suddenly seemed to look away, and Gunnthra could see Jagen’s fork stop for a moment on the way to his mouth.

“After my mother was killed, I was next in the line of succession.” She spoke calmly. Carefully. Even among friends, she kept her tone level and her words clear. “That said, I was never officially coronated…so the title of Queen was never mine.”

Before I died.

What was left unsaid hung between them silently, its weight pulling a silence over the conversation. Gunnthra moved quickly to dispel it.

“Though, especially now that we are all members of the Order, you should just call me Gunnthra!”

She took a bite of bread, ignoring the grumbles of excuses coming from the others.

“Sir Helbindi, while I have a moment…” Jagen began to speak again. “I must commend your bravery in yesterday’s battlefield outing.”

“Huh?” The large man blinked. “Not sure what you’re talking about, gramps.”

“No need for humility today. I saw the way you broke from defensive formation to keep those thieves away from that farmhouse.”

“What? Oh, come on, that was nothing.” Helbindi suddenly became very interested in his meal, eyes averted from the others at the table. “The hell else was I supposed to do, sit there sucking my thumb?”

Bandit activity had been on the rise in Askr, Gunnthra knew. There were rumors that a conflict of succession between minor Emblan nobles had caused a ripple of violence even across the border, but not even the Order’s spymasters knew for sure, and she had never yet been sent to the front lines against them. A wave of disappointment hit as she continued her breakfast. She wondered how this world’s King Hrid was faring protecting the peace in Nifl right now.

Those thoughts were enough to occupy her through most of her meal, only distracted once she overheard rising voices at the table behind her.

“I shall take Her Majesty’s right hand seat, as I always have.” intoned a deep voice.

“Oh, really? I’m just supposed to entrust the honor to you for tradition’s sake?” The reply came from a more spirited sounding woman. “As if Her Majesty would abide by such an outdated notion!”

“Now, now, Monica…”

Gunnthra turned her head just in time to see a smirk form on the face of a black robed man, one she recognized as Emperor Edelgard’s retainer.

“There’s plenty of room for you to sit on the floor, should that be more to your liking.”

The girl he spoke to, her hair a cherry red, suddenly had her face turning nearly the same color.

“Oh, I’ll tell you exactly where you can sit, Hubert, you blood-sucking little…”

“Peace, please!” Gunnthra stood and made her way between the arguing pair, her hands held demurely in front of her waist. “There is no need for such talk among allies.” The woman looked at her with wide eyes, while Hubert’s surprise quickly faded as he performed a slight bow.

“I apologize if our…discussion disturbed you, Princess Gunnthra.” he said. “My subordinate and I will strive to resolve the matter more quietly.”

Upon hearing the word “subordinate”, Monica clenched her teeth, and Gunnthra realized that if she didn’t step in, it was likely this would end in some amount of violence.

“If I may…” she said, glancing between both of the Heroes from Fodlan. “Might I suggest that neither of you takes your Emperor’s right-hand seat? Consider this…” Gunnthra walked around the table, lowering herself into a seat with both Hubert and Monica on the other side. “Surely you’ll both want to have her attention, and watch for any troublemakers sneaking up from behind her. This arrangement offers both, does it not?”

For a few seconds, both of Edelgard’s retainers were quiet. Hubert was the first to break the silence, smirking softly as he did.

“That seems like a fine arrangement to me…though I doubt anyone would try to ambush Her Majesty in the Order’s own castle…”

“It could certainly happen!” Monica argued. Her face softened as she turned to Gunnthra. “Which is why I believe the Princess’ suggestion is an excellent one. Thank you, Princess Gunnthra.”

A practiced smile leapt to Gunnthra’s face. “You are very welcome.”

Satisfied, Hubert and Monica departed for the kitchens to receive their morning meals. A few moments later, footsteps behind Gunnthra ended with a sigh.

“I could hear that from the hall.” Ever the picture of elegance and formality, Emperor Edelgard had her hair and tiara already prepared, shaking her head as she watched her retainers depart. “You have my thanks, Princess Gunnthra.”

“It was no trouble.” Gunnthra replied, a bit of warmth settling in her stomach.

Edelgard shook her head. "For you, perhaps not." The Emperor gave a rare smile, weariness beyond her age evident on her face. "I don't suppose you'd like a position as one of the Adrestian Emperor's advisors…"

"I must respectfully decline." Gunnthra said with a smile. "I left politics behind a lifetime ago."

The next day, Gunnthra had an appointment in one of the Order's training halls. The room was vast, its wooden floor extending far enough north that the back wall was but a faint blur of brown from the entrance. The vaulted ceilings cast long shadows, high enough that those gifted with wings could perform aerial training with little danger of a collision with the ceiling.

She was no expert on the matter, but Gunnthra had to wonder if a pegasus or wyvern could fly comfortably inside. That said, the mental image of Laegjarn trying to push Plume through one of the very human-sized gates was enough to keep a small smile on her face as she walked towards a sanded circle near the eastern wall.

There, a woman in a dark black cloak waited for her, giving only a nod as Gunnthra stepped onto the sandy floor.

"Good afternoon, Professor Byleth."

"Hello."

Even amongst the strange company that made up the Order of Heroes, Gunnthra found Byleth particularly hard to read. The mercenary-turned-teacher was soft-spoken but blunt, often keeping to herself whenever she could.

Still, to hear her current and former students tell it (who were often the same people, thanks to just how strange a place Askr was), she was one of the greatest combat trainers in the Order. That was why Gunnthra had sought her out.

Lifting a pair of wooden training blades off of the wall, Byleth handed one to Gunnthra. The textured wood felt strange in her hands, and she had a brief moment of longing for the gloves she wore at Castle Nifl.

"How much bladework have you done?" Byleth asked.

"I managed to talk my brother into a bit of practice when we were both very young, but I imagine that’s not what you mean. I have only had a few hours of training recently. With my girlfriend."

Byleth nodded, eyes far away as she took a moment to think.

"Got it." She pointed a finger towards the edge of her weapon. "On a normal blade, this would be the sharp part."

Gunnthra laughed, up until she noticed that Byleth wasn’t laughing with her.

“I know that much.” she said, hoping she hadn’t offended her instructor before their lessons even began. Byleth merely inclined her head, face still unreadable as she seemed to consider this new information.

“Right. Well then…”

Byleth leveled a sword before her. “Why don’t we start with a practical test? Ready?

”Ready, Princess?”

In the rising light of the early morning, Gunnthra couldn’t help but admire the way Laegjarn stood with such poise, even dressed in dull gray training armor with a blunted sword to match. No matter if it was on the battlefield, in the sparring room, or the halls, there was an elegance to her that Gunnthra’s mother would have called “utterly dignified”.

And yet, her favorite sight was the way her lover’s smile appeared as Gunnthra raised her own blunted blade, striking a pose she hoped was close to the one she’d seen Hrid use.

“Hand a little further down the grip, dearest.”

Well, now it was certainly closer.

“On your guard!” Laegjarn declared.

“Don’t hold back!” she replied, knowing full well Laegjarn would never hurt her.

With a yelp, Gunnthra fell to the sandy floor for what felt like the tenth time in as many minutes. Coughing, she grasped the hand reaching down to pull her up, her arms and legs feeling substantially more jelly-like than normal.

“Well done. You held out much longer that time.”

If Byleth, however, had even broken a sweat, it didn’t show. The professor nodded as she helped Gunnthra to her feet.

“Perhaps…” Gunnthra half-laughed, half-wheezed. “Though I am still far from success.”

Byleth tilted her head again before speaking.

“I don’t think that’s true. Success is…a difficult thing to define.”

Gunnthra forced a giggle, turning away from the professor’s inquisitive stare. “Perhaps that’s true…but it’s not a simple thing to see it that way. Especially from the floor.”

“I think that’s enough for today. Meet me here again tomorrow, and we’ll get to work on a training regimen.”

Days later, as she approached the common room outside of her dormitory, Gunnthra breathed a sigh of relief. As exhausted as she was, her body aching after a particularly strenuous bout in the training room, the thought of falling into bed felt like all that was pushing her forward.

Weakness was not an unfamiliar feeling, she thought to herself.

It was that weakness that had nearly lead to Nifl’s utter destruction. That had left the nation defenseless against Surtr’s forces. That had gotten her mother-

The silence was broken by a hacking cough from behind one of the dormitory doors. Her fatigue forgotten, Gunnthra surged towards the door. She rapped her knuckles on it, leaning close to hear as best she could.

“Fjorm? Fjorm, do you need me?”

The wheezing continued, and Gunnthra burst into the room. She felt a chill ripple down her spine as she saw her younger sister, slight and sallow-skinned, struggling to speak.

“I’m….I’m alright…”

The coughing fit began to subside, and Fjorm managed to push herself into a sitting position against her headboard. Through a window, gentle moonlight illuminated her pale skin.

“Please…do not concern yourself with me.”

Over the past few months, Fjorm’s condition had taken a drastic turn for the worse. The once vibrant princess of Nifl, who had once raised her lance against Surtr himself, could now scarcely lift her weapon.

“Fjorm…” Gunnthra sat at the edge of the bed, shaking her head as she turned to face Fjorm. “I am your sister. I will concern myself with you as much as I would like.”

For the first time in a very long time, Gunnthra heard a gentle giggle escape her sister’s lips.

“You have always been so kind to me. Even if I am not…not your Fjorm…”

And there it was. The subject they had so often struggled to broach, the phantom that lingered in the background of their every conversation. This was not Gunnthra’s home world, but one she had found herself summoned to after her own untimely death. She was, in the end, a conjuration of Breidablik’s, a specter perhaps unworthy of being called “alive”.

The Fjorm before her did not truly share her blood. She was not the once-timid child who clung to her hand through darkened castle halls, not the girl whose smile lit up so many of Gunnthra’s memory. That girl was worlds away, and for all that Gunnthra knew, they would never see one another again.

And yet, none of those things did anything to quench the fire in her chest as she gently pulled Fjorm’s hand to her heart.

“You are Fjorm. Nothing else matters, dear sister. And I know the Gunnthra you grew up with would say the same to the sister I left behind.”

Such thoughts had not come easily in the earliest days after Gunnthra’s summoning, wrenched as her heart was by the knowledge that death had taken her from her own siblings. But she had found the same innocent cheerfulness in the Order’s Ylgr she knew in her own, just as she had recognized Fjorm’s quiet determination and Hrid’s unabashed kindness.

As Fjorm nodded slowly, tears beginning to form at the edges of her eyes, Gunnthra could only hope that she could provide anywhere near the comfort of the older sister this Fjorm had watched die.

“...I have seen her. In my dreams.” Fjorm whispered.

“...Who?”

Fjorm’s hand tensed in Gunnthra’s grip.

“Lady Nifl. I think…I think she’s trying to tell me that my time is up.”

Fjorm had bargained with the goddess for which their nation was named, back during the war with Surtr. She had been granted the strength to pierce through the Muspellflame, the everburning source of power that kept the tyrant king unable to die, but the cost was nothing less than her own life, taken slowly in the form of a wasting disease.

Gunnthra’s stomach churned at the thought of the goddess of ice, the majestic blue dragon whose blood was said to run through her very own veins, waiting silently to take Fjorm’s life. She knew that a Queen of Nifl should say it was a blessing that Fjorm had been afforded the extra time to live, but a cynical part of her roiled against the thought that such a price was demanded by the goddess at all.

“It is selfish of me, I think,” Fjorm’s voice was quiet. “To fear death, knowing it has come already for my mother and sister. To wish to delay its coming, when I once welcomed it into my heart.”

“Fjorm…” Gunnthra said. “It is not selfish at all. Now come here.”

Slowly, to avoid jostling her sister, Gunnthra scooted up the bed, engulfing Fjorm in a ginger hug. She didn’t let go, even as she felt cold teardrops begin to stain the sleeve of her gown. The room was silent, save for their breathing, until the sound of footsteps and speaking became audible in the halls outside.

“Thank you.” Fjorm whispered.

“I will always be by your side.” Gunnthra replied.

Several minutes went by, and Fjorm had begun to nod off in Gunnthra’s embrace.The stomping in the hall grew louder, the voices closer and more frantic. Gunnthra’s curiosity was piqued as she glanced at the door.

What could be going on at this time of night?

Judging by her furrowed brow and freshly opened eyes, Fjorm had the same question in mind. As their eyes met, Gunnthra carefully made her way out of the bed.

“I will go and ask whoever that is to quiet down.” she said, giving her little sister a gentle smile. “Afterwards, if you’d like to speak of this more…”

Fjorm shook her head. “I should be getting to sleep.”

With that, Gunnthra walked out of the room and into the common area once more. As she closed Fjorm’s dormitory door behind her, the last thing she saw was her sister bunching the covers around her, as if she had suddenly become very cold.

Gunnthra didn’t have to go far to find the source of the racket.

Standing in the entrance to the common room was a familiar figure, clad in crimson battle armor. The woman’s hair was disheveled, her skin marked with soot and bruises, but Gunnthra could easily recognize that it was Princess Minerva.

“Welcome home, Minerva.” Gunnthra began. “I trust that your mission to Muspell was-”

“Princess Gunnthra.”

Minerva cut her off, and it was then that Gunnthra noticed her expression. The typically stoic wyvern-rider looked dismayed, struggling to look at her. When their eyes met, Gunnthra knew before she even spoke that something had gone horribly wrong.

“Laegjarn is missing.”

Chapter Text

Heat.

It was a constant presence in the nation of Muspell, from the peaks of its craggy mountains to the vast and arid basins that lay between. Legend told that the land was forged from the corpse of a titanic golem, stained by rivers of lava that were the blood of its rival, the flame dragon for which the country was named. The land was brutal and unforgiving, dry and volatile.

Yet, to Princess Laegjarn, it was home.

As her wyvern soared through the morning sky, the searing rays of the risen sun glinting off of her armor, Laegjarn scanned the horizon and felt nostalgia twist at her heart.

Her first life had been a difficult one, forged into a weapon for the use of her tyrannical father through terror and abuse. Not even the might of King Surtr, however, had managed to smother all of life’s joys.

“My, my, darling. That’s a precious sight from you.”

Laegjarn turned to her right to find Princess Camilla flying by her side, a grin on her face as her wyvern kept pace with Plume.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“A smile! Lighting up the face of our stoic little General Leggy!”

From his seat in the saddle behind Camilla, the warrior Bartre laughed, a booming guffaw that echoed through the sky.

“Aye! Something on your mind?”

It was an excellent question, Laegjarn thought. There were many things, in truth, that were raising her spirits that morning. The joy of flying through familiar skies, the dream encounter with her beloved Gunnthra, and of course…

“I think it’s quite clear, myself.”

On Plume’s other side, Minerva rose to level with her wingmates. Given the red of her hair and armor, Laegjarn found her friend and rival seemed to fit with the land of Muspell quite well. Clinging tightly to her back, eyes clamped shut, the sorcerer Canas seemed far less at ease.

Minerva shrugged her shoulders. “Or have you all forgotten Laegjarn’s favorite topic in all the worlds?” Her lips curled. “Her little sister.”

Camilla scoffed. “Oh, as if you’re one to tease about that.”

Minerva tossed her arms up in mock frustration, a movement that seemed to only make Canas turn slightly greener. “As if you’re one to talk on that subject either!”

“It is true.” Laegjarn said, defusing the airborne argument before it could truly begin. “Knowing that we will soon see Laevatein has greatly lifted my spirits. She is very important to me, and of that, I am unashamed.”

Minerva’s teasing smirk unfolded into an altogether more wholesome expression, one tinged with well-meaning and pride. “As you should be. Queen Laevatein seems to me a remarkable woman, if what half you’ve told us is true.”

For many months now, Laegjarn and her sister had been exchanging regular letters, which traveled as part of a resource exchanging initiative between the Kingdom of Askr and Laevatein’s burgeoning regime in Muspell. Though Surtr was dead (for good, Laegjarn hoped), the former king had left behind no end of troubles in his homeland, all now the responsibilities of a daughter who had never been meant to take up the crown.

However, Laevatein, Queen Laevatein, was nothing if not determined. In her correspondence with Laegjarn, she had written of her struggles to form a group of advisors who could assist her in righting their father’s wrongs, starting with bringing written language back to Muspell.

Laegjarn, as always, was incredibly proud of her sister. In any world, it seemed, their bond was an unbreakable one. Her latest letter had included few details on why she was asking for the Order’s assistance, but Laegjarn had made the request to Commander Anna and the Summoner personally, and asked to be made part of the team.

Through the clouds of ash that swirled in the air above Muspell’s rocky peaks, Laegjarn could begin to make out a towering shape.

Built into the face of a dormant volcano, much of it crafted from the very same stone, Castle Muspell almost appeared like a natural facet of the mountain. Its spiraling black turrets grasped at the clouds like claws. Trained wyverns circled the spires, their riders keeping watch from above. Before the gates, an enormous brazier burned, spitting smoke and embers into the midday sky.

Her companions were silent, a silence reigning over the group as Laegjarn realized that the last time any of them would have seen Castle Muspell was when the Order invaded it.

Back then, they were enemies. Minerva had once claimed this world’s Laegjarn had nearly taken her head off in the early stages of the attack. Though she couldn’t recall a similar incident in her own timeline (though too much had been going through her head that day to provide a clearer picture), Laegjarn knew that one thing was the same in both realms.

Just past that brazier, where the rugged ground changed to obsidian brick, was where Laegjarn had died.

She remembered Fjorm’s face. A horrible heat that started in her heart and spread throughout her body. Losing sight as her eyes were consumed by the Flame Dragon’s fatal gift.

Burning.

She remembered burning.

A distant hissing sound drew the approaching Heroes’ attention. Before their eyes, the great flame that kindled in the giant brazier shifted and changed. Starting at its base, the fire changed colors, going from orange to pale green.

“Fascinating…”

Laegjarn glanced over to see Canas finally emerging from Minerva’s shoulder, his eyes alight with curiosity as the fire changed.

“What does that…mean?” Minerva asked.

“It signals the guards to allow our approach.” Laegjarn said. A bit of tension she hadn’t realized she was holding onto fell away as Plume shrieked a greeting to his fellow wyverns.

The relief initially sat poorly with her. Could this place, where she had witnessed so many horrors, been forced into her father’s cruel service, and drawn her final breaths ever be one she yearned to return to?

It could.

It could, for Laevatein.

The castle was, in many ways, just as Laegjarn remembered it. Every step down from the wyvern aerie in its right place, the looming sconces illuminating the same long passages, all down to the sprawling room in which the arriving Heroes were asked to wait until the queen was prepared to receive them. The place was familiar, eerily so, but what amazed Laegjarn most were the slight changes.

Guards they passed in the halls wore traditional Muspellian armor, black as night, but silver trim now adorned their chestplates and helms. Some of their eyes lingered on Laegjarn as she passed, but none addressed her directly. She could not help but wonder how many of them had been there when this world’s Laegjarn died.

“No offense to you and yours, dear,” Camilla whispered, nudging Laegjarn’s shoulder as their group sat on slate gray benches to await their audience with Muspell’s queen, “but I must admit I had hoped Laevatein would have brightened up the place with a little decoration!”

Laegjarn laughed quietly. “My sister has never been the kind for any sort of excess.”

A sly smile found its way to Camilla’s face as she looked around the sparse waiting room. “I suppose it runs in the family. And I suppose I’ll have to teach the both of you to relax a little.”

The thought, admittedly, was not one that Laegjarn disapproved of. She had the distinct feeling that Laevatein was unlikely to be keeping much of an eye out for her own well-being amidst the rebuilding of their nation.

Minerva and the others standing from their seats facing the throne room doors was clue enough for Laegjarn and Camilla to follow suit. The officer who had shown them inside now beckoned at the obsidian door.

“Her Majesty is prepared to receive you, delegation of Askr.”

Like the rest of the palace, the throne room of Castle Muspell was slight on ornamentation. Surtr had preferred things in his palace to be stark and utilitarian, slate grays and earthy browns, nothing in a place without a purpose. The room consisted of little more than standing room for scant petitioners and advisors, aside from the gold-trimmed throne itself. It was a seat that dwarfed the woman currently sitting in it.

Laevatein waited calmly, hands splayed upon the raised armrests. Her hair, once tied into two ponytails, was down, framing her ruby red eyes with a light-pink curtain. The reforged crown of Muspell, now set with a pair of gleaming gemstones, rested atop her head.

“Heroes of Askr,” She addressed the incoming group, nodding in their direction. “I bid you welcome to the seat of power in Muspell.”

She swept her gaze over the full crowd, but Laegjarn noticed that her eyes struggled to look away from her sister.

“Which of you is in command?”

“That would be me.”

Minerva deftly threaded herself between Bartre and Camilla, taking up position at the head of the pack as she knelt.

“I am Minerva. It is an honor, your Highness.”

Laevatein nodded.

“We have met once before. In Nifl, during the Tempest.”

“That we have.” Minerva replied. “Your bravery and battle prowess left quite an impression.”

“And I have heard much of you from my dearest sister, Minerva.”

The look of calm statecraft on Minerva’s face faltered, if only slightly, and she glanced back at Laegjarn with eyes wide. She raised an eyebrow, and Laegjarn only wished she could convey more information with a shrug.

Gunnthra could probably find a way to say “I didn’t mention the time you screamed at me and stole my sword” via a gesture, but it was certainly not Laegarn’s strong suit.

“Only good things.” Laevatein added, which seemed to settle the situation. Minerva returned a stoic nod, pretending not to notice Camilla starting to giggle over her shoulder. “I wish to thank you personally for helping my sister. But onto official business…”

Laevatein stood from her seat and beckoned with one hand. “I’d like you to follow me, if you would.”

It was with a start that Laegjarn realized she was directing the group towards a dark gray door in the rear of the throne room. Despite Muspell’s constant warmth, she felt a shiver briefly run down her spine. The others, seemingly undeterred, paid little attention as they moved to follow the queen.

“Sister…”

As Laegjarn looked at Laevatein, she saw calm in her eyes.

“Please, trust me.”

Laegjarn nodded.

“I always will.”

With that in mind, she crossed the threshold of the door, down a set of familiar stairs and into the depths of the palace.

What awaited surprised her.

The chamber was dim, lit by only a pair of torches at the northern and southern walls. The floor was a sandy pit, and little furniture adorned it aside from a few leather seats. Hanging on the wall, a scabbard could be seen, one that Laegjarn recognized instantly.

“Laevatein…” she muttered. Her sister brushed past her, their hands touching only long enough for Laevatein’s to give her a squeeze.

“This is my personal meditation chamber.” she said. “The palace guards have been instructed not to follow us inside. I want as few people to know about what I am about to tell you as I can.”

Silently, Minerva nodded. All eyes were on Muspell’s queen as Laevatein moved to stand next to her blade.

“When Father…when King Surtr was slain, many of his inner circle did not support me as his heir.”

“Surtr had friends?” Bartre interrupted.

“No. But he did have allies. Even a man as powerful as him cannot rule an entire nation alone.”

“Such is so often the way of tyrants.” Minerva shook her head. “They attract sycophants and lackeys, through fear or through greed.”

Laevatein paused for a moment. “Not all of Surtr’s followers have stayed with the crown. This is alright by me, for many were cruel, and some untrustworthy. I have heard that many of them are gathering an army near an Ember Herald encampment in the northern mountains, within a day’s riding distance of the throne.”

The room went silent. “Ember Heralds?” Camilla asked.

“They are a faction devoted to the mastery of fire magic.” Laegjarn answered. “They refused to submit to Surtr’s demands for conscription, and in response he tried to scour them from Muspell.”

She was too young to remember those raids, perhaps not even born when they had happened, but memories of their ferocity had been whispered between the people of Muspell, even decades after their bloody instigation. The eradication of the nation’s written language alongside Surtr’s destruction of any records made it difficult to know how many Heralds there had once been, but their survivors had been reduced to only a few, as far as she knew.

“Laegjarn is correct. I have spent much of my time as Queen attempting to welcome the Ember Heralds back into the fold, but they are…understandably slow to trust a Queen who carries Surtr’s blood.”

“Were I to send the full might of Muspell’s royal forces to confront the dissidents, I fear the Heralds would see it as a show of force, an intimidation tactic.” Laevatein bowed her head. “My rule will not be one upheld by fear, like my father’s. This is why I have sent for you.”

“I believe I understand, Queen Laevatein.” said Canas, his eyes on the weapon hanging on the wall. “You seek to deal with this problem quickly and discreetly. To stop this coming insurrection before it can truly begin.”

“It is as you say.” Laevatein nodded. “Though I ask that your initial approach be diplomatic. I do not wish any more Muspellian blood spilled upon our own lands.”

The queen and her sister shared a knowing look of resignation. Were these rebels truly followers of Surtr, they both knew that the chances of reaching them with words were slim. Such was the extent of their father’s cruelty, to have twisted peace itself into something to be detested by his younger countrymen. It was a lie that even Laevatein herself had believed for a very long time.

“Rest assured, Your Highness, The Order will be proud to carry out this mission.” Minerva clapped a palm over her chest. “You may rely on us.”

Much to Laegjarn’s quiet delight, Laevatein’s face softened, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. “So I shall. I value our alliance very much.”

With a nod, Minerva began to climb back up the stairs, the rest of the group following close behind. Even here, in a place that felt so uncomfortable to stand, Laegjarn could not help but linger, her eyes on her little sister in her queenly regalia. When their eyes met, Laevatein breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Speaking like this…to strangers…it is…”

Quietly, Laegjarn crossed the sandy floor, gently enveloping her weary sister in a hug.

“You have done wonderfully, Laevatein.”

The smile returned. Breaking slightly from the embrace, Laevatein looked up.

“When you return…would you…spend a few moments with me?”

“For you, I would give anything.” Righting herself, Laegjarn turned towards the stairs. “I love you, Laevatein.”

“And I you, Laegjarn.”

Minerva was a harsh taskmistress, giving her group of Heroes little time to recuperate from the long journey in the relative comfort of Castle Muspell. She had declared that they would be leaving in no less than an hour, and then stalked off back to the wyvern aerie without another word. It was the way Laegjarn had come to learn that her friend and rival tended to conduct herself, ever the commander who would keep her allies composed, in line, and most of all, safe.

She still had spent precious little time with the trio of pegasus knights Minerva had commanded for years in her homeland of Macedon, the Whitewing sisters. Laegjarn was curious as to what they would have to say about their “Commander Minerva”...especially Minerva’s girlfriend, Palla.

Who was their leader, both on the battlefield and off?

Perhaps pondering that is what lead her wandering feet into the training yards, peering over the edge of a stone wall at the lines of black-armored soldiers in battle formations. In the sky above, seated upon great flapping wyverns, instructors shouted orders to the troops below.

She, too, had been in this place countless times, weapon unsheathed in the drill yards or calling commands from above. The sweltering heat and clanging steel felt familiar, as if settling into a part of her heart long ago hollowed away.

“Princess?”

Surprised, Laegjarn turned towards the sound of her name. The soldier standing across from her wore a captain’s badge, but held his helmet beneath his arm, likely meaning he was off duty. He bowed his shaved head.

“Princess Laegjarn…excuse my abruptness…but do you remember me?”

As their eyes met, she stifled a gasp.

“Lieutenant Silogi.”

That face brought back a barrage of familiar memories, of bloody battlefields and quiet camps, of sparring matches and strategy sessions, and a whole host of moments in between that Laegjarn hadn’t realized she had gone so long without recalling.

Silogi still had the military bearing befitting of the one who had for years been her second-in-command, but a smile broke out across his face.

“It is an honor to see you again, Princess.”

Laegjarn braced herself as she spoke.

“And you as well, though I must ensure you know that I am not the same Princess Laegjarn that you knew.”

“Aye, I’m aware.” Silogi replied, taking the announcement in surprising stride. “The heads of castle security were briefed on the situation before your group arrived. Most of us already knew, though, given what we heard happened with that freak magic-storm in Nifl…”

Laegjarn nodded. She was quite sure she hadn’t seen Silogi amongst the Muspellian troops that had joined the battle against the Tempest.

“Still, I was thinking that maybe things weren’t too different? We had quite a few close calls in this world together, Princess. Breaker’s Ridge, South Valley, Fronnirsburg…”

“I remember all the same.” Laegjarn answered. There was a somber silence between the two of them. The memories they were broaching ones that could scarcely be called happy ones. There was also the matter of their last meeting, at least in Laegjarn’s home world.

“And here, were you with me when I-”

“I was.” Silogi said. “You told me to go, go as far away from the castle as I could if you were to fall. And then when the Askrans were at the gates, you…”

Muspell, dragon of flame... I offer you my flesh. Arm and arm, leg and leg. My head, my heart… All of it offered, that you may feed. Devour me!

Laegjarn felt, for a moment, as if she could still feel the Flame Dragon’s all-devouring hunger in her heart. As though that power, so destructive and terrible, still shoved itself through her veins, granting strength and fervor but leaving only ash and pain in its wake. She did not remember the thrill of battle, only the emptiness that came after, her body broken and consumed.

With a sigh, she banished the pain from her mind, slightly shaking her head.

“It is a miracle that you and I can speak again, Silogi, even with the caveats that be.”

The man seemed to perk up at that. “Aye. And speaking of miracles, Princess…I’ve just learned that my wife is with child. A girl, says the seer.”

“Silogi! I didn’t even know that you had married!” Overcome with emotion, and quite likely due to a certain Princess of Nifl’s influence, Laegjarn opened her arms for an embrace. Grinning, the captain accepted the gesture, stepping forward and allowing himself to be pulled into a hug.

“We wanted to name her after you, Princess. May we have the honor?”

Laegjarn’s brow furrowed. “I believe that I should be the one asking you that question, for such a momentous thing. And part of me wants to talk you out of it, wanting more for your daughter than the name of a dead woman. But yes, Silogi. Should you want my blessing, you and your wife certainly have it.”

“Then it’s settled!” Silogi withdrew, taking a few steps back before giving a salute. “It was an honor to see you again, my Princess. I wish that all the happiness that my wife and I have been gifted come to you as well.”

With that, the soldier put his helmet back on and began to walk back into the castle. Laegjarn pondered his words for a moment. Perhaps Silogi’s wish had already come true, as her days in Askr felt far freer and brighter than they had before. That, she knew, she owed to her wonderful group of comrades, as well as a Princess of her own.

Renewed, she turned towards the aerie that loomed on the horizon and set out to meet back up with Minerva.

Northwestern Muspell was a difficult region to navigate on foot. Great spires of rock and earth jutted out of deep chasms in the ground, their massive shadows creating a spiderweb of shade in the sunbaked terrain. However, as Laegjarn knew well, the shadows were far from places for travelers to rest and recover. Often, in the nation’s past, they had been used as cover for anything from bandits to revolutionaries trying to move unseen.

As this was the last place the dissidents were seen, it seemed that particular history continued to be written.

“We won’t see their camp from the air, if they’ve placed it well.” Laegjarn called.

Hovering next to her, her wyvern beating its massive wings and letting out a quiet purr, was Minerva. One of her hands stayed close to the axe on her belt; Hauteclere, Laegjarn recalled.

“I won’t have us flying too near to ground we can’t see. A well positioned group of defenders with arrows could have us downed before we even made them out.”

Extending a hand, she gestured towards an open area of pale gray earth, nestled near the center of the web of crisscrossing shadows.

“We land there!” Minerva shouted, loud enough to carry to both of her wingmates. “And then scout the area on foot. On me!”

Laegjarn squeezed with her boots, steering Plume downwards. She felt the grip around her waist grow tighter, and glanced over her shoulder to find Canas’ head buried in her riding cloak as the scholar lightly groaned.

“My apologies.” she said, leveling the wyvern’s angle to one slightly less steep.

“Much…appreciated.” came a muffled voice from behind her.

As their group dismounted, some steadier than others, they formed a loose circle around the three wyverns.

“Stay aware.” Minerva called. “Hands near weapons, but don’t draw unless a fight breaks out. This is still a diplomatic mission…until someone puts a stop to that.”

Camilla chuckled, stepping to Minerva’s side. “Always an optimist, aren’t you, honey?”

As she and Bartre readied themselves in formation beside their commander, Laegjarn took the lead. In the shadowed area ahead, she could make out the faint glow of a bonfire.

“Looks like a camp.” she said.

“Take point.” Minerva directed. “And light things up a bit.”

Niu hummed gently as Laegjarn retrieved it from its scabbard, the ancient runes etched into the sword glowing with a gentle orange. Moving her grip on the weapon slightly, she pressed her thumb into one, and felt a slight tingle in her fingers as magic seeped into the ancient blade.

The orange glow grew more intense, a haze of heat enveloping the group as its power illuminated the area around them. Like a torch, the sword pulsed with light that flickered and danced as its wielder held it aloft. All that was revealed were dusty rocks and skittering lizards, leaving Laegjarn to breathe a sigh of relief.

“No ambush.” she said, motioning forward to her party. “Let’s approach.”

As they did, sand and dust swirling at their feet, the outlines of several ramshackle buildings came into view, surrounding a flickering bonfire. Whatever this place was now, at some time it seemed to have been a remote village.

Huts hewn of stone scattered the plains ahead, many scarred by blackened scorch marks, others in states of complete disrepair, their walls and ceilings reduced to little more than rubble.

“This must have been one of the villages Surtr purged.” Canas muttered. “The Ember Heralds, weren’t they called?”

“This must be where they’re hiding.” Minerva replied. “Keep your eyes on those ruins.”

The group didn’t need to wait long. A woman in Muspellian army regalia emerged from one of the nearby huts, a spear and shield in her hands.

“Identify yourselves!” she called, pointing with her weapon.

“Order of Heroes!” Minerva’s voice echoed through the air as she stepped in front of Laegjarn. “We serve the Kingdom of Askr!”

“Askr?”

A raspy laugh came from behind a fallen wall. From behind it stepped a man with wide-set shoulders that carried two spiked black pauldrons. His greying hair flowed wild and unkempt, and a jagged scar dominated his face, barely visible in the flickering firelight.

It was a face that Laegjarn recognized, and as their eyes met, he seemed just as taken aback as she was.

This was the man who had taught her to wield a sword.

“Bael!” she called. Minerva glanced back with a puzzled expression, but Laegjarn’s focus was on the elderly man, and the weapon in his hand.

“Well, I’ll be…”

All around the camp, more and more troops began to step out of hiding. Many were dressed in the armor of Surtr’s army, but even more seemed more casually armed. They wore mismatched, rusty armor, and carried sharpened butcher’s knives or salamander hunting bows.

“I must say, I expected an army of the Queen’s men.” Bael crossed his arms and scoffed. “Instead, she goes and gets the Askrans involved!” His voice boomed as he gestured to his gathered forces, Laegjarn counting at least ten among his current number. “King Surtr was a mean old bastard, but at least he let Muspellians deal with Muspellian problems!”

Laegjarn felt disappointment sinking into her gut. It wasn’t as if she and Bael had ever been friends, he was simply a veteran mercenary her father had hired to teach her how to kill. Why had she hoped so dearly for a joyful reunion?

It had not escaped her attention that many of Bael’s allies had begun to take up aggressive postures, weapons at the ready. Minerva crossed her arms, standing firm.

“This does not have to come to violence. Queen Laevatein wishes to discuss a peaceful solution to any grievances you may have.”

“Does she, now?” Bael sneered. “She wants us to sit and twiddle our thumbs over cocoa while she lets Muspell rot and grow weak?” The bulky man threw his arms in the air, beckoning to his comrades. “What do we say to that?”

The dissidents began to boo and curse, some spitting into the dust as they raged against the Queen. Laegjarn did her best to temper the fury she felt for Laevatein’s sake.

“Muspell is a land of strength!” Bael cried. “We shall not allow ourselves to fall prey to Nifl! Nor Embla! Nor Askr!”

The shouts became louder, the crowd growing into a rage. Still, out of the corner of her eye, Laegjarn could see a few soldiers keeping silent. Perhaps, she realized, not all of them would fall for Bael’s posturing.

“You’re mistaken-” Minerva began, taking a step forward. She stopped in her tracks as a flaming arrow lodged itself in the ground before her.

“Look at this!” Bael pointed at Laegjarn, anger plain on his face. “They’ve dredged up some sick thing, posing as the fallen princess! I say we send it back to the Queen, in pieces! Let’s kill ‘em all!”

As their enemy advanced, the group of Heroes fell into a familiar battle formation, making a wall in front of Canas to safeguard their spellcaster. Laegjarn drew Niu in front of her, staying in a defensive stance even as she felt herself being tapped on the shoulder.

“Can you take him?” Minerva’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I can.”

“Do it. Without a leader, they’ll scatter.”

“Keep that in mind yourself, Princess Minerva.”

The commander scoffed, somewhere between a hiss and a laugh, and Laegjarn was off.

She sprinted towards Bael, blade at the ready. From the straps on his back, the old man retrieved a massive, worn obsidian weapon, more club than sword now. He was quicker than he looked, and it was enough to parry Laegjarn’s first blow.

“No love for an old teacher, Laegjarn?” he taunted.

“Put your weapon away and stop this, Bael!” She sidestepped a hefty swing of his claymore. “You were an honorable man, once.”

Bael’s face contorted with rage. “And where did that get me? Scurrying about and shining your father’s boots? Doing whatever it took just to keep him happy enough to keep me alive? What kind of a life is that?”

He drew back his blade and charged forward, attempting to catch Laegjarn with his shoulder. Just in time, she pivoted around him, trying to land a disarming blow to his weapon’s hilt. The sound of metal on stone echoed throughout the battlefield, ringing over the grunts and cries of the struggle happening all around them.

Camilla and Bartre were back to back, each fending off a pair of Muspellians. Two fell, clutching at their ears and writhing as Canas skimmed his hands over a black grimoire. A lancer rushed at the mage, only to fall as Minerva leapt upon him, smacking Hauteclere’s hilt against the back of his head.

Laegjarn couldn’t help but wince. She knew from experience how that hurt.

With a guttural roar, Bael was rushing her again, his grip on his weapon no looser than before.

“This isn’t how I taught you to fight, girl!”

Laegjarn moved to parry his blow, only to be surprised by a hit to her gut. She hadn’t expected the kick, her shock quickly turning to pain as she drew back from the assault.

“You think to spare me? That we’ll decide this with words? Ha!” He hefted his sword into the air, gritting his teeth as he prepared to cleave downwards. “Let this be my final lesson to you!”

Though her whole body ached, Laegjarn forced herself to stagger sharply to the right. Dust filled the air as the massive claymore cracked the earth where she had stood. Seeing her opportunity, Laegjarn struck. Lashing out with the flat of her blade, she brought Niu down, holding its searing metal to Bael’s bare hands.

Howling, the towering warrior dropped his weapon to the ground. At the sound, several of Bael’s followers whirled their heads in his direction, some stopping still at the sight. Out of the corner of her eye, Laegjarn could see Minerva grin, as well as Bartre tackling two unsuspecting dissidents.

“Surrender now, Bael.” Laegjarn commanded, leveling Niu at his head. “No blood has to be shed today.”

Bael was silent, staring at his fallen weapon as the sounds of battle drew to a close around him. He began to lightly tremble, and for a moment, Laegjarn thought he was about to burst into tears. Instead, he started to laugh. Louder and louder he became, until he was staring up at the shadowed sky above.

“NOW!” Bael shouted.

From one of the nearby huts, a fireball whirred towards Laegjarn’s chest. As quickly as she could, she brought Niu up to block, only able to catch the brunt of the blast in time. A wave of blazing heat burst through her, and she cried out in pain, wincing hard enough that she could barely see Bael backpedaling away.

“I’ll never be powerless again!” he screamed, thrusting his hands to the sky. “Flame Dragon, hear my cry!”

“Stop him!” Laegjarn heard Minerva shout. An orb of dark magic whizzed past her shoulder, collding with Bael, but the man seemed too far gone to notice the pain.

“ Arm and arm, leg and leg. My head, my heart… All of it offered, that you may feed. Devour me!”

A pillar of flame erupted from the earth below Bael’s feet. His frenzied cackling turned into a scream of pain. The fire twisted and rose into the sky, churning like a tornado in the arid air.

“Get back!” someone screamed. The dissidents still able to stand scattered, while the Heroes dragged the unconscious away.

“Laegjarn!” Minerva shouted. Before she could reply, Laegjarn heard the fire roar.

All of a sudden, a twisting funnel of flame burst forth from the conflagration. Before Laegjarn could even react, she was engulfed by it, coming down around her like a cage.

“LAEGJARN!” Camilla’s scream was muffled by the hissing flame, but Laegjarn could not feel herself burning. This was not like the fateful day on which she had died, but a different feeling entirely.

Her body was warm, but she was paralyzed, unable to take a step as the walls of fire rose higher and higher around her. All sound was gone, replaced by the hissing of flame, until a voice she could not recognize boomed in her ears.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

And then she was gone.

The fire disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Minerva grit her teeth, running towards the spot she had last seen Laegjarn. Next to it was the charred corpse of Bael, a grisly sight even for a seasoned warrior like herself. Still, it paled in comparison to the twist of fear she felt as she searched for Laegjarn’s fallen form, and found instead nothing but scorch marks on the ground.

A rustling sound from the nearby hut caught her ear. Stomping across the ground, Minerva rushed inside, grabbing hold of the mage inside trying to escape out a window. With a grunt, she heaved them onto the ground, planting a boot on their chest and pressing Hauteclere to their neck.

“What happened to her?” she demanded.

“I…I don’t-”

“What happened?”

“Commander Minerva, if I may?”

Canas came walking forward, a finger in the air. Arcane runes glittered on his hand.

“When Princess Laegjarn disappeared, I sensed a powerful spell being cast. It resembled teleportation magic, like the kind used by the Black Knight, but at a much higher concentration. I believe that wherever Laegjarn may be…it could be a continent away.”

A chill seized Minerva as her eyes widened.

“That kind of magic is possible?”

Canas looked grave.

“Not for a mortal.”

Chapter Text

There one moment.

Gone the next.

That was the only way Gunnthra could picture it, even as the meeting she had practically forced herself into dragged on and on.

Laegjarn was there.

A gout of flame.

Then she was gone.

Part of her felt a familiar way. As if she were slowly drowning in pervasive fear, her every thought laden with anxiety and panic, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It had come when her father grew terribly ill, when she had learned of Surtr’s invasion of her homeland, while waiting for news on her mother after the attack, whilst hiding in Snjarhof, feeling heat and smelling smoke as heavy metal boots clomped towards her from the hall.

It was all too familiar.

“Let’s go over it one more time.” Commander Anna had her palms splayed on the meeting table, staring down as if she could bore a hole through the wood with her eyes. Gunnthra caught the subtle twinge of annoyance in Princess Minerva’s face as she began to repeat herself.

“We arrived at the castle and spoke to Queen Laevatein. She gave us a mission, to find and stop a gathering of Surtr’s loyalists, peacefully if possible. When we made contact with the dissidents, their leader ordered them to kill us. In the ensuing scuffle, Laegjarn was able to disarm the man, but he invoked a ritual…which one of the followers tells us was meant to summon the power of Muspell.”

“The Flame Dragon.” Anna cut in.

“The Flame Dragon. The same ritual Laegjarn herself used, in our encounter with her at Castle Muspell during that conflict.”

The stalwart princess eyed Gunnthra, something close to apology gleaming in her eyes.

“As you will recall, it lead, in her case, to a rapid influx of strength, swiftly followed by a slow death. For him…a pillar of flame. Laevatein’s castle medic says he was all but cooked, inside-out.”

“And Laegjarn?” Anna, too, seemed wary of Gunnthra, as though she were about to burst into tears. Little did they know, there were few things the Princess of Nifl excelled at more than hiding her pain.

“The fire seemed to…engulf Laegjarn. That was the last we saw of her, because as the flames cleared…she was gone.”

Gone.

Next to Anna, Prince Alfonse sighed.

“What did you do next, Minerva?”

“With their leader dead, many of the dissidents fled into the valley. Due to our reduced numbers and the emergence of a sudden…complication, I made the call not to pursue. Canas, Bartre and I stayed behind to question the remaining dissidents while I sent Camilla to alert Queen Laevatein.”

“Did any of them know anything about this…ritual?” asked Alfonse.

“If I may?” Canas waved a hand from behind Minerva, stepping up to the table as she moved slightly aside. “None claimed their leader had any magical prowess to speak of, and claimed it was am ancient Muspellian battle rite.”

“A battle rite?” Anna blinked. “One that kills the user instantaneously?”

“Not exactly…” Canas took in a deep breath. “Not if one is found worthy of the power it imbues, the legends say. You will recall, of course, Laegjarn’s previously mentioned use of the rite resulting in a drastic increase in her physical abilities. Indeed, it seems the spell itself is choosy about its user...or more likely, the force behind the spell is.”

The room grew quiet. Alfonse frowned.

“So…you think that the Flame Dragon itself heard the rite…and responded.”

“By slaughtering its own adherent?” Anna asked.

“Not only that!” Canas spoke loudly. Though he looked slightly charred, the dark mage was clearly in his element. “We have evidence that Laegjarn’s disappearance was caused by a teleportation spell, but after searching the area within the radius of any plausible spellcaster’s teleportation ability, we found nothing!”

“Which means…an implausible caster?” Anna questioned. The dark mage nodded.

“Like a god.”

Canas’ words hung silently in the air, their gravity not lost on anyone. Though Gunnthra had not been in the battle herself, she knew that Alfonse had once battled the Goddess of Death, and miraculously come out the victor. Even so, the war had taken its toll, including the young man’s own father amongst the slain.

“You think…” Gunnthra’s voice was weak, and yet every head in the room turned to her. “You think Laegjarn was…taken somewhere...by a god?”

Though the possibility clearly excited him academically, Canas still looked grim as he returned Gunnthra’s gaze. “With the information we currently have…I believe that is the most likely confusion.”

“A god…” Minerva clenched her fist. “Things never get any easier in this world, do they?”

“Does Queen Laevatein know?” Alfonse was standing now, running a hand through his hair as he glanced anxiously at Minerva.

Gunnthra watched her mouth a response, nodding her head, but the words escaped her as a din of fog seemed to come over her brain.

Laegjarn.

Dear, kind, generous Laegjarn.

Her general, her friend, her lover.

Her Laegjarn.

A clump began to form in her throat. Breathing had become difficult, as if she were staring into a roaring flame, its sparks dancing inches from her feet. Even through the distress, Laegjarn’s words rang clear in her mind.

“You are safe. You are home. You are loved.”

This fear was unfitting of her, this anxiety unacceptable. Reluctantly forcing Laegjarn’s soothing tones from her head, she let her mother’s constant mantra take their place.

“Eternal and unyielding, like the ice that surrounds.”

Gunnthra drew in a shaky breath, rising to full standing height. Again, the attention was on her, all conversation in the hall slowing to a stop as she regarded the table.

“Is there a way we can rescue her from this god?”

“Perhaps a bargain?” Minerva suggested. “Once we learn what it wants?”

“That is a promising idea!” Canas exclaimed. “If we get in contact with the Muspellians, perhaps they will know more about our mysterious kidnapper deity.”

“Knowledge should help no matter what we do.” Alfonse added. “Though I fear we won’t resolve this without a fight…”

“‘And so what if there is?’, I say!” Previously uncharacteristically quiet, Sharena seemed to have gotten a second wind, all but jumping out of her seat. “We’ve beaten gods before! Hell, we work with gods! Let’s see what this Flame Dragon says when the Order knocks at his door!”

The enthusiasm in the room was electric, even bolstering Gunnthra’s spirits a bit. If her girlfriend was in trouble, she would be hard pressed to choose any allies more worthy than the Order of Heroes.

“If I may offer my assistance…” she began, drawing the room’s attention once more. “I would like to lead the search and rescue efforts. I have been trained in organizing response plans to crises like these, and though I will not deny being personally and…emotionally involved, I believe I can do so effectively.”

Alfonse and Anna exchanged a look, as if both had objections to the idea. Sharena, though, clearly had none.

“See? We’ve got a trained queen on our side too! There’s no way we won’t find a way to bring Laegjarn back.”

The princess’ infectious optimism was a difficult wave to sail through, and Gunnthra found her terror momentarily drowned. As she began formulating a basic strategy for the search, Laegjarn’s return felt already close.

With the permission of Commander Anna, a special task-force was created with the express purpose of locating and rescuing their missing ally. Some of the Order’s fastest fliers, be it by pegasus, by wyvern, or simply by their own wings, were recruited, as were several Heroes who had proven themselves adept at gathering information. Others, such as Hrid and Minerva, had volunteered, often appending the additional work onto their regular duties.

A daily meeting for the group was headed by Gunnthra herself, who had divided a map into segments with priorities based on their proximity to the site of Laegjarn’s disappearance. She had decided early on to make quick sweeps of Askr and Muspell their earliest goals, as the most likely locations they’d find any hint of Laegjarn or her mysterious captor.

It was during one of those early meetings that a missive from Muspell arrived. Carrying orders from the Queen herself, Askr’s soldiers would have free reign to patrol the skies. Gunnthra was grateful, though a hand-written note carried by the messenger lamented that Laevatein could convince her advisors of no greater concessions, at least without a stronger excuse. For the sake of stability in a still recovering Muspell, Queen Laevatein had agreed to keep Laegjarn’s disappearance and the investigation a secret, for now.

Helming the task force brought back old feelings for Gunnthra, from a youth spent memorizing and retracing Nifl’s primary trade routes to her time at Snjarhof during the war, directing small groups of Niflian soldiers to disrupt Muspellian supply lines. This was what she had trained for, what she had been born for, she told herself.

But the days were long, the nights spent alone, and for the first time in Askr, Gunnthra went to bed feeling cold.

Five days into the search, Gunnthra took to the field herself.

She held Icicle’s reins in her hands, riding along a country trail in Askr’s northern hills. The road was rough and dilapidated, making for a bumpy experience, but despite the terrain, Icicle pressed on. A horse raised running along the icy ridges of Nifl, she supposed, was used to rougher rides.

“You’re doing well.” Gunnthra muttered, brushing Icicle’s mane with the heel of her hand.

When she reached the top of the hill, Gunnthra scanned the horizon.

The emerald valleys of Askr’s countryside were legendarily beautiful, and from her position, Gunnthra had a view she knew many of her fellow Heroes had long yearned to be sent on a mission to this part of the country to receive.

Still, as she looked out onto the landscape before her, no sense of joy sprang to life in her chest.

The colors, despite their illumination by the midday sun, seemed muddied, the sounds of the nearby creek muted, and the wide open space around her seemed to stretch on forever.

A place like this was all she had wanted, once, and yet today, it felt empty.

It was not until the ride home, empty handed and tired, that Gunnthra realized she had seen this place before.

From wyvernback.

It was one week after the disappearance that Gunnthra overheard a conversation from outside of her closed bedroom door.

"Do you know where she went? Everyone seems worried..."

She recognized Ylgr's voice immediately, as well as the heavy sigh in return.

"Kid, don't you think if I knew where she was, I'd have gotten her back by now?"

Helbindi's frustration was clear to Gunnthra, but she could hear him restraining it for her sister's sake.

"Yeah, I guess so...Sorry."

"...It's whatever, kid. We'll find her."

A pause.

"You're sure?"

"I am. I'm pretty sick of losin' people."

It was two weeks into the search that there was a knock at Gunnthra’s door in the middle of the night.

Her heart leapt, she hated to realize, until she heard the voice on the other end.

“Gunnthra?”

Hrid’s tone was measured, careful. She imagined that he did not want to wake Fjorm or Ylgr.

“Are you still awake?”

For a moment, she considered not answering. Gunnthra was halfway sunken into the blankets, her face flush with the pillow.

Her sadness, she decided, would not be enough to keep her from her family. She would not grant it that power.

Slowly, but with great effort, she rose from the bed and walks across the silent dormitory. Every footstep felt like it echoed around the pitch-dark room, despite the plush carpet that lined its floors.

Gunnthra pulled the door open, just a crack. Hrid’s expression was warm, not that of a crown prince, but a concerned little brother, and she could still smell the pegasus on him. He must have just returned from the search.

“Did you find anything tonight?” Gunnthra asked, then berated herself for it. She could read the answer on his face, the emptiness of his eyes and the curl of his lips, and making him speak it aloud felt cruel. The sadness he tried to mask in his response, too, was all too easy to see.

“No.”

As her brother deflated, Gunnthra nodded, twin stings of disappointment in the news and in herself piercing her heart. She wanted to apologize, wanted to ask for help, but a phantom chill froze the words in her throat.

Instead, she simply took a step back into the darkness, pulling the door closed.

“Wait.”

Hrid carefully wedged his shoulder in the door, pushing his way inside. Gunnthra could not bring herself to resist, verbally or physically, simply watching as he enters the room. It brought her back to a place and time worlds away.

”I’ll fight. I have to."

The unfamiliar grip of a shortsword bites into Gunnthra’s right hand, her Blizzard tome clenched in her left. The escape tunnel is poorly lit, but she can see frustration cross Hrid’s face as he moves to stand in her way.

Somewhere in the burning palace above, someone screams, and suddenly stops.

Her brother kept her word, even though she did not.

Who could she protect, if not even herself?

“Have you been sleeping?”

Hrid’s voice snapped Gunnthra from her memories, from the world she once called home.

“No. Not well. Not since Laegjarn…”

She realized, all too quickly, it is the first time she has spoken her name aloud in days.

How long had it been since she had spoken to anyone else? Since she left her room…[em]their[/em] room? Since she asked Ylgr to leave her meals outside the door?

Dizzy, as if fatigue felll upon her all at once, Gunnthra sat back on the bed.

Hrid followed, placing a calming hand on her shoulder as he joined her.

“We’re doing all that we can, Gunnthra. Between the Order of Heroes, the Niflian scouts, and Queen Laevatein’s forces…we will find Princess Laegjarn.”

He swallowed, gently pulling Gunnthra towards him.

“She wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself like this.”

Gunnthra drew in a shaky breath.

“She’s not dreaming.”

As Hrid raised an eyebrow, she continued. “If she were dreaming, I would know. I could reach out…see where she is, if she’s okay. I could maybe learn something…maybe hear her voice…”

Sobs began to wrack Gunnthra’s body as this world’s Hrid, the man who shares none of her blood, but is unquestionably her brother, pulled her into an embrace.

“I’m sure that wherever she is, she is fighting to make it home to you. Laegjarn is strong.”

Gunnthra knew. But she thought not of her girlfriend clashing blades with Minerva, nor of her standing victorious as the invading Surtr dissolved into the snows of Nifl. She thought of Laegjarn knelt in the garden, tending to the blooms she had named after the innocents who once fell to her blade, when she pictured her strength.

With a shudder, Gunnthra nodded. “She is strong. Unquestionably so, and that’s why I’m worried. She’s always fighting, always putting on a brave face, never letting anyone see her falter. But even sheneeds to rest, and she comes to me for care. But now…she could be all alone…”

Panic bubbled up within Gunnthra, her diplomat’s facade shattering as she sobbed.

“She isn’t dreaming, Hrid. What does that mean? What’s happening to her? What could someone be doing to her?”

Gunnthra’s hands clutched at the blankets.

She sees Laegjarn, impaled by a blade, blood trickling from her mouth as the life leaves her.

She sees Laegjarn, trapped in a secluded cell, cold water thrown on her face whenever merciful sleep starts to take her.

She sees Laegjarn, Princess of Flame, Muspell, and of her heart, burning.

“We promised that we would protect each other.”

Hrid held her tightly, but she felt the absence in the room deeper and more drastically than ever before.

“I failed her.”

A month after Laegjarn’s disappearance, the Order of Heroes received a report.

“A tall Muspellian woman astride a horse.” Niles says, reading off of the note in his hands. “Green hair, black and red armor.”

Gunnthra’s heart leapt in her chest as she takes in the news.

“That’s her!”

Sharena spoke before Gunnthra could muster the words, standing from her seat at the war room table.

“That has to be Laegjarn!”

As the gathered Heroes seemed to swell with hope, Niles raises his hand.

“Hold your horses, folks. There’s more to this report…the woodsman who saw her claims that she carried a golden bow…”

Alfonse frowns.

“A bow? I haven’t ever seen Princess Laegjarn wielding a bow…”

Though she wracked her brain to remember, Gunnthra could not recall it either.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Surtr ordered her trained in archery.” Minerva glanced at the figure who sats at the head of the table, still dressed in her regal finery. “What say you, Queen Laevatein?”

The Muspellian queen, who had been attending on a diplomatic visit when the news arrived, spoke up.

“I was only ever schooled to wield my namesake blade…but I would not doubt Laegjarn was given more comprehensive lessons.” She steeples her fingers, resting her chin atop them. “It would not surprise me to learn my sister was skilled with the bow.”

“Well, I’m afraid that whoever this mysterious rider was, they certainly were.”

Niles grimaced as he balled the report up, dropping it on the floor.

“The witness was found crawling back to his village and rushed to the town doctor. There, they removed an arrow lodged mere inches from his heart…and the puncture wound was surrounded by burns.”

A grave silence filled the room.

“Laegjarn…” Gunnthra stammered, “Laegjarn would never…”

“Laegjarn or not, a near-fatal assault on an Askran civilian demands investigation.”

Anna rose to her feet, a dire look on her face.

“Let’s organize a scouting force and depart for that woodland village.”

As the assembled commanders filtered out of the room, Gunnthra stayed near frozen to her seat, elation and dread swirling inside of her.

What could this mean? Why would Laegjarn…if it even was Laegjarn…”

“Darling?”

Gunnthra lifted her head to see a trio of figures surrounding here, ones who had been instrumental in the search efforts.

Sir Jagen stood at attention, Minerva looking stalwart at his side. Camilla, the Princess of Nohr, leaned close to Gunnthra and ran a calming hand through her hair.

“Are you coming with us? You look so [em]exhausted[/em], Gunngunn…”

“I am.” Gunnthra answered, resolute. “I have to see…I have to know for myself.”

“And we will be at your side.” Jagen added, strapping on one of his pauldrons. Beside him, Minerva slid Hauteclere into its scabbard.

“Let’s go find your girlfriend.”

Nothing could have prepared Gunnthra for what they would find.

A village aflame.

An army of spectral soldiers, their forms wreathed in flame.

And at its head…

“Laegjarn…” Gunnthra whispered.

Riding a hulking black stallion, flame licking at its hooves, her hair longer and her crown adorned with twin horns, was unmistakably Princess Laegjarn.

As she turned to face the arriving Heroes, Gunnthra saw that her love’s expression was twisted into a malevolent sneer, entirely unfit for her beautiful face.

Her left eye was gone, and a flame flickered where it once was.

“Laegjarn!” Gunnthra shouted.

The general raised her bow, took aim, and fired a flaming arrow directly at her princess’ heart.

Chapter Text

Heat.

All Laegjarn can see is fire, cascading in waves that flicker and crackle against a vast black void. She struggles to move, but her limbs do not respond, and when she opens her mouth to speak, no sound emerges.

The situation feels familiar, in a way she cannot quite place, though the thought sends a chill down her spine.

Laegjarn.

A voice booms from somewhere, though Laegjarn cannot place it.

Daughter of Surtr.

Is it her father’s? No. His is a voice seared into her memory, and this is not the same.

Blood of the Flame Dragon.

Pain shoots through her in an instant, and Laegjarn lets out a silenced scream, half agony and half surprise.

Commander.

The voice gets louder, speaking faster.

Killer.

Failure.

The brand on her back stings.

Corpse.

Traitor.

Kinslayer.

It is then that Laegjarn realizes that the voice is not coming from somewhere beyond the roaring flames.

It is the voice of fire itself.

Show me more. Open your mind to me.

Burn.

Laegjarn sees herself through her own eyes.

She stands in the center of a battlefield, Niu gripped in her hand. The enchanted weapon’s searing blade drips with blood, as an army of opponents charge forth from all directions. Their garb and weapons are familiar to her, a mix of Niflian and Muspellian colors, axes, lances, and swords.

They rush her, mouths open in silent battle cries, but the only audible sound is the sizzling blood that drips from her weapon, pooling between the corpses on the floor below as she cuts them down.

A warrior, then.

She disarms a muscular Muspellian bandit with a sweep, then plunges Niu through his unprotected chest, before whirling to embed it in a Niflian guardsman’s neck before he can even swing his blade.

And not an insignificant one.

The voice chuckles darkly, its joy at the carnage readily apparent.

Look at you. Look at your face.

Laegjarn does, horrified at what she finds.

There is no shred of remorse or regret there, only a stoic glare and speckles of gore, fully impassive as the corpses pile around her feet.

“This is not who I am anymore.”

For the first time, she can hear her own voice, but the elation is short lived as another jolt of pain sears within her chest.

(Her chest? Where is it? Where is she?)

And why is that? Do you fear power? Fear your own ability? Shrink from the taste of blood on your lips and the dying screams of your enemies?

Answer me, dog!

Laegjarn falls to her knees, blood splashing all around her, onto her hands, her feet, her face.

“I will never…never again take an innocent life! I am not a weapon…not anymore.”

Her breath comes in hot, short bursts. For a scarce few moments, the voice is silent.

And then it laughs. Uproariously, loud enough to make her ears ring.

So you say.

More.

At the command, the world around Laegjarn fades to nothingness. She sees herself floating atop an ocean of black water, waves carrying her motionless body along.

This cold…is it…

A burst of heat comes from somewhere.

...No. I recognize this cold. So, Hel truly did claim you, did she?

Suddenly, there is a flicker of light on the horizon. At first, she thinks, it must be the sun.

But there is no sun here, no light at all.

She had resigned herself to never seeing it again.

The tiny spark grows brighter, swelling in size as it begins to illuminate the void around.

But it is not growing, it is only getting closer.

Damnable Breidablik!

The voice spits the name like a curse, and Laegjarn recognizes it.

Breidablik is the Summoner’s weapon, the mysterious firearm capable of summoning allies from other worlds. She realizes, with a start, that this must be the moment of her own summoning, the instant she was pulled from the sleep of death into the world she inhabits now.

The world in which she is a Hero.

Something inside of her burns. It roils inside of her, though she cannot tell where it hurts, because she can feel so little of herself.

Meager little upstart! From where comes this misspent pride?

Show me!

The world around her changes once more. She sees herself in the streets of Gicelheim, Niu ablaze at her side as she cuts down flaming phantoms spawned by the Tempest. All around her, townsfolk in Niflese garb flee from the blaze that is engulfing the city.

This place…yes…this place has her contemptible scent upon it.

Why do you fight for these people? Craven children of an enemy god?

Speak!

Laegjarn isn’t sure how she does so, but she is able to answer.

“My blade is for the innocent.”

Ha!

“The downtrodden!”

Ahahaha!

“Those who require my protection!”

The voice stops laughing, and answers in a roar loud enough to ripple the vision that surrounds them.

Your protection? You are a failure! A weakling! Mere kindling! You should be groveling, scraping for an ounce of my power to redeem yourself!

With a flash, the world changes once again.

She is kneeling, alone, on the floor of the Order’s dining hall. She remembers it well, her lowest point, when she thought herself worthy of nothing but a swift second death.

A figure emerges from the darkness surrounding her, his armor gleaming even in the darkened hall.

It is Sir Jagen, hand outstretched to her.

He is followed, swiftly, by others.

Camilla, Minerva, Cherche, Marth, Fjorm, Hrid, Alfonse, Sharena, Helbindi…soon the hall is full of those that she is close to, those that have stood by her as she found her calling once again. They surround her on all sides, and slowly, Laegjarn begins to rise to her feet.

The voice makes a derisive sound, but Laegjarn’s attention is elsewhere. She is looking over the shoulders of the gathered crowd, onto the other side of the spacious castle room.

There, her cherry blossom colored hair falling beautifully down her back, is her Princess.

Gunnthra is smiling, a column of light illuminating the gentle smile on her face and the blue sparkle in her eyes.

The sight of her, as always, takes Laegjarn’s breath away.

Their friends clear a path as Laegjarn walks towards Gunnthra, every step coming quicker than the last.

Then the floor cracks open.

Laegjarn falls, her body plummeting back into an all-surrounding darkness. Her hand stretches out, as if by reflex, but it is too late to grab the edge.

She closes her eyes.

Something stops her anyway, her outstretched arm held fast.

She needs not open her eyes to tell what it is, she knows by the soothing chill on her wrists alone, but she does, taking in Gunnthra’s relieved smile as she pulls her back to safety. How many times is it now that she has saved her life?

She loves her. Totally and always.

Something roars, and time stops.

Contemptible!

Laegjarn feels like her heart is about to explode, burning and swelling as the voice’s anger doubles and redoubles with every passing second.

Clinging to a Niflese corpse!

The heat is worse than ever, a horrific scalding pain that reminds her of only one moment in her life.

You dishonor your lineage!

Her eyes brim over with tears, and it is all she can do to keep them open, to focus on the gentle look on Gunnthra’s face.

You sully MY BLOOD!

Her entire body feels as if it is turning to ash, her thoughts slowly being overwritten with nothing but agony and desperation for relief.

But before it overwhelms her, Laegjarn speaks.

“Hiding behind words and illusions…” she whispers. “...Time has weakened you, Flame Dragon Muspell. Face me!”

An indignant bellow resonates throughout the empty space, and Laegjarn’s vision fills with an angry red.

The next thing that she knows, she is staring at a familiar horizon. Her homeland’s ash-choked skies and craggy peaks dominate her field of vision, but the lone figure standing a few meters away dominates her attention.

He does not stand as tall as her father once had, lacking the awe-inspiring physical presence that King Surtr brought with him. Nor does he wear any imposing armor, his bare chest and simple pants accessorized solely by a deep red cape.

But Laegjarn, in her time with the order, has met many beings whose appearance belie their true power, and one glance at the searing embers that drip from this man’s fists are enough to tell anyone that he is not to be taken likely.

A primal sort of awe courses through her as she looks directly into the eyes of a creature of legend, the namesake and creator of her homeland, whose blood she was once taught was the only worthy thing inside of her weakling’s body.

Niu is in her hands.

“What is this?”

His voice is a low hiss, the one eye visible beneath his flaming mane of hair studying her as he walks slowly towards her.

“You would deny me? You would take up arms against me, the source of your family’s power? Your master? Your GOD?”

“Peace, Muspell.” Laegjarn responds, channeling Gunnthra as she lowers her weapon. “Let us speak-”

Before she can finish the sentence, the god is gone in a puff of smoke, and she feels a wave of oppressive heat as he reappears mere inches from her face, grabbing for her neck. She has just enough time to stagger back, but still feels the searing heat of his skin brushing up against her collarbone.

“Peace?!? PEACE?!?” he roars. “What weakness drips from you, dog?! Such cowardice should have turned to ash in your throat in the presence of MY blood! You shame your very origins with such pathetic whimpering!”

Quickly, Laegjarn raises her weapon, feeling Niu’s runes blaze to life in her hands as she readies for Muspell’s next attack.

“You will find, Muspell, that my origins have meant little to me since I left my father’s corpse in the Nifl snowfields.”

To Laegjarn’s surprise, the god begins to laugh, the inferno atop his head spewing embers as he does.

“Yes! That’s the FIRE I sensed in you. The blazing power inside…the kind you SMOTHER and HIDE!”

Without warning, Muspell runs towards Laegjarn, raising a hand as if to rake it across her face. She has sworn to never draw Niu on an unarmed opponent, but in this case, she will make an exception. With a cry of effort, she swings her blade towards the oncoming god, but no resistance meets the weapon. Instead, the blade soars through Muspell’s form as if it were intangible, leaving nothing but heat on Niu’s edge as the weapon carves through.

Laegjarn barely has time to comprehend what had happened before a heavy palm collides with her head, sending her reeling as Muspell’s cackling continues.

“Nice try, dog!”

His fingers wrap around her face, scorching her cheeks as the flame god drags her onto the ground.

“Agh!”

Laegjarn’s whole world is heat and pain as she lies on her back, Niu clattering uselessly away. She closes her eyes and grits her teeth, but she can still hear the Flame Dragon’s cruel laughter.

“You sought to fight fire with fire, little princess. But no blaze burns hotter than mine!”

She lays there, dazed, forcing her eyes open in time to see Muspell looking her over like Anna with a gold coin.

“There are still traces of my power in you.” he hisses. “I had meant to make your father my servant, but the arrogant fool forgot his own mortality before I could. And your upstart little brat of a sister has refused my power at every turn!”

Pride in Laevatein swells within her alongside a deep and primal rage at the thought of this monster ever laying a hand on her sister. She screams, attempting to force herself back into a sitting position, but another blow from Muspell is enough to stop that.

“But you…your soul is thin.” he says, a malevolent grin lighting up his features. “Hel took something from you that can never be returned, dog. And because of that...hahahaha…AHAHAHAHA!”

Muspell raises a hand. The sky is on fire.

“YOU CANNOT REFUSE YOUR DESTINY!” he cries, grinning ear to ear. “YOU CANNOT REFUSE YOUR GOD!”

His hand descends,fingers burning, until his thumb jabs into Laegjarn’s left eye.

“YOU CANNOT REFUSE ME!”

Her vision, now halved, fades into a searing white heat.

When Laegjarn awakes, all is blurry, and her other senses provide only confusing information.

She can feel herself moving, hear leaves crunching under her feet, and smell a familiar, verdant scent.

Askran pine trees? But she had just been in Muspell…hadn’t she?

Wait…what exactly had happened in Muspell?

She recalls the rush of flying on Plume’s back, the visit from Gunnthra in her dreams, seeing Laevatein, facing Bael, a gout of flame…and then…

Her mind. Her memories.

Muspell

As her vision returns, Laegjarn is riding astride a black horse, deep in what appears to be a forest. A voice, cruel and loud, rings in her ears.

” You return. And here I thought that you may never wake again, dog.”

She recognizes the Flame God instantly, attempting to look around for him…but her head will not turn. Her eyes, instead, dart towards a nearby pond, and in its still reflection, she sees herself…changed.

Her hair, longer than before, extends slightly past her shoulders. Her horned tiara has been twisted, formed into a shape that calls to mind the ears of a wolf. Hardest to notice, but by far most striking to Laegjarn, her left eye is gone.

All that remains is a burning ember within, and she watches her own face smile back at her despite the revulsion and fear that she feels.

”All that you are belongs to me now. Such is the right of the conqueror, the power you so foolishly tossed away!”

Laegjarn lunges inside her own mind for any power at all, any foothold from which to begin prying back control of her body from this divine invader, but no part of “herself” responds. She makes to speak, to demand a stop to this madness, but even inside of herself, voice does not come.

Instead, she can only listen as Muspell, from his own lips and her own, cackles, returning to their ride through the deep Askran woodlands.

”You awoke just in time for a show…do you see what lies ahead?”

Laegjarn, through eyes that were once her own, can see a break in the treeline. There, beneath a pillar of sun, a man stands, facing away from them. The smoke of a pipe rises slowly into the air, and he does not turn, even as Muspell reaches across their back.

She can feel the bow in her hands, sense the tension in the string as it is drawn.

Stop. No. Why.

The words don’t come.

Run. Hide. Flee.

Her voice is silent.

“Die!” they scream, and the man whirls around just in time for the arrow to catch him in the chest.

Muspell’s laughter is the last thing Laegjarn hears before her consciousness fades once more.

It is only days later, still a prisoner within her own body, that she watches the Order’s banner fly from atop a hill, its Heroes arrived too late to save the village that her own hands have set alight.

She sees familiar faces at the head of the group.

Jagen, Minerva, Camilla…

Gunnthra.

“Laegjarn!”

Her love’s voice, unmistakable, pierces the din of the inferno around them.

”Eyes up, dog. I want you to watch this.”

She tries to scream out a warning, tries to thwart her own aim, tries anything and everything as she thrashes within the darkness of a stolen body.

Nothing helps.

She watches as the flaming arrow flies directly for her princess’ heart.