Cirino does actually offer to accompany Sherral on his visit to Rhagarde, but Sherral has to turn him down: Dragging a Rozarrian along is not going to make Rhagarde more likely to give his seal of approval.

He contacts Rhagarde’s manservant (honestly, who takes a manservant along to an archaeological expedition?) and sets a time for the two of them to speak, and makes certain he arrives on time.

He’s made to wait outside the man’s tent for a whole ten minutes past their scheduled time before the manservant eventually leads him through.

On the inside, Rhagarde’s tent is absurd. It’s made from expensive materials and built for warmth, but Giruvegan isn’t cold enough to warrant it, and it’s suffocatingly hot within. The entire floor is covered by a rug, and a tremendous four poster bed is at one end, dominating the room. Other pieces of furniture - chaise-longues, a wooden table that must have taken a dozen men to move, a clawed bath with a twinkling crystal of water magicite on one end - are laid out around the tent, as if to give the impression of a set of opulent apartments, instead of a tent in an archaeological expedition.

(Sherral does note the small statue of Faram on the bedside table, and the Book of Light besides it. Very pious indeed. A little strange as well: It is common for Archadians to devote the bulk of their reverence to Miriam, goddess of war and justice.)

“His Grace, the most noble Duke Leopold Tycho Marcus Rhagarde, son of Sebastian Rhagarde, High Lord and Defender of the Eastern Territories, Duke of Galdheim, Viscount Montbelliard, Second Imperial Scion, Senatorial Knight of the Third Class,” the manservant announces as Sherral enters, before bowing low to his master. “Your Grace, Ser Sherral Rannoch Maduin, Judge-Captain of the Ministry of Law.”

Rhagarde himself is writing at a desk, although Sherral suspects he sat down and started writing nonsense only a few minutes earlier - it’s an obvious little piece of theatre, meant to make him seem more busy and important than he is.

“My apologies, Ser Maduin,” he says after a moment, laying down his pen and heaving himself up from his seat. The man is not old, not truly - middle-aged, perhaps, starting to grey, with crow’s feet - but he moves like someone fifty years older than he looks. Once he’s risen, he gives Sherral a once over, raising an eyebrow. “My word, you are young. You know, in Bhujerba, they do not let any join their military until they’ve seen seventeen summers. They must think it rather barbaric that an Archadian boy might have both medals and scars by the time he’s twenty.”

Sherral inclines his head a little. “In truth, I didn’t ask for this meeting to discuss how we might learn from Bhujerba.”

“Ha! There’s that Northern abruptness. Ser Beor warned me of that. He thinks you barely civilised, you know - and he thinks Ser Desmerais to be craven and weak-willed, and Ser Howell to be out of touch and slow,” Rhagarde frowns a little. “He is a truly exhausting fellow.”

Sherral is very tempted to ask what Beor was meeting with Rhagarde about, but he thinks a distraction from the topic at hand might be just what the duke is after.

“No, you came here to ask that I corral the Kiltia into giving their blessing to some mission to seek out a factory,” Rhagarde says after a moment. “Don’t look so surprised, I do have friends outside of the holy orders. Has Draklor yet given you their approval?”

“They have. Ser Howell too, and the commanders of Dalmasca and Rozarria’s forces will give their approval shortly,” Sherral says.

“In truth, I am divided over the whole idea of it. The gods did reveal this city to us, after all, and surely so that we might explore it, but is it not their hand that directs these monsters against us?” Rhagarde shakes his head. “It is a quandary. The Kiltia would think so as well, if I were to ask that they discuss it.”

“Only if you believe that there’s any kind of divine plan involved.”

“Which I do.” Rhagarde’s voice is a little sharp. “I would be a fool not to. A city materialises from the Mist, a purvama of islands appears in the sky - these are not magicks that any mortal might wield. No, I see Faram’s handiwork quite clearly, the Father of Light illuminating parts of our world we never saw before.”

Sherral waits without saying anything. If Rhagarde’s already heard about what he’s asking, then he’s likely already made a decision. He’ll get to it eventually. As he watches, Rhagarde’s manservant pours two cups of tea. Rhagarde takes one, and the manservant holds the other out for Sherral.

It would be rude to wave him away, so Sherral reluctantly takes the tea, holding it without drinking.

“I suppose I could hold the Kiltia back. Explain to them that this is a test placed before us by our lady Miriam, with Faram’s blessing,” Rhagarde says after a quick sip of his tea. “I would have conditions, however.”

“I am truly surprised,” Sherral says flatly.

Rhagarde barks out a quick laugh. “Not to worry, they are nothing that you wouldn’t be amenable towards. I am happy to have Braegh Company and the 21st Jinetes take the mission, however I would have them joined by Dalmasca’s 4th Expeditionary Force and - more importantly - our own Pallicant Company. Ser Beor will take overall leadership of the mission, and you and Alferez-Capitan Bracamontes may serve as his right and his left hands.”

Sherral very carefully keeps his expression neutral. Bergard Beor had, a year prior, been a fellow garrison captain at Rabanastre, and one with a particular penchant for brutality. Pairing his soldiers with a Dalmascan force seemed like a one way trip to violence breaking out on the expedition.

“May I ask why?”

“This is an important mission, I would not want to exclude Dalmasca a role in it. Ser Beor has worked closely with the 4th Expeditionary Force thus far,” Rhagarde says. “And I could hardly place him under your command, could I? He might be so incensed as to challenge me to a duel.”

“If those are your conditions, then I’m sure we could arrange something,” Sherral says carefully.

“I do have one more: There are likely members of both the archaeologists’ party and the Kiltia who would like to accompany you, I’d ask that you strongly consider taking a few of them along. I will also accompany you, and take full responsibility for the conduct and safety of any civilians joining the mission.”

This seems more and more like a bad idea the more Sherral hears. But it's not like they can just ignore what might be an endless supply of hostile forces.

"I'll discuss your proposals with Ser Howell."

Sherral’s new orders are interesting ones, to say the least.

Giruvegan, the mythical city of the gods, had been revealed to exist during the strangeness a year prior, concealed with the Jagd Difohr by a tremendous Mist storm that had now dissipated - and naturally, an outpost for archaeological study had been set up amongst it.

Crawling with monsters and sitting within the lawless wilds of Kerwon, held by no nation, it had been decided after torturous diplomatic negotiations that Archadia, Rozarria, Dalmasca and Bhujerba would jointly own and run the outpost, contributing military from each country to defend it and clear out paths to potential new areas to study.

The 19th Regiment is due to be reassigned and replaced with the 42nd Regiment under the command of Judge-Marshal Beatrice Howell, and Sherral had been placed in command of Braegh Company, a company of some eighty soldiers, and was due to report to the Highwind, a Catoblepas-class Destroyer two days hence.


---


Giruvegan is like nothing Sherral’s seen before. Built on a series of islands connected by bridges and waystones and rising from a vast, clear lake, the whole city looks to be nearly as big as Archades, Rabanastre, and Ambervale put together.

Ser Desmerais, another new Judge and the commander of Helvinek Company, joins him at the window, hands clasped behind her back. While Sherral suspects that he still looks somewhat ill-at-ease in his new role, Desmerais inhabits the role like she was born for it. He prefers her to Ser Beor, although he suspects that his and Beor’s prior history is not exactly helping.

“According to Her Majesty Queen Ashelia, the city is even larger than it appears,” she says. “That beneath the lake there is a vast subterranean cavern, and beneath that a labyrinth of crystalline caves.”

Sherral lifts an eyebrow. “And yet no idea of what civilisation built it?”

“If she knows, the young queen has not shared it with us,” Desmerais says. “Although I think it unlikely that many people will be swayed from the belief that it was raised by the gods themselves.”

“It’s been a while since I read the holy texts, but I don’t think city planning was ever listed amongst Faram’s virtues,” Sherral notes flatly.

Desmerais snorts. “And yet it is politically advantageous to many to act as if the matter is an open and shut one. Already, the Kiltia’s new College of Hymms stake their claim on the city, arguing that it and everything within it is theirs.”

Sherral cants his head a little. “You sound as if you disapprove of the college.”

Desmerais spreads her hands. “Gran Kiltias Anastasis’ murder was a crime of the highest order. He was a great man. But not all among the Light of Kiltias’ hierarchy were as holy as he, and in the centuries that he reigned it was easy to forget that. Among the college there are no shortage of wealthy, powerful men who would see the church become more powerful and influential, and line their own pockets in the process. If they could, they would have Giruvegan be their city state, from there to apportion out its riches and knowledge to whomever would gift them with the most support, wealth and power.”

“We are to expect irate clergymen and proselytisers as well as monsters, then?” Sherral asks. “How distasteful.”

“Clergymen, proselytisers, pilgrims, their backers amongst the nobility,” Desmerais says. “From what I gather, for every soldier there are three archaeologists, and for every archaeologist three worshippers.”

Sherral watches her for a moment, then turns back towards the window. “Maybe if we’re very lucky, we’ll be devoured by monsters on the first day.”


---


The central outpost is set up on an island in sight of, but not too close to the gate to the Feywood. It looks like this area was meant to be some kind of plaza, at one time, a large circular area ringed in gilted buildings, with the channels of water that run throughout the city streets leading to a central pool.

Tents have been set up around it, and in the streets beyond. Sherral believes, at first, that the largest group of tents are for the archaeologists, but he’s quickly told that they’re not, and shown where those are: Those tents are smaller, more modest, a couple of dozen to quarter them, with a few of the buildings converted for use in studying and storing artifacts.

The military tents are easy to recognise as well, packed close together to take up as little space as possible, all of more or less uniform size. The only ones that stand out are the slightly smaller tents, four in total, meant to house Judge-Marshal Howell and whosoever was leading the Dalmascan, Bhujerban, and Rozarrian forces.

The largest group of tents, then, is for Duke Leopold Rhagarde, an Archadian nobleman (Sherral recognised the name, at least - House Rhagarde was the high house that controlled the Eastern Territories, a resource and trade rich part of the Empire) who had made himself something of a champion of the faithful, and his entourage. He had duly provided the tents himself, along with considerable donations of money, food and equipment that both the archaeologists and the military had been only too happy to take - that, apparently, was more than enough to buy a permanent place for anyone with his seal of approval.

Next on the agenda is meeting the commanders he’d be working with. Braegh Company had been partnered with the 21st Jinetes Company of Rozarria (he can already see the dirty jokes arising out of that partnership), with a small company of Dalmascan militiamen to back them up - and since the 21st had been in Giruvegan a whole four months longer than Braegh Company, Sherral is fairly sure they’ll be eager to lord their seniority over them.

It becomes immediately obvious that this was not going to be an easy partnership when the 21st’s commander, Alferez-Capitan Cirino Bracamontes, fails to show up at Ser Howell’s tent.

After thirty minutes of waiting, Sherral excuses himself and sets out in search of Cirino. The man isn’t anywhere to be found amid the space set aside for training, but there is a building that the soldiers have turned into a kind of tavern (if a very unruly one), and he finds Bracamontes (well, a man fitting his description in the uniform of an Alferez-Capitan, at least) there, ale in one hand, distantly watching a scuffle between a Bhujerban soldier and a Dalmascan.

“Alferez-Capitan Bracamontes,” he says, sitting next to the man. “Perhaps I should spend my first month’s wages on a pocketwatch for you, I imagine you may have some use of it.”

Bracamontes snorts. “Just Cirino, please. We are meant to be friends, aren’t we?” He says. “And I presume I can call you Sherral? I know Archadians are sticklers for formality.”

“If you like,” Sherral says, and waves a hand at the Dalmascan soldier filling in as bartender, who quickly pours him an ale.

Bracamontes mulls something over for a while. “Braegh Company. Was that intentional?” He gives Sherral a quick grin, and Sherral lifts his shoulders ever so slightly.

“You’d have to ask my superiors, I fear.”

Bracamontes makes an affirmative noise, and gulps down more ale.

“You’re younger than your predecessor.”

“I’m aware,” Sherral says mildly. “However, he was keen to be reassigned, and the Empire felt the developing situation here required the presence of Judges.”

“New Judges,” Bracamontes corrects. “The situation here is not so dire, apparently, that they send seasoned members of your Order, instead we are saddled with twenty-year-old greenhorns and one crone dragged from retirement, and a handful of companies made up half of new recruits and half of the ignominous and unwanted.”

“I’m not sure you want the scrutiny of a seasoned Judge, Cirino,” Sherral says wryly. “But either way, the Empire felt they were needed elsewhere, along with the more illustrious of our forces.”

Bracamontes snorts derisively. “Well, do not worry yourself, I’m sure we can find some task for all of you. Cleaning the barracks, maybe.” Sherral feels some irritation prickle at the back of his neck, but he doesn’t mention it.

“How many men have you lost in the past few months, Cirino?” He puts the slightest emphasis on the man’s name, tilting his head a little. “It must be difficult for them. The Mists here are heavy, and Rozarrian soldiers are not accustomed to them. Or the kinds of monsters they produce, since your homeland enjoys relatively mundane wildlife.”

“It’s a dangerous city. You mean to imply that my men aren’t up to the task?”

“Cirino, I’m telling you outright that your company aren’t up to the task. Continue to lose soldiers at your current rate and every man under your command will be dead or injured by the end of the year without our assistance. If that’s to your liking, then I’m sure my company will be more than happy to take your generous offer of safe cleaning work,” Sherral says.

“Be careful,” Cirino says sharply. “If you end up with an arrow in the back while out on a mission, my superiors certainly won’t be in any rush to see me punished for it.”

Sherral gives him a quick smile. “I’ll have the rosters for integrated squads with you by tomorrow evening. Some of yours, some of mine, and a few of our friends in Dalmasca’s militia. If we are to be partners in this assignment, it behooves us to do it properly.”

Sherral stands and salutes as Major Ronick enters his office, leaning on a walking stick. He waves Sherral down, and Sherral nods and pulls out a chair for the other man, before settling him first.

"You could have summoned me, sir. You shouldn't be traveling in your condition," he says.

"Obviously," Ronick replies. "Because as an officer of the Empire for nearly fifty years, I am unable to gauge my own capabilities for myself, clearly."

Sherral ducks his head, turning a little red. "My apologies, sir, that was overly familiar of me."

Ronick waves him away again and sits down, pulling an envelope from his coat. "Your reassignment orders, Captain Maduin."

Sherral watches Ronick for a moment, before opening the envelope and pulling out the documents. Most of it is just standard paperwork, but the letter at the beginning sums it all up more than sufficiently.

Captain Sherral Maduin, Western Division, Rabanastre Garrison, Imperial 8th Fleet.

At the recommendation of the following and the decision of the Ministry of Law, you are to report to the Akademy, currently above the Imperial City of Archades, to undergo a course of training supplied by the Order of Judges.

Admission to the Order of Judges, and the rank granted upon admission, will be contingent on successful completion of this course with a satisfactory mark, and at the discretion of the Ministry of Law. Failure to complete the course, or an unsatisfactory mark, will result in your previous rank being restored (subject to review) and reassignment.

Please find enclosed all paperwork regarding this transfer.

A few pages in there are a list of people who provided recommendations. Judge Foris Zecht, dated a little over two years past, and more recently, Major Ronick, Judge Noah Gabranth, Major Brackenbury, and the Captain of the Sylph. In an additional notes section, it is mentioned that Vayne had listed him amongst a list of approximately two-hundred informal recommendations for the Order to the Ministry of Law.

"Congratulations, Captain Maduin," Ronick says. "You won't be alone, either. Captain Beor has also received a transfer to the Akademy to train as a Judge, and Lieutenant Illan will be attending the Imperial Gunner course at the same time."

Sherral nods, folding up the paper. "What about you, sir? Have you received reassignment yet?"

"I will be remaining in Rabanastre to oversee the training of Dalmasca's new army, and to handle the transition. I'm expected to only remain until shortly after the queen's coronation, after which I shall be glad to retire," Ronick says. "Or take a desk job, at any rate. Your airship will be leaving two days hence, I would not advise missing it, no matter how raucous the garrison party gets."

Sherral inclines his head briefly. "As you say, sir."

The plan was a pretty simple one. Almost too simple. Every known exit from the Garamsythe Waterway had been temporarily sealed off, all bar one. And now, at the dead of night, out in the Dalmasca Estersand, Sherral waited.

It was an obvious trap but, Sherral thought, not one that Audyne would likely turn down. The man had to eat eventually, after all, and there was no food to be found down in the Waterway. Which was not even getting started on how it was the only plan any of the other captains would agree to.

You don't need to defeat him outright. Just tax him enough that whatever he's got grafted into his bones overloads Sherral reminded himself, as nerves started creeping in. It was lucky, he suspected, that he was wearing a helmet - because Faram knew if he wasn't it'd be immediately obvious to Audyne just how much he was starting to regret the decision to volunteer for this suicide mission.

Four hours into his watch, an alert appeared on his helmet's display: Judge-Commander Audyne. He didn't see the man, not really, but his helmet handily outlined the man in red. It wasn't long until he was emerging from the darkness of the waterway, though - he'd removed his helmet, and most of his armour for that matter, and Sherral didn't quite see why until he was fully in the moonlight. There was sweat beading the man's face, coating his matted hair, sticking his clothes to him. Some kind of fever, Sherral warranted.

"Judge Audyne," he said, throwing a quick salute. "If you surrender now I give you my word that you'll receive medical treatment, and a fair hearing from another judge."

Audyne stumbled forward, his eyes bloodshot. "The dog captain," he murmured. "I thought they would send Ronick, at least. Or maybe that Gabranth himself would appear." That last thought seemed to inordinately amuse him, and he laughed until his voice cracked.

Sherral narrowed his eyes a little, reaching for his swords. Audyne is on him in a second, sword drawn, the blade tearing through his armour to leave a cut along his sword. Sherral hisses, drawing one sword and using it to block a downward blow, then drawing the other.

---

Sherral made a list of the boons of whatever horrific procedure had robbed Audyne of his senses as he went along. A seemingly inexhaustible supply of magic. Enough speed to keep up with Sherral even with as many Haste spells as he could muster onto himself. Enough strength that every blow sent Sherral skidding across the sand. Enough sheer endurance that the man had taken enough injuries to fell a dozen men and was still seemingly no worse for wear.

With a mighty swing, Audyne shattered one of Sherral's swords. A shard cut along Sherral's face as he turned and brought his other sword up, embedding it in Audyne's side. Audyne made a noise that didn't sound remotely human, bringing his sword down on Sherral's, breaking it off at the hilt.

Sherral growled, tossing it aside. Audyne stumbled forward a little, clutching at his chest. He made another noise, more like a scream than anything else, throwing out his arms. Sherral felt a familiar sensation of Mist being sucked in around them, the beginning of a Quickening, as fire started to swirl and curl around the judge.

He took a deep breath, drawing in the Mist around himself. A dozen swords crackled into being around him, incandescently bright. Audyne let out a keening noise, throwing out one hand, the fire rushing forward, taking the shape of some kind of vast, demonic bull.

Sherral grabbed one of the swords, swinging it, cutting a line through the bull and letting it dissipate around him. The other swords rushed forward, converging on Audyne with an explosion of blue-white lightning.

As the dust cleared, Audyne struggled forward, gasping for breath. Sherral forced himself not to step back, or otherwise let on that he was entirely out of options.

With a low rattle, Audyne tumbled to his knees, then dropped onto his face. Sherral paused, reaching forward and nudging Audyne with a foot. No movement. Very slowly, he dropped and put two fingers to the man's neck. No pulse either.

He murmured a quick spell. "Rabanastre Garrison, this is Captain Sherral Maduin. Judge Audyne has been executed successfully, I'm returning to the city now," he said. "Maybe burn the body when you find it."

In this AU, Sherral never became a soldier. Instead, it was Doctor Cid, not Judge Zecht, who visited Locke Galles and met ten year old Sherral, and he shortly thereafter became Cid's research assistant in the study of nethicite.

Starting off with menial tasks like fetching research equipment, Sherral showed a pretty stark aptitude for science involving magicite and nethicite, and after Doctor Cid's son, Ffamran, fled Archadia, Sherral functionally became his replacement. It wasn't long before he met Cid's godlike patron, the undying Occuria Venat.

Now, Sherral is one of the pre-eminent weapons scientists of the Empire, and the most trusted member of Doctor Cid's team at Draklor Laboratories. He's not as steady as main continuity Sherral - instead, he's much more socially awkward and stunted, and a lot less ethical.

The attack comes almost a week after the wedding, and it comes everywhere.

Sherral feels the pulse of Mist emanating from near the palace, and then feels magicite, carved and runed, wedged into the walls and in nooks and crannies of the old Rabanastran building, activate all across the barracks. The walls bleed poisonous gas, flooding the hallways in a matter of seconds.

It passes over him without stinging his lungs, and he realises that he's wearing the ring Autor gave him for Faramalia. Sherral quickly rushes across his office to a wall terminal, blinking at the crystal screen through the violet haze, fingers sliding along it to activate the emergency systems that will start clearing the systems and open the doors.

SYSTEMS LOCKED.

Sherral feels the unfamiliar feeling of panic spike in his gut. Tapping the screen, he opens up an admin window, hurriedly tapping in his codes.

SYSTEMS LOCKED.

Sherral nearly tears the terminal out of the wall. Instead, he heads out of his office, where those of his men who were in armour when the poison hit have activated the filters on their helmets and are forcing helmets from the armoury onto those who weren't.

"Sir, the emergency systems - ..." one starts, handing Sherral a helmet.

"I know," Sherral says, waving it off. The ring seems to be doing its job with him, after all. "Lieutenant Illan," he says when he catches sight of her, "prepare everyone for evacuation out of the building into the stables courtyard, personnel that require immediate medical attention first. We'll set up a medical centre there. Lieutenant Gibbs, manual release on the vents, one floor down."

The doors out to the stables courtyard are locked, and while Sherral does try the terminal, he's predictably locked out of those controls to. Taking a deep breath (and trying not to think about how much poison gas he's breathing in, even if it's not affecting him), he tugs in the Mist around him, burning up his own supply, and throws a beam of white light at the door, tearing a hole six foot wide in the metal door.

Clean air starts to come in, the gas billowing out of the hole and towards the sky. He nods towards Illan, stepping aside, and she starts directing people through, the soldiers in the lead firing off Aero spells to clear the gas upwards.

A minute or so later, he hears a clank as the vents open. It's not as quick to clear the gas as the emergency systems, but he can feel it getting thinner.

"Hermai Arcana Vox Faram," he murmurs, and a small light appears in his palm. "This is Captain Maduin, Western Barracks. We have begun the evacuation of the barracks. All other commanding officers please report in."

There's a brief hum. Then: "This is Judge Ives, at the Palace Barracks. We have begun evacuation on the palace. Major Brackenbury, Lieutenant Olgar, Lieutenant Paval and Lieutenant Assam have been dispatched with men to assist other barracks, whom we currently have no contact with. Consul Amondsham is receiving medical attention, and Major Ronick is in pursuit of Judge Audyne."

Sherral blinks. "Judge Audyne?"

"Affirmative."

"What - ..."

"This is Captain Shelley. The sky docks are under attack by Insurgency forces," a new voice comes in. "We require immediate reinforcements."

"Negative. We cannot spare the men," Judge Ives says. "Retreat to a defensible position with the forces you have. Reinforcements are on the way from Nalbina."

Sherral glances at the men evacuating into the courtyard. Half of them are in no state for combat, and those that are are tending to the badly poisoned. But any force coming from Nalbina won't reach the city for at least an hour.

"Lieutenant Illan has the West Barracks situation under control," he says. "Divert the relief force en route to us to the docks, and I'll join them."

Ives seems reluctant. After a moment: "I'll have the relief force diverted now. Reinforcements are incoming, docks."

---

The sky docks are swarming with insurgents when Sherral reaches it. The barricade of dock guards has been broken, the docks littered with their bodies, and the insurgents, dressed in the colours of the Knights of Dalmasca, are sprinting by, firing arrows as they split off into groups and make their way into ships - Archadian military airships taking priority, then well-armed merchant ships.

Sherral moves forward to stop them when a burst of Mist throws him onto his back. He's not sure how Judge Audyne got in front of him without him noticing, but the man is there now, dressed in the black armour of a lower-ranked judge.

Sherral mumbles a quick Thundara spell, lightning arcing out of his hand towards Audyne. A pulse of Mist sends the lightning curving around him instead of landing.

"I am getting very sick of traitors," Sherral growls, pulling himself to his feet. "Submit to arrest, Ser Audyne. Ser Ives will judge you."

"Treachery?" Audyne snarls the word. "You and Ronick and Ives would let the Empire grow bloated and on peace. Our greatest enemy lies before us still. We must force the hand of the Empire, compel it to war before Rozarria can strike at our heart." He sounds fevered. As Sherral watches, he claps one armoured hand to his forehead with a groan.

"You're ill, Ser Audyne," he says levelly, taking a step closer. "Put down your weapons and come with me. We can treat you."

"Oh, yes, there is disease in my bones," Audyne rasps. "They carved me open at Draklor and set my bones with god-stone. So many of us died on the operating tables, more of us succumbed to sickness. I survived to serve Mother Archadia."

Sherral holds out one hand, reaching for his sword with the other. "Ser Audyne, lower your weapons ..."

"Was this how it was at Nabudis? Did you all burn with the Mist? Did you see visions?" Audyne says. He straightens his shoulders suddenly, rolling his head back. "Even now, I am a judge. Put down your weapons, Captain Maduin, and submit to sentencing."

"That's - probably not going to happen," Sherral says, drawing one of his swords.

---

Even for a judge, Audyne is prodigiously strong and fast, and seems all but invulnerable. Every time Sherral strikes him, he seems to shake it off in a moment. As the last of the ships leave, he delivers a blast of magic to the face that sends Sherral reeling.

Sherral reaches for his sword. One armoured foot quickly comes down onto his shoulder with enough force that Sherral's fairly sure it's broken.

"The ships are gone," he says to Sherral. "Gone to Ondore's Resistance fleet. They needed ships, captain. They have to believe they have the numbers to defeat us, or else they'll never enter battle with us."

"You're astoundingly insane," Sherral growls into the stone floor of the docks.

Audyne doesn't reply. Sherral feels the tip of his sword tickle his neck, before Audyne draws it upwards.

It never comes down. Instead, a force throws Audyne backwards, sending him stumbling. Sherral gets to his knees just quickly enough to see Judge Ives approaching. There's that familiar sucking sensation, as she draws in the Mist around them for a Quickening, before a dozen shards of ice materialise out of the air and fly at Audyne.

They burn away before they can reach him, and he draws himself to his full height, tightening his grip on his sword. He takes two steps before he gasps, doubling over, one hand clutching his chest. Sherral wonders for a moment if he's having a heart attack. Then, with a roar, he releases a wave of Mist and staggers away.

Ives sprints after him.

---

The deaths number over a hundred. A large number of the Dock Guard are included in that number, along with a significant amount of the City Guard, for whom Audyne's lockdown had caused a gaol break in the middle of the poison attacks. Captain Cadwal Rudge of the Palace Guard died in an attack by Audyne on the palace. Eight of the dead are from Sherral's division, men who were too badly poisoned to save.

Injuries number even more. Nearly half the Garrison, although the severity varies from 'should be able to return to duty in a few days' to 'will require medical discharge.' Consul Amondsham, attacked by Audyne, is one of the most badly injured. When Sherral is brought into the infirmary, the consul is motionless in a bed. Over the next four hours or so, he barely wakes up for more than a minute at a time.

Ronick is one of the other more badly injured. Having faced Audyne before Sherral arrived, he's in critical condition.

Sherral tries to leave after five hours of lying in a bed surrounded by glowing Cura runes, and is practically shoved back in. His arm is broken at the shoulder, and he has several deep wounds, plus bruising, but, as he attempts to point out, the healers have done an excellent job, and he's not intending to go charging into another fight.

They don't budge on the matter.

Illan visits him briefly, to inform him of how the West Division is coping. The patrols of the wall still have to continue, so those men that are still capable are having to perform extra shifts, with the aid of the reinforcements from Nabudis. He assures her that he'll be back as soon as possible.

Ives visits as well.

"Did you catch Ser Audyne?" Sherral asks, although he can tell just by looking at her that she hasn't.

"He fled into the Garamsythe Waterway," she says. "When we are able, we'll launch a search. Lady Amondsham is taking measures to see that the civilian population is kept calm and safe."

"He spoke of experiments at Draklor Laboratory. With nethicite and humans," he says. "Do you know aught of it?"

"With humans? No. Draklor Laboratory has been producing Manufacted Nethicite for almost a year now, under the guidance of Doctor Cid. It is nowhere near as powerful as Deifacted Nethicite, but it allows our airships to fly in jagd, and we can fortify our soldiers against magic with it. It's truly a marvel," Ives says. "But if there have been human experiments involving it, then it must have been beneath another judge. I know nothing about it."

Sherral watches her carefully. He can't detect any hint of a lie. "Either way, Audyne is deluded and dangerous, and now the Resistance has however many ships they stole."

"Fifteen. Three Archadian gunships, nine mercenary escort ships for cargo transports, and three trade vessels with minimal armaments," Ives says. "A hefty addition to any fleet."

They discuss a few more matters, before Ives excuses herself, saying that she must contact the Ministry of Law for orders.

It's a full two hours more, after a second round of Cura spells, that Sherral's even allowed to wander around the medical centre.

It is a sorry bunch attending this wedding. The hall in Rabanastre palace where they sit is small, and there are still a handful of empty seats. Still, it's easy to tell who's who:

The garrison command, headed by a grey-haired man who gives off a grandfatherly aura, in their grey and red formal dress, along with a man and a woman dressed similarly, save that their uniform is black and charcoal with red highlights. There's a handful of soldiers who clearly aren't Archadian, too, dressed in blue and cream.

Rabanastre's merchants, dressed in a brightly coloured mismatch of patterned fabrics with hair styled elaborately and jewellery on their wrists and around their necks.

Nobles and ambassadors, by far the smallest of the group, in coloured (but not quite so neon rainbow) silk and wool. Several of them have fans. Most of them are muttering about how Liana is marrying beneath her station (and one so old). One family of four, dressed in canary yellow cloaks fashioned to look like feathers, just look charmed to be there, bar one young man who looks like he's trying to sink into his clothes and avoid the gaze of the garrison.

Business associates of the groom, who if the muttering from others is anything to go by may be celebrities. A few of them are jolly, older people, but most of them look like supermodels who have just stepped off the catwalk.


The wedding is - awkward. A man in very smart clothing with very shiny glasses runs through a set of vows, while the groom (whose shapeless robes really only accentuate the fact that he's about twenty years the senior of his bride) looks apathetic and the bride (of far more fashionable dress) looks distantly scathing, as if she's biting back about a hundred sarcastic comments.

When they are told they may kiss, the peck each other. On the cheeks. Like seagulls whose hearts aren't quite in it.


---

The reception takes place in Rabanastre Palace's expansive ballroom, a room that is opulent and glittering and has walls lined with frescoes depicting the glorious history of Dalmasca in charmingly abstract style.

There is a buffet. It has something very much like turkish delight on one end, but the yellow-cloaked family are converging on it and soon this won't be the case.

Sherral leads his visitors in with the garrison command and their guests.

"No stealing from anyone, no letting on about the magical bar, no killing anyone outside of mutually agreed upon duels," Sherral says. "Apart from that, enjoy yourself. If you see a security concern, Captain Beor," he gestures over at a large man in his twenties, "will no doubt be happy to hear of it."

Beat.

"Have fun."

For three weeks, there are riots every night.

The people of Rabanastre are angry. The Gran Kiltias' death has sent shockwaves through all of Ivalice, and people are angry everywhere. News from Archades talks of rioting even there, amongst the people of Old Town - but that is stifled within a few days. Law and order always prevails in the heart of the Empire.

Rabanastre is different. It is an occupied city, and that has always caused trouble. Now its occupiers are the murderers of a religious leader, the people who burned a holy site of worship and slaughtered its pilgrims, and the architects of an influx of refugees that leave food and water in increasingly dwindling supply.

Beor meets the rioters with violence. The gaols of the City Guard are soon crowded with angry, bloody men and women. They cannot take any more. Consul Amondsham orders the ringleaders to be taken to Nalbina Fortress, to the makeshift prison there.

Nobody leaves the prison at Nalbina Fortress. There are not even guards there. It is sealed with magic that only a Judge can break - Sherral is amongst the three captains (Beor and Vanna being the other two) who assist Major Ronick with breaking the seals long enough to usher the new prisoners inside.

The riots die down eventually. Rabanastre loses its stomach for bloodshed.

---

"I am to be wed," Consul Amondsham informs the captains shortly after the rioting has died.

For once, Sherral feels that Beor - squinting and looking rather confused by the whole thing - might be sharing his exact feelings.

"Your Excellency," Beor says slowly. "My gaols still teem with rioters. Nalbina is nearly at capacity. It has yet been days since the rioting ceased and the embers are not yet cool. I'm not certain that a - wedding is appropriate right now. The security risk alone ..."

"Nevertheless, it is to go ahead. Two weeks hence, Lady Liana Telane, daughter of Count Lianon Telane, shall be being wed at the royal palace."

Everyone in the room is rapidly figuring out what's going on here. Each consul of Rabanastre before Amondsham has seen their tenure end in disgrace (or a near and bloody miss in Vayne's case). Now there is political unrest in Archades, riots in Rabanastre and a war looming on the horizon, and a marriage to the daughter of a wealthy family would shore up his political power.

"My betrothed shall be arriving three days hence," Amondsham says. "Men of the East and North Divisions will be used to bolster the Palace Guard and the Dock Guard. I shall have Major Ronick circulate an itinerary of events to you all."

This is going to be painful, Sherral knows.

"Captain Maduin has been nominated as my best man."

It is fortunate that Sherral isn't drinking when that sentence is uttered.

"... Your Excellency?"

"It is traditional, I believe, to have a swordsman of excellence be one's best man?"

Sherral stammers for a moment. "I, um. Major Ronick's skill with a sword is yet unsurpassed within the garriso - ..."

"Alas, I fear my duties as garrison commander leave me with almost no time," Ronick says a little too quickly. "That was why I suggested you, Captain Maduin."

"... And," Sherral says, falteringly. "I cannot imagine I would do honour to your wedding proceedings, Your Excellency. I fear I am still a Northerner to the bone and I have adapted, um, shamefully poorly to the ways of an Archadian gentleman. Beor is from noble sto - ..."

"I cannot have my attention divided so soon after a crisis," Beor says. "And I think Captain Maduin does himself too little credit. He is charmingly provincial."

"It is settled, then," Amondsham says.

As soon as they're in the bar and the door is closed, Sherral gives Jay a nudge with his hand.

"Lead the way."