

The following is a work of fan-fiction. Though it goes without saying, "The Legend of Zelda" video game franchise as well as its characters are owned by Nintendo. This work is not for sale. The author reserves all applicable rights and will not stand for any attempts at monetary gain via this work. The following would not be possible without the creativity and vision of the well-known individuals responsible for the source material. Please continue to support the official releases this work merely attempts to pay homage to. Thank you, and enjoy.

This story follows the "child timeline" of the games. It is not meant to be canon content.

I say again. It is NOT meant to be canon content.

Still, without an intimate knowledge of Ocarina of Time, Majora's Mask, and Twilight Princess in particular, some parts of the plot may not make sense. Obviously you should expect spoilers if you've yet to play these games.

The Legend of Zelda:

Fall of Ikana

By: N Felts

Copyright N Felts 2015

Published at Smashwords
The Final Days

"But for how much longer?" The woman asks, her dead eyes amplifying the already ample pessimism in her voice.

"I don't know," the young man eventually responds, winning the umpteenth battle against his insistent tears. A coincidental hush falls over the room with the statement and the survivors are left in silence for a time. The old boards of the derelict building creak a little louder as the endless winds outside shift direction. This winter has been especially cold, the consistent swirl of dust and snow beyond the dirty windows painting what little of the landscape is even visible a tasteless grey. Two more were lost yesterday. The young man knows he should consider the few of them who remain equal, but losing two reavers will devastate their chances much more harshly. Thirty three remain. He's tried to stop counting, but every subtraction causes the number to swell in his mind. They must persist. They must survive. They've still enough competent reavers to protect them, but for how much longer? He really doesn't know.

Marta seems disinterested in any further conversation, turning slowly away and willing away the need to shiver. Her unwashed ropes of dirty, blonde hair conceal her hopeless stare as she curls into herself. The prayers ended months ago, but in truth, the hope was gone long before. The young man rises to his feet, pacing listlessly through the disheartened survivors in search of a less despairing visage, however slight the variance. Thoughts of games and parties, of pretty girls and selfish ambition, are now a distant memory behind ration inventory, and patrol sequences. Remembering upon whom he still relies, and whom he has long since buried. The discouraged faces of men and women, timeworn elders and innocent children, all glance at him with timid eyes. They are not without respect for him, they have simply exhausted their capacity to communicate any emotion other than desperation. Suddenly, three knocks sound at the rear door of the disused training barracks, two seconds elapsed between each. Quickly moving across the room, the man lifts the heavy door bar and allows the frigid soul entry.

"His course cannot be altered," the shivering man breathes after taking a moment to adjust to his significantly warmer environment. The sudden influx of frozen air causes the survivors to curl inward in a dismal show of irritation.

"Cale!" The man harshly interrupts, briefly grabbing the attention of the others. "Not here," he whispers, leading the way to a small group of men huddled in a corner.

"Did you seriously—" Cale starts, keeping his voice low.

"I know. I'm sorry," the man apologizes with a forced tone. "It slipped out."

"Will that excuse work if your name just slips out—" he continues, aggravated.

"Geist," a member of the group interrupts. "You must be more careful. If a spy were to hear any of our true names in the field," he laments, shaking his head. "They'd almost certainly find this place."

"It won't happen again," he assures, sitting down among the other reavers. The last living spies certainly perished long ago, the ruined Ikanian city only inhabited by the survivors present, and those cursed with undeath who pursue them. The pointless, outdated tactics only serve to irritate the young reaver, but still, he must follow his superior's orders.

"What have you learned?" The leader asks, turning his attention to Cale.

"All of my attempts to distract the demon have failed. If he continues to search at this pace, we will be discovered all too soon," he reports, staring at the floor with an air of defeat.

"Then it is as we feared," he nods sadly. "Rest well tonight," he starts, struggling to climb to his feet. "We're not long for this place. Two days, maybe three. Then we must move on." Grahn, successor to Geist's greatfather as leader of the reaver regiment, is many years his senior, and his age shows more and more with every passing day. With that, the group disbands, each of the men finding their individual cots to make their futile attempts at sleep. The two men who managed to spirit their families to safety join their women and children, while the majority find their lonely beds. Lying on his back thoughtfully, Geist notices Cale has grown uneasy.

"He's going to find us," he breathes, glancing at Geist with wild eyes.

"Yeah," Geist responds, shaking his head dismissively. "But not today."

"I did everything short of revealing myself. He just kept searching," Cale continues, his gaze a thousand miles away. "Like some kind of machine. The bats—" he continues, seeming to grow colder as the memories return.

"That's enough," Geist interrupts, glancing at a woman attempting to distract her two children from the horrifying tale. Without too much reservation, they lie down next to her, cuddling for warmth. "You talk too much."

"You say that like it's something new," Cale shrugs.

"No, you hear it like it's something new," Geist retorts, his tone revealing his drowsiness.

"You talk to Marta today?" He teases, rolling away from his friend and getting comfortable.

"Goodnight," Geist half-heartedly fires back, his brain ceasing to create new memories as consciousness quickly leaves him. The dreams are always the same. Always so vivid. He is home again and life is full of opportunities and optimism. Would he meet that girl with the shy smile at the bakery, or should he find Cale by the forest's edge like he promised? He rounds the corner of the marketplace to find streets teeming with people, conversation and laughter filling the open air until it is ready to burst. As he begins to make his way through the crowd, he still hasn't decided where to go.

"It's time," Cale reports monotonously, kicking Geist's leg as he suits up. Obligation injects itself into his veins as he joins his comrade in preparation for the day. Weather beaten suits of soft leather are pulled over their forms, concealing their intricate tribal tattoos entirely. After so much time in the field, the tactical outfits are the same colorless hue as the landscape outside. Briefly inspecting each other's ensembles for any signs of deterioration that could be exploited by the cold, they share a confirming nod before joining the assembly of reavers and soldiers.

"—Rations are not low, but we will need more nonetheless when we relocate," Grahn continues, eying the two youngest members of the group as they take their place in the semicircle. "Obviously we will need eyes on the demon, but I'm sending out an additional pair to scout for a new location. Volunteers?" The girl with the shy smile, or his promise? The dream still lingers on Geist's mind. He should probably meet up with Cale, but—

"Juro and I will watch the demon today," a seasoned man nods, bouncing an unclenched fist off his partner's chest. "He's too close. Any mistake will be our last." Taking offense to the remark, Cale speaks up.

"Geist and I can scout for the move. You geezers aren't quick enough on your feet," he quips, pulling a couple humorless chuckles from his peers and a scowl from the leader.

"So be it," Grahn concludes, adding, "Romoro and I will keep watch here. The rest of you will search for additional rations." A collective nod of understanding dismisses the meeting and the teams begin to depart. Only leaving in pairs, they wait several minutes between each departure to avoid arousing suspicion, the always watchful eyes of the enemy assumedly all around them. Soon enough, it is the youngster's turn.

"Follow me, Geist," Cale smirks, dashing out the door on a predetermined course. Known for two things above all others, Cale's mouth is surpassed only by his agility. Struggling to keep pace through the whirling landscape of snow and stone, Geist finally slaps his back against a ruined building of crumbling brick next to his comrade. The morning sun cannot be seen beyond the dense cloud cover, the atmosphere depressingly dim and cold. Carefully spying around the corner, the coast looks clear as Cale allows his partner a moment to rest. "I've been thinking about this for a while," he whispers into the wind.

"I hope so," Geist nods cynically, still wondering why he was volunteered for scouting when they could have had an easy day of ration gathering. "Where are you taking us?"

"You'll see," he chuckles, dashing into the street while staying close to cover. Trekking deep into enemy territory, the duo are forced to suddenly stop short when they spot a Garo foot-soldier around a corner. Walking listlessly and without purpose, it suddenly blinks out of sight, reappearing a short distance away and knocking over a cart containing useless supplies. His large poncho billows in the sporadic wind, concealing and revealing his cloth-wrapped legs. Turning to face the scouts, his green eyes show no signs of having spotted them as they quickly recede behind cover. Resuming its aimless search, the ninja dashes into the wind once again, disappearing for an instant, but reemerging further down the road.

"Spirit?" Geist asks, unable to get a good look thus far.

"Nope," Cale sighs, shaking his head.

"Ugh," he whines, letting his shoulders slump down. "I hate zombies."

"What's the play?" Cale inquires, warming his hands with his breath. "The usual?"

"Naturally," he agrees, searching for an acceptable ambush point. Silently rounding the corner, Geist conjures a translucent mirror the size of a door, rendering himself invisible to the target. Pacing at the far end of the narrow street, the Garo ninja vanishes and reappears in a crouched, offensive position when Cale lets out a piercing whistle. Standing in the middle of the intersection, he wags his rear end at the approaching zombie, allowing its anger and hatred to dull its senses. Rapidly blinking in and out of the visible spectrum, the ghoul is nearly upon Cale when Geist spins from his hiding place into an assertive palm thrust, stopping the undead assailant in its tracks. Stunned for only a moment, the Garo attempts to raise the dual blades hanging out of its poncho, but a sudden clench of Geist's fingers cause ruptures resembling lightning bolts to shoot in all directions across the foe's chest. Grabbing his foe's shoulder with his free hand while the jagged cracks multiply, Geist closes his eyes to concentrate as the defeated soldier begins to spasm. The spreading wounds across its torso glow a blinding white as Geist collects the loose fragments of its soul, and channels them into his arm. The Garo finds itself unable to move as its green eyes turn pure white, projecting ghostly waves of flickering light into the open air before dimming down to nothing. Releasing the corpse, Geist continues to stand perfectly still, his arm still extended where he once gripped the ghoul's chest. Finally opening his eyes, they glow a pale green until the hue disperses like parting clouds seconds later. His distant stare regains its focus, and the ritual is complete.

"Well?" Cale asks with a somber anticipation.

"Worthless," he sighs, staring at his open palm. His seamless tattoo twists down his arm and ends in a spiral upon his palm. A vortex from which he pulls his conjurations. "Undead are too fragmented," he mutters, agitated. "I need something a thousand times purer."

"Even if we found this mythical something, you really think you can pull it off?" Cale offers, clearly skeptical. "Not to mention survive the process."

"I can do it," he declares with passion, the topic clearly becoming a touchy subject. "I know I can," he continues, his tone softening. "I have enough for a last resort, yeah? But it might grab fifty of the weak ones, tops."

"How many do you think are out there?"

"You've seen enough to know, but I can feel them. The stronger ones—"

"What do you mean, feel them?" He asks, suddenly very curious.

"Forget it," Geist concludes, aiming to set them back to the task at hand.

"Come on, we're getting close," Cale finally declares, resuming his stealthy antics. Traversing several blocks of deserted streets reveals no clues as to where Cale may be leading them until Geist rounds a very familiar building. A potent wave of déjà vu steals the breath from his lungs as the marketplace swells to life. Conversation and laughter overwhelm his senses as the sun pierces through the clouds, and reveals a teeming mass of people. Children happily dash between bartering people, the sights and smells of a gargantuan cornucopia of fresh food leaving Geist in a state of utter nirvana. Suddenly, a little girl breaks off from a larger group of children, blissfully jogging to a gradual stop directly in front of him. Her gleeful visage drastically morphs into a disfigured expression of horror as she lets out a bloodcurdling scream, her eyes locked onto Geists as her form grows stiff and fades away.

"—ist! Geist, run!" Cale shouts, nimbly sprinting out of the area himself. Returning to his senses gradually, Geist's balance is thrown when another shrill scream slices through the air. Originating somewhere above him, his predicament suddenly becomes very clear. Immediately dashing behind a decaying market stall, Geist doesn't take cover a second too soon as a massive keeserroc lands in the street with a heavy crunch. Making no effort to look around, the pair of small, glossy eyes on each side of its head an evolutionary relic, the bat-dragon tilts its head slightly, its large ears twitching in search of the faintest noise. Geist remains perfectly still, seated with his back to the creature and resolute in holding his breath until it decides to move on. The only sound in the area besides the droning wind is his heavily thumping heart, but there is little he can do to quiet it. The monster crouches down on all fours, listening even more intently when the faint thumping is finally confirmed.

"Damn!" Geist curses, instantly springing from his hiding place as the Keeserroc inhales a long, powerful breath, its scaled torso doubling in size from the effort. Diving beneath a stone archway he clamps both hands over his ears as the creature unleashes another deafening scream, its long, thin tongue rippling within the torrent. The vast collection of market stalls are split down the middle, the focused beam of sound causing several to fundamentally break down. The shabby wooden booths splinter and fall apart gradually as if a thousand intangible termites were devouring them. Marching into the destruction it has caused, the beast throws bits of debris out of its path, moving in to confirm the kill. Utilizing its knuckles, the enormous bat covers ground rapidly, despite its flight-based anatomy. The beast's shovel of a nose sucks in all the surrounding smells, however, dilapidated muscle and burst organs are not among them. A scraping of footsteps betrays Geist's departure, the monsters mighty black wings spreading wide before he rapidly takes flight. Scampering down a narrow alleyway, Geist skillfully dodges the obstacles in his path, all the while concentrating on making as little noise as possible. A heavy thud shakes the ground, and seconds later, the monster inhales forcefully once again. With no alternative, Geist leaps up to a nearby window, and with a grunt of exertion, pulls himself out of the deathtrap as the shrill blast evaporates the contents of the alleyway, sweeping diagonally toward the window he just traversed. The sound rips through the large, stone building like an invisible harrow, the molecules of rock vibrating apart and causing the structural integrity to fail as the entire building quickly collapses upon itself.

The toppling construction of stone forces even the monstrous bat to rapidly beat its wings to escape the falling debris, taking to the sky to continue the hunt. Guessing the predator will assume its prey continues to flee, Geist takes a chance at outwitting the creature. Stumbling out of the open doorway, he narrowly escapes being crushed as he doubles back toward the marketplace. Vaulting up and over a short wall of stone, he twists his ankle on landing when his foot collides with the skull of a fish skeleton. After rolling to his back and cursing his luck, he sees the Keeserroc soar into view high above the disused fish racks, scanning the ground for its elusive dinner. His options all but gone, Geist's eyes slowly fall to find his ticket out of the predicament. A short chain hanging from a hook, formally utilized to advertise a reekfish, now dangles with its large iron tag, broken and faded so that it now simply reads, "Reek."

"Sound about right," Geist smiles, climbing to his good leg and snatching the noisy label from its resting place. Instantly catching the sound, the dragon rolls into a dive, spreading its wings after obtaining optimum speed. Dashing away as quickly as he's able, Geist grabs a loose plank of wood, dragging it against the long stone wall and causing all of the fish labels to swing and crash into each other noisily. The bat destroys a large section of the wall with its landing, angrily attempting to see through the irritating noise. Realizing his heartbeat pales in comparison to the chiming metal, Geist limps to a stop and simply waits in the open as the mighty beast draws closer. Growling and groaning during its approach, the monster twists its head and clenches its fists with every clang of iron. Tossing the plank of wood over his shoulder, Geist holds the thick clasp of the iron tag between his outstretched hands. "Come on, Reek," he mutters under his breath. "There's a good lad."

The clatter of wood snaps the dragon's head upright, its long jawline seeming to smile as the location of its prey becomes clear. A brief gallop turns into a pounce as the beast leaps over the concentrating Geist, and toward the plank of wood. His eyes scanning furiously, Geist grins contently as a hind leg drifts just close enough, and with a short hop, he touches the tag bearing the bats new name to its ankle for the briefest of moments. A flash of light isn't registered by Reek's useless eyes, but the loud banging of metal beneath his feet is. As he spins in a circle, Geist must stifle a laugh as the monster is practically chasing its tail, searching for the source of the noise. Finally locating the culprit, Reek snatches the chain off the ground, wobbling slightly while he struggles to maintain his balance. Sniffing the stale metal, he snarls angrily, bearing his teeth at the irritating trick.

"Don't do it my friend," Geist muses, content in simply watching for now. Without hesitation, the bat chomps down on the chain, the frail metal no match for its powerful jaws. The sting of pain jolts up the creature's spine before it manages to apply enough pressure to sever the shackle, the resulting shriek reminding Geist he should probably be leaving. Unbeknownst to him, Reek's new accessory is intimately fused to his leg, even bearing scales and hair upon the metallic links closest to his ankle. The attempt to remove the shackle felt as if he tried to bite off his own leg, the loudly clashing tag blinding his senses as he thrashes in pain. Forced to hobble away as quickly as possible, Geist spots Cale across the marketplace peering through the open window of a two-storied building. His luck finally turning around, the reaver isn't prepared when his senses simultaneously fail him, a piercing screech whipping through the area as Reek blindly exerts his rage before clumsily fleeing the scene. His whole body numb, Geist doesn't feel his cheek collide with the ground before his vision blurs and consciousness leaves him.

"Tch, damn you, Cale." Geist mumbles, turning toward the forest. He doesn't want to stand up the girl waiting for him, but Cale made the forest sound pretty important. Nimbly working his way through the crowd, he seems to pass through the busy streets instantly, his friends figure impatiently waiting outside of the trees. Jogging to meet him, Geist stops short when dozens of shadows appear between the trees, none of them quite entering the light. His eyes wide with fear, Geist tries to shout a warning, but the words bunch up in his throat. Unable to produce a sound, his dread intensifies as he reaches for his friend unsuccessfully.

"Sounds like he'll be fine," Romoro chuckles, patting Cale on the shoulder with a bear paw of a hand before moving away. His senses returning slowly, Geist manages to focus on the ceiling before tilting his head to find a smirking Cale.

"You owe me," he starts, condescendingly. "Bigtime."

"Oh save it," Geist groans, his muscles beginning to cooperate again. "What about the time we—"

"Nope," he grins, breathing a little easier now that his friend is okay. "This is bigger."

"Where were we going anyway?" Geist asks, ready to change the subject.

"To your old house," Cale sighs, depressed his bold plan fell flat.

"Are you crazy?" Geist snaps, sitting upright. "Want to advertise while you're at it? Come and get it! Survivors now conveniently located," he mocks, his disapproval of the bold plan apparent.

"That just the point," he reveals, shrugging his shoulders. "Why would they ever think to search there?" Unconvinced, Geist decides to leave it at that, breathing a sigh of relief to have made it back essentially unscathed. The majority of the survivors busy themselves with organizing the new rations while some of the reavers plan for the move in a small circle. Despite the serenity, Geist feels dreadfully uneasy, like the aching bones of a sailor before a storm appears on the horizon. The day is all but gone, faint traces of twilight breathing on the fogged windows of the barracks. Soundless in the winter wind, a single keese lands on the windowsill, catching Geist's attention. Staring at him thoughtfully, the creature's eyes betray its sinister intentions. Something about the way it stares, those piercing red eyes looking beyond the reaver's flesh and into his soul. The moment seems to last an eternity, neither of the two willing to tear their eyes away from the other. A brief flapping of wings grabs several of the inhabitants attention, and the fear begins to swell. Three keese now gaze into the structure, and the number begins to multiply rapidly, each of the creatures simply landing, and waiting.

"No," Cale breathes, his voice all but stolen away. "It's not possible."

"You weren't followed?" Geist asks, trying to phrase the question rhetorically. His friend is clearly not present mentally, struggling to suppress the obvious revelation. He was so careful, but it seems he has underestimated his enemy's cunning for the last time. Without warning, all of the bats simultaneously leap whence they were perched, beating their wings rapidly and screeching randomly. Panic grabs the entire room instantly as the chaotic shadows eclipse the room in darkness, the women and children quickly congregating in the windowless corner as the reavers prepare for battle as quickly as they're able. Springing from his cot, Geist aims to be the first one out the door, but is stopped short by Grahn.

"Don't be foolish, boy," he warns, his eyes and tone deadly serious. "We must—" he starts, cut off by the barred door exploding inward. Hundreds of keese swarm into the room like the air out of a punctured balloon. A black, devilish hand wraps around the doorframe, its evil essence radiating as its owner pulls himself into the room. Gomess, the keeper of souls, drifts into the room languidly, his gargantuan scythe knocking against the ground as he hovers forward. Ghostly green eyes seem to glow with delight as he relishes in the coming slaughter. Pushing Geist back, the leader of the reavers conjures a torrent of ethereal swords, all of them screaming across the short distance to Gomess instantly. An effortless twirl of his scythe causes the blades to shatter harmlessly, and within an instant, the demon is upon him. The hundreds of keese swarming through the structure prioritize protecting their master, encircling his form in a dark, living tornado as the minority continue to menace the survivors. Dashing to their leader's rescue, the remaining reavers lose their drive instantaneously when the ghastly creature's dozens of twisted fangs part, and a roar unlike anything every heard bursts every window of the building. Before Grahn can even attempt another offensive, Gomess has scooped his scythe around him, the blade tenderly biting into his flesh as the demon slowly pulls.

"Noooooooo!" The man screams, his voice fading and fluctuating as his very soul is gently cleaved from his physical body. A hand of darkness wraps around the spiritual neck of the harvested man as his body falls limply to the ground. Frigid winds and merciless snow spin into the structure, the atmosphere now matching the desperation in the survivor's hearts.

"You bas—" Romoro growls, pouncing upon the dark entity. Before he can utter another syllable, the scythe sweeps overhead soundlessly, stabbing down through the man's clavicle, and leaving him stunned and breathless. An otherworldly noise sounds as Gomess opens his horrifying mouth, pulling Grahn's spectral form from his grasp in a twisting stream. Having devoured one soul seems to expedite the process, Romoro's eternal spirit rapidly harvested and consumed in the same manner as the creature of swirling darkness begins to satisfy its insatiable hunger. Their morale eviscerated, the remaining reavers stand idle, clueless as to how they could possibly defeat such a foe. Confident he can inflict some measurable amount of damage, Geist ready's himself to charge when a squeal of fear grabs his attention. Mercilessly swooping and snapping at the children, the keese are barely kept at bay by the women swinging brooms and buckets aimlessly. A sixth sense causes Marta to catch Geist's stare, her hopelessness conveying one simple thought.

"Don't let him take the children," her eyes plead. Geist hears Gomess claim another reaver behind him, but Marta's eyes hold him in a death grip. "Please. Not the children." His focus shifts, and as Marta becomes blurry, an old lantern resting atop a table seems to glow with a kind of salvation. Left without an instant to hesitate, Geist limps away from the front line in a desperate sprint, and after clamping his hands onto the table, he briefly slides to a stop and locks his gaze onto Gomess. Oblivious to any degree of threat, the demon continues to strike down the courageous reavers, each of them falling without so much as landing a blow. His concentration dramatically spiking, Geist knows he cannot soulbind such a powerful opponent. If he is going to protect the children, if he intends to save any of the survivors of his race, there is only one solution. Even now, at the most dire moment of their entire struggle, he isn't sure he can bring himself to do it.

"You want a piece of me, snaggletooth?" Cale quips, dodging past the blur of a scythe with daunting reflexes and dashing two steps up the wall opposite his opponent. Aggravated by his elusive prey, Gomess slashing again, ripping a deep gash into the wood as Cale leaps overhead. Pulling his ethereal arm-blade from his clenched fist, the boy narrowly misses the demon's head as he passes with a swipe. An immediate horizontal counterattack misses the mark once again as Cale ducks beneath the deadly stroke, charging forward for another offensive. "You'll have to do better than that!" He shouts, missing by a negligible margin once again as the ghoul dips to the side. A sudden twirling attack forces Cale to dodge predictably, and in that instant, the demon scoops its blade up through his back, lifting him off his feet. Watching in horror, Geist feels utterly hopeless as Cale's body slides down the blade, revealing his spectral essence in its wake. Grabbing him by the back of the neck, Gomess plucks Cale's soul from the tip of his scythe, and for only an instant, his eyes meet Geist's.

"I'm sorry," Geist breathes, his preparation complete. As Cale's eyes widen, Geist knows his friend understands what he is about to do.

"Don't—" Cale mouths, shaking his head in disapproval as the monster's mouth opens behind him. A scream of exertion floods from Geists lungs as his palm slams down atop the lantern. An invisible shockwave causes the entire barracks to buckle before a whirlwind of light and noise amplifies in power. The vast majority of the screeching bats, zig-zagging through the open air, are vaporized in an instant. The men, women, and children begin to rapidly fall to the ground like dominoes, their lifeless bodies emptied of consciousness. His meal stolen from his grasp, Gomess lunges at Geist in a rage, but it is far too late as the hurricane of souls violently throws him backward with a painful grunt. Utilizing his scythe to slow his departure, the blade eats through a large section of wall before he regains his equilibrium, a guttural whimper escaping his mouth as a glowing orb within his stomach is revealed. The eye of the storm suddenly turns inward upon itself as the lantern shakes and jumps beneath Geist's grasp uncontrollably. As quickly as it started, the whirling force taxing the structure is sucked into the object in the space between seconds, causing it to glow like a hundred ghostly, turquoise suns. Painfully aware of the power this opponent now possesses, Gomess flees with a livid glare, clutching at his exposed weakness as he departs. Geist exhales emotionally, tears rushing down his cheeks as he stares into the lantern, and the ritual is complete.

Obligation

"Gone?" A young man asks, stunned by the prospect.

"You heard me," the old shopkeeper mutters, oddly chipper. Her hobbled stance and long nose remind him of a bird. "A good-looking young man can only keep a lady waiting so long. She was here for some time, I'll give her that, but before I knew it, poof!" She explains, her wrinkled hands springing open. "She was away like the wind."

"Her loss," he half-heartedly responds with a shrug.

"Awful full of yourself," the shopkeeper points out, her mood slightly dipping with the statement. He is clearly of an upper-class family, the quality stitching of his clothing combined with his nonchalance implies as much. The chiseled lines of his face give him the appearance of a much older man, though his immaturity shows through his actions. Still, the elaborate tattoos of a magi are scarcely concealed beneath his light, summer clothing. Another meaningless bauble to impress the girls? She cannot say with any certainty.

"Maybe there's still time to meet Cale," he breathes, turning south to start for the forest. The teeming crowd denotes just how late it has become, the market not typically so lively until late morning or early afternoon. Considering purchasing some sort of breakfast from the old woman before departing, he soon realizes he has already wasted too much time.

"I could have guessed," Cale announces, appearing from the crowd. A young man of similar age, he shares neither the expensive clothes nor the tattoos of his friend. His short, messy hair does nothing to conceal the dirt and scratches marring his face, though he is scarcely concerned about his appearance. "Who was it this time? Tamla? Lauryn?"

"Burnadette," he sighs with an air of defeat.

"I swear, Igos could build a giant clock in the center of town and you'd still be late for everything," Cale starts, his anger building with every word. "And how many friends is Marta going to throw at you before she realizes you're a—"

"Don't say something you'll regret," he warns, halfheartedly.

"No," Cale quickly retorts, radiating anger. "I told you this was important. I told you not to brush this off like you do everything else."

"Wait," he interrupts, his appearance finally shifting from pure apathy to something resembling concern. "What's going on? I've never seen you like this."

"Don't." Cale warns condescendingly. "That puppy dog eyes crap doesn't work on me. Do I look like one of your floozies?"

"Well," he shrugs, his pseudo-compassionate demeanor vanishing. "Maybe if you cleaned yourself up. Little raspberry dye on the lips," he teases.

"I found something." Cale finally declares, barely able to keep his rage at bay. "Something that will change everything. Something that affects every single person in this city." The last statement grabs the attention of the bird-lady, and Cale realizes this conversation should be a private one. Aggressively grabbing his friend by the arm, they move to a nearby alley.

"Feel like I've heard this before." Geist can't help but point out as they reach relative seclusion.

"There are spies congregated in the woods outside of town. Dozens of them. I've been tracking them for a couple days. There were only a few at first, but now I can't keep count."

"Spies?" Geist chuckles. "Are we at war?"

"The spying happens before the war!" Cale growls, swiping at his friends head.

"Oi, oi!" He protests, adjusting his slicked-back hair.

"Do you pay attention to anything? Igos means to open the Stone Tower! Now there are men meeting secretly just outside of the city." Cale reveals, his open hands and patronizing stare waiting for his friend to put the pieces together.

"The King is always doing something grandiose," he quips, scratching his head. "What does that have to do with spies?"

"Guardians damn your ignorance!" Cale sighs, throwing his hands up in defeat. "Know of anyone who might have a problem with the tower being opened?"

"You don't mean those religious freaks?" He asks after a moment of reflection.

"The Subrosians, yes," Cale groans, agitated he must explain every detail.

"The burqa-wearing weirdoes who peddle their seeds and rocks in the market?" He points out with a laugh. "We're worried about them? They don't even have an army!"

"The regiment in the forest looked pretty militarized to me," Cale explains, matter-of-factly. "Have you ever been to Subrosia? How do you know they don't have an army?"

"Everybody knows it," he chuckles, still not convinced. "They think three she-gods created the world, and that old tower is some sort of ancient blasphemy," he adds with ample sarcasm. "Every last one of them is crazy."

"I've heard them preaching before," Cale sighs, rolling his eyes. "That's not the point. They have troops on our border talking about invasion if the tower is opened."

"If that's true then why haven't you told the guards?" He asks, assuming it to be the obvious next step. "Unless you're full of it," he adds, raising an eyebrow. "Again."

"There it is," Cale moans, turning slowly around and nodding knowingly. "That's what I was trying to quash this morning. That signature, know-it-all skepticism. If you only would have met me this morning instead of chasing skirts you could have seen for yourself."

"Dare I say that is jealousy I detect?" He retorts with a satisfied grin.

"Wow, just forget it," Cale fires back, his patience gone. "I'll deal with this just like everything else. Alone." With that he exits the corridor and quickly vanishes into the crowd.

"Oh don't be like that," he shouts in Cale's wake, starting after him. Two steps out of the alleyway he collides with a stout elderly man, nearly losing his balance as he spins to face him. A long beard of pure white leads up to a stern face staring daggers down upon him. His luck clearly having left him entirely, he palms his brow and waits for the inevitable lecture from his greatfather.

"A curious thing time is," the elder man starts, walking casually forward. Knowing he cannot escape, the young man simply follows him in silence. "Occasionally one could say it is on one's side, but never does that seem to be the case with you. No, you've made time your enemy, and fiercely so. Every passing second is detrimental to your causes, and every minute rallies more and more people against you. You've decided time will not be your ally, but I wonder, what instead have you aligned yourself with? Fortune? No, surely not. Our meeting alone is evidence enough of that. Wisdom?" He continues to lecture as the pair have left the market entirely, slowly making their way to the shabby training barracks on the outskirts of town. "I should think we both know that is not the case. Could it be you've decided you have no need of alliances? That you can navigate and overcome the challenges of this life on your own merit? I know of not one single achievement you've come by in this way."

"Greatfather, I—" he starts, quickly growing agitated by the relentless criticism.

"Hah!" The man instantly interrupts. "Do you even know the origin of the term? There was a time when elders were respected. Not suffered and endured as they are today. Your training does not end when you have mastered your craft. It does not end when you have surpassed me. Your training ends when you truly understand obligation, and unfortunately, that day resides on a distant horizon." Timed all too well, the statement coincides with their arrival at the barracks. Knowing any protest he offers will only be met with even more longwinded lectures, the young man simply takes his place opposite his teacher in the otherwise empty structure. "There are things in this world, my young apprentice, that we do not wish to endure, yet we endure them all the same because they are necessary. Ignoring these things yields decadence. Decadence is a building block of tyrants. Tyrants fall, yes, but they often bring civilization down with them. It has always been this way because it is our nature," he explains, sitting in a meditative way with some effort. "Such is the importance of obligation. Not to do these things simply because we are told, but to understand why, and do them because we understand. Keeping promises is such a thing," he reveals, clearly having heard the end of the argument with Cale. "Your training is also such a thing."

"What will we practice today?" He sighs, hoping to speed this meeting to its conclusion.

"I think the time has come to abandon the elements," the old man sighs, briefly recalling their previous sessions, and the disaster that ensued. "They require a mastery of emotion, and I fear I will not live to see a day when you have done such a thing. Your strength is clearly conjuration, however, your natural talents will only carry you so far. There are dimensions to this art you cannot yet conceive," he continues, rising to his feet and turning his back to his pupil. "But you will, in due time." With no warning, he spins into a crouched stance with a hearty shout, launching a ball of ice across the room from outturned palms. The young man hastily conjures a shield in defense, but the spinning blue rock smashes through the ethereal creation like a pane of glass, hitting him squarely in the chest, and knocking him off his feet.

"You—" he gasps, straining to catch his breath. "What—"

"Often times your enemy will give no warning before he strikes." The old man lectures, pacing impatiently while his student slowly finds his feet. "Considering your tendency to make enemies of everything and everyone you are able, I suspect you should be on your guard at all—" he continues, spinning into another elemental attack. "Times!"

"Hurgh!" He groans, taking a knee and reaching an arm forward. The tribal tattoo spiraling down his arm glows brightly as he wills his thoughts into existence. A much thicker transparent orb envelops his form, deflecting the attack completely.

"Good," the old man nods, eyeing him carefully. "Such simple conjurations should be kept taught, like an arrow just before release." Succumbing to his immaturity, he focuses his thoughts, swinging his arm upward. A translucent cage takes shape above his instructor falling to the ground with a heavy thud, and trapping his teacher within. His advance forward is short lived as a powerful blast of wind causes the conjured prison to explode in a whirlwind of force, his greatfather's eyes glowing green as he sweeps his own hand upward.

"Gah! No!" The pupil exclaims, the controlled torrent of wind lifting him off his feet, and holding him near the ceiling as he thrashes about.

"I've told you and told you imagination begets conjuration. All too often students summon swords and walls. These are things that they know," he continues, holding the young man in the air with one arm while slowly lifting the other. A miniature mountain of ice slowly takes shape, building upon itself rapidly with its sharp peak pointing toward the helpless novice. "These are things they can picture most easily in their mind. You must transcend such simple objects. You must birth something all your own," he concludes, waving a dismissive hand. The wind instantly subsides, and the pupil begins to fall. Scouring his mind in the second between heartbeats, he cannot concentrate as he falls toward certain death. The result is a purely instinctual reaction as he spins in a circle with his hand outstretched. In the wake of his twirling limb, a dozen spheres will dull spikes covering their shapes appear. Resembling the business end of a flail, they rapidly begin spinning around the young man's horizontal form. Smashing away the sharp spike of ice incrementally, they allow him to land a single foot atop the newly created plateau before springing off athletically.

"Interesting," the old man smiles, effortlessly launching a fireball toward his airborne student. Twisting an arm toward the approaching projectile, he causes the spectral spheres to twirl into a disc-like shape ahead of him, creating a shield. Flipping his feet beneath him, the shield bats the projectile away before the individual orbs separate once again. The conjured entities continue to orbit his form like moons around a humanoid planet as he rises to his feet, his eyes ablaze with a ghostly white hue. "Your instincts are good, but you cannot use them as a crutch. I believe that is enough for today," his teacher nods, not entirely without respect for his rapidly advancing student. "You haven't painted a masterpiece," he declares, reaching out toward the young man as his glowing eyes return to normal, and the spheres revolving about him fade away. "But you may have found your brush." He admits with a grin, clamping a heavy hand onto his shoulder and giving him an affectionate shake.

"What do you mean?" He asks, not quite grasping what he has just done.

"Arrive on time tomorrow, and I will tell you," his greatfather instructs, seeing him to the door as the twilight hours of late afternoon commence. The path home is a long one, partially responsible for his recurring decision to avoid the journey to the barracks entirely. The twilight hours hang upon the city like a humid blanket, the nearby forest and southern swamp causing the unpleasant summer days to be far worse so. Nearby a pair of children argue with their mother, insisting they should be allowed to play until the sun has set completely. Rounding a corner he meets eyes with a scantily-clad Zora girl who mimics his interested expression as she passes by with a smile. Turning to watch her go, a Subrosian preacher enters his field of vision in the distance, ranting about his three goddesses, and the rack and ruin awaiting us all.

"They've really been at it lately," he mumbles aloud as he allows the door to his house to swing shut behind him with a bang. Quickly coming into view across the large living room, his father closely resembles him, emitting a slightly more mature aura, though he is only twenty years his elder. His borderline flamboyant attire rests upon the back of his chair, his presentations to various councils in the royal district requiring a certain flair to increase his chances of selection, however slightly it may actually aid. A tired, absentminded tone lingers on his lips as he greets his son.

"What's that?" His father asks languidly, combing through a stack of documents for whatever manner of production he intends to put on tomorrow.

"Those preachers. They're everywhere anymore," he shrugs, pulling the bowl of fruit on the table closer and sifting through it.

"Wouldn't worry about it," his father smirks, never looking up from his stacks of paper. "Word is Igos will ban religious speeches outside of churches soon."

"Finally," he sighs with relief. "Guys are such a downer."

"Your mother is out with friends. If you're hungry I picked up some tektite meat." His father mumbles, uncomfortable with the recurring silence. "It's on ice in the cupboard."

"Don't have much of an appetite," he shrugs, shoving the fruit away. "We out of chuchu jelly?"

"You finished the last of it yesterday, remember?" His father distantly responds.

"Oh yeah," he smiles, scratching the back of his head.

"Wasn't the thing today?" His father blurts out in the ensuing silence. Snapping his finger, he struggles to remember details. "With the girl?" He guesses.

"Stood me up," he apathetically shrugs, unsure why he is even lying.

"Ah, you'll get the next one."

"Yeah," he sighs, eyeing documents on the table arbitrarily. "What's all this?"

"Military contract," his father grins, rubbing his hands together. "Castle fortification. Have to move fast to get this one. Other contractors are getting cut-throat lately."

"Oh yeah," he muses after shaking his head at his father's enthusiasm. "Turning in early tonight."

"The old man catch you skipping lessons again?"

"He always does somehow. Night."
Decadence

"She doesn't want to talk to you," Marta insists, condescendingly.

"Come on, love," her unconvincing friend pleads, turning up the charm. "Was an honest mistake. I thought you said sundown. Who meets for a date at sunup?"

"An honest mistake?" She accuses, turning toward the crowd to hide the involuntary blush he always manages to prod out of her. "Have you ever said anything honest in your life?" She continues, acting convincingly disinterested as she weaves through the crowd.

"Oi, that hurts," he whines, gripping at his heart as he follows close behind her. She rolls her eyes, but he caught a slight smile as she turned away from him once again. Her dazzling blonde hair sweeps back and forth over her shoulders as she prances forward. Twisting through the energetic crowd, they spot Cale waiting at the center of the massive bridge spanning Ikana River toward the royal district of the city. Dignitaries and politicians come and go as they reach their friend, propped on his elbows at the bridges edge, staring thoughtfully into the water.

"Thank the Guardians," Marta sighs, slapping a hand on Cale's shoulder. "Some creep has been following me all morning. Can you deal with him Cale?"

"Been trying to for years," he chuckles, humorlessly.

"Alas, she has fled my grasp, and conquered my heart," Marta's alleged stalker sighs, slapping his back to the carved stone next to their mutual friend. Tilting his head in Cale's direction, he sees the same serious expression he had yesterday in the market. Realizing his jokes are not appreciated, he decides to be somewhat diplomatic for once, toning down the theatrics. "Why did we have to meet here?" He asks, failing to remove the irritation from his voice completely. A swift kick to the shin from Marta ensures he sees her angry glare before she rephrases for him.

"You wanted to show us something? What's going on?" She asks, making a point to put on an interested face. Cale has become a recluse lately, and she seems to be the only person willing to reestablish the connection.

"That's a mighty big wall they're building," Cale points out, turning to prop his back on the balustrade. "Been working rather feverishly on it." Glancing toward the castle, his companions see a sizable crew hastily constructing a tall barrier in the formally open entrance.

"Yeah?" Marta nods, not understanding where he is going with the observation.

"You two hear about the ambassador who arrived today?"

"Actually I did overhear someone talking about him," Marta recalls, touching her index finger to her chin. "While I was consoling Burnadette," she adds with excessive attitude, and a glare to match.

"Marta!" The accused quickly interjects, briefly wearing a disgusted face. "Don't change the subject. This is serious." He insists, bouncing his unclenched fist off of Cale's chest. "Sorry, Cale. Go on." He adds, selling the pseudo-compassion well.

"Thanks," Cale responds, sarcastically. A mocking face pulls an irritated sigh from Marta as she rolls her eyes at his immaturity before returning them to Cale. "He passed through town early this morning. Several people saw him enter the castle to talk with Igos, but no one saw him leave."

"Wait, wait," his friend interrupts, waving his arms in confusion. "Ambassador? From where?"

"He wasn't wearing any sort of emblem or crest," Cale shrugs, adding, "what he was wearing was a fancier version of the burqas the Subrosians wear in the market."

"Oh no," he immediately whines. "Not this a—" he starts. Twisting her hips to prepare another kick, Marta isn't quite quick enough as he leaps out of harms way. "Woman!" He threatens, pointing an accusing finger. Returning the gesture with far more tenacity, Marta waits until she is certain there won't be any more interruptions, then returns her attention to Cale.

"Yeah, this again." Cale admits, raising his arms outward, and clearly aggravated he is the only one putting the pieces together. "Spies in the woods. An ambassador goes missing. Now they're fortifying the castle. How much evidence do you need?"

"Well first of all, the judicator's are still out on the whole spies in the forest thing," he quickly retorts, waving a dismissive hand.

"They're stockpiling weapons and planning an assault. They don't seem disciplined like our soldiers. Their leader held some kind of ceremony, like an initiation or something," Cale ponders aloud, recalling the bizarre ritual clearly. "Which, again, you would know for yourself if you weren't busy womanizing."

"I feel like we keep drifting from the topic at hand," he carefully responds, adjusting his posture uncomfortably. "The ambassador just arrived today, and what, we're assuming him dead just like that?"

"Let me guess, Igos is fortifying the castle entrance because he's sick of the view?" Cale interjects, his patience wearing thin. "When are you going to wake up? There are big things happening here!"

"We're not saying you're wrong." Marta insists, futilely attempting to deescalate the situation.

"I am," her egotistical friend blurts out under his breath.

"Stop it!" Marta shouts, jabbing him in the shoulder. "He's your friend. You could at least hear him out." A desire to impress her more so than a dutiful compulsion to his friend leads him to his delayed response.

"Okay, you're right," he meekly admits, yielding to her authority. "I'm sorry, Cale." He declares, miming with open hands as if he were setting the apology atop an invisible table. "I'm just not convinced. It's not like this is the first time you've come up with one of these," he pauses, searching for the phrase. "Conspiracy theories."

"Yeah," Marta sighs, wagging her head briefly to let the concept settle. "Got to side with him on that one."

"Fair enough," Cale points out, bowing slightly with open arms. "I'm just saying, it's worth looking into. I mean," he starts, palming his brow for a moment. "If I'm wrong, I'll own it." He explains, holding up a single finger for the next line. "But if I'm right, and we don't do anything," he pauses, exhaling depressingly as he considers the outcome. "This could get bad. People could die just because Igos wants to open that stupid tower. I'm not saying we should listen to the preachers, but we should at least find out what his actual motivation is." Searching his friends faces for any sign of concurrence, he slowly turns and starts out of the area when he finds nothing but unfiltered skepticism. Considering her options, Marta follows him back toward the residential district at the same unhurried pace. Lost in her winding curves, the most incredulous of the group follows suit, but his thoughts rest solely on schemes to coax Marta back to his house.

"You'd better hold my hand," a mother insists, her carefree child frolicking just out of arms reach. "If you fall in the river the Octoroks will eat you up," she warns with a wry grin.

"No!" the kid whines, snatching her hand in a death grip. Despite the discord within their group, the afternoon enjoys a particularly somber ambiance. The strong, steady rush of water far beneath them sounds as calming as the gentle breeze feels in the mild air. Further ahead, a growing crowd of people encircle an indistinguishable individual. The gathering emits excited cries and waves of laughter as the trio draws closer. Picking up the pace, Cale's intrigue pulls him through the crowd with his companions close behind. Random shouts from the crowd illicit increasingly angry responses from the man at the nexus of the spectacle. Finally reaching the center, the three friends find a hooded figure energetically arguing with the mob.

"You will be cursed by the divine! The sacrilegious will be purged in a holy retribution this world has yet to witness!" The figure shouts, pointing to random members of the crowd threateningly. His deep, raspy voice makes it all too clear he is another Subrosian fanatic, their activity having multiplied since King Igos' announcement regarding the tower.

"Why do the guards let these people do this?" A woman asks, shaking her head.

"Well he's not hurting anyone," another woman shrugs.

"The goddesses of creation will not tolerate your blasphemy any longer!" The preacher insists, his unique, all-concealing robe shrouding his face in shadow as he rants.

"Maybe one of your she-gods will come down and sit on me!" A man declares with a laugh. "That's how I'd like to go."

"Stop," a woman gasps, chuckling to herself as she clamps a hand over his mouth. "You're terrible," she muses, removing her hand to find a satisfied smile plastered on his face. Gradually losing interest, several people wander from the scene, the exhibition failing to amuse them any longer. The guards posted at the bridge begin to make their way toward the crowd as the commotion begins to escalate.

"Will you not repent?" The figure pleads, looking from face to face. More insults and heckling fall upon him like an avalanche. "Do you think you are safe from their divine wrath behind these pathetic walls? Do you?" He asks, pointing directly at Marta. The ambiguous visage cloaked beneath the heavy hood seems to stare into her for an instant before he turns his rage to another random individual. "You will find nothing but darkness in your degenerate ways," he asserts, desperate to convince anyone listening. "If you will not change, there is naught but death," he declares, hitting a dark and heavy tone with the final phrase.

"I don't want to be here anymore," Marta whispers, a cold chill running down her spine.

"She's right," Cale chimes in, turning to face his friends. "We should go. Now." Dropping to his knees, the figure assumes a deflated pose, his hands resting limply on his thighs. His shouting concluded, he speaks in a barely audible tone as the pair of guards reach the center of the crowd to escort him out of the area.

"And so I die, leaving no corpse," he breathes, his tone changing. Suddenly peaceful.

"What's that about a corpse?" A man asks, leaning in and cupping a hand to his ear.

"Did he say die?" Another man asks, his laughter drawing down as his brow sharpens.

"Alright, friend," one of the guards starts, prodding the figure with his boot. "Fun's over. Let's go." The shouts and commotion seem to fade down as Cale and Marta attempt to push past their friend, still staring at the figure as he lifts his head. A sixth sense stabs into his gut and stretches through his extremities when he senses violent intentions radiate through him suddenly. Without hesitation, he grabs both his friends around the waist as the figure's eyes glow a faint green, squeezing them tightly as his tattoo suddenly glows intensely.

"Hugh!" Cale grunts, not expecting the sudden embrace.

"What are you—" Marta squeals, assuming it to be an uninvited advance.

"This is the way of the Garo," the figure vows, the words pressing into the audiences ears the instant before their senses are utterly overwhelmed. A massive pillar of flame spins out of the hooded figure's form in a rapid vortex of destruction, churning rapidly at first, then slowing as it reaches its climax. Both Cale and Marta enter a state of shock as a profound silence ensues, the hungry waves of fire enveloping them while their own panicked breaths become the only thing their ears can perceive. As quickly as it started, the tornado of death dissipates upward, the flames dissolving and dying in a wholly unnatural way. The smoke slowly clears to reveal the disturbing massacre, and the sole survivors clinging to one another within a translucent orb of protection.

"What?" Marta gasps, choking on her words as emotion overwhelms her.

"No," Cale breathes, breaking free of his friend's exhausted embrace and stumbling back a step as the protective shell vanishes. A sharp sizzling sound followed by a sting of pain causes him to recoil, spinning around to find the charred corpse he briefly collided with. The men and women ironically stand frozen, each of them futilely attempting to flee or shield themselves from certain death. A ring of formerly lively people, now stand stamped into eternity by a zealot with a suicidal grudge.

"This," Marta chokes out, the intense heat and horrid smell all but paralyzing her. "It can't—" she breathes, her eyes drifting to find those of her savior. Such simple conjurations should be kept taught, he recalls, cursing his greatfathers lessons every day of his life until this moment. A foreign magic of immense power leaves him standing here, staring into Marta's eyes, utterly speechless. Finally tearing his gaze from hers, he surveys the mannequin-like statues, still sporadically glowing a fading red as their charred flesh hardens and darkens into a stone-like permanence. At ground zero, the two soldiers weren't even granted an instant to react, their scorched forms still reaching toward the space where the figure once resided.

"Leaving no corpse," Cale mutters aloud, his eyes fixated on the same spot as his friends.

"Way of the Garo," he recalls after a moment, grabbing Cale's attention.

"Garo," Cale repeats, falling to a knee and palming the ground for balance.

"You've heard it before?" He states more than asks, his voice warbling as his desensitized mind gradually accepts the sheer gravity of the situation. Marta simply stares in disbelief as they converse, unable to pull a sentence from her throat. Sensing her fragility, her friend moves closer and tilts her head into his chest, lightly stroking her hair as she clings onto him absently. After a couple difficult breaths, Cale climbs to his feet and responds.

"The spies," he starts, his stare drifting to the ground. "In the forest... That cloak they wear," he pauses, recalling the ritual all too clearly. "They called it the Garo Robe."
Balance

"Good." The teacher asserts, prompting his students to pause in their training. "That's enough for today. Those of you who plan to attend the ceremony, I expect you will remain vigilant." With that, the bulk of the students disperse their semicircle about their most promising peer, several conversing about the coming event. The lone pupil subjected to the barrage of his classmates drops to a seated position, catching his breath while returning the few nods of respect he receives. The suicide attack one week prior shook the citizens of Ikana to their core, though the declaration of war which followed affected the kingdom no more than a change in temperature. Being one of the sole survivors, he feels as though he came to understand what his greatfather was attempting to teach him all these years. Soon after, he decided he must become stronger. Watching all of those people perish before his eyes while he was only just strong enough to survive, it tossed a stone into the center of his soul, and the ripples continue to pulse through him even now. He will train. He will become stronger than even his greatfather. He must never feel powerless at the hands of a foe again. It is a feeling he cannot bear.

"Your drive is every bit as impressive as it is worrying," his instructor conveys, standing over him and offering a hand. "Your friends have come to me, unable to locate you for days on end."

"There are more important things now," he replies, his gaze distant.

"Your training is of the mind, the body, and the spirit," his greatfather insists, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Suppressing one will sharpen the others, but true mastery," he starts, leading the way out of the barracks. "True mastery is an acute balance of all three. A table will stand on two legs, but it is all too easy to topple over. Spend some time with those who are important to you, and in time, you will find your balance."

"Okay," he agrees after some thought. A reprieve from his training is a welcome idea, his every waking moment since that fateful day consumed by thoughts of advancing his skill. All too familiar with diving into new experiences head first, he now realizes he will certainly burn himself out at this reckless pace. A kind smile sees him on his way, but all the time he walks, new and profound concepts swirl through his mind regarding his craft. Abandoning the elements threw him much deeper into the world of conjuration. What began as nothing more than willing thoughts of simple objects into existence has drastically grown into unfathomable concepts of precisely how these ethereal entities relate and interact with the real world. He has learned how to meld tangible objects, but in theory, the same could be done to a man or beast. Speaking strictly in alchemical terms, there is merely a difference in component between steel and stone, and flesh and blood. Such things are dangerous and forbidden, his greatfather made this much clear, but he now lives in a dangerous time. Considering the prospects must be essential for him to evolve his understanding, but with all manner of practice shunned as taboo, he can only wonder what exactly is possible. Before he realizes it, he has wandered into the market district, but with the festival hour drawing near, it is uncharacteristically empty.

"I don't even recognize you," Cale chuckles, staring in humorous disbelief.

"You're becoming stealthy lately," he smirks, finally spotting his friend seated atop a rug boutique.

"No you're becoming oblivious lately." Cale laughs, springing from his ascended viewpoint to greet his friend. "What's with the constant contemplation anymore?"

"You were there," he sighs after a moment, not wanting to deflate the mood.

"Yeah, I was," Cale grins, socking his friend in the shoulder. "And now I'm still here because of you, or should I say because of that stubborn old man who twisted your arm until you learned how to magic?" He jokes, wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell.

"Thank you just isn't in your vocabulary is it?" He grins, shaking his head.

"That's as close as you're going to get. Take it or leave it," Cale shrugs, maintaining his positive attitude.

"Going to the ceremony?" He asks as they leisurely stroll through the quiet market.

"Honestly I couldn't care less. Won't be eventful I don't think. They rounded up the last of the Subrosians yesterday and security is tighter than Marta's—" he pauses, his cheerful tone collapsing as he fails to consider his words. They both stop in their tracks with the revelation and share a depressing sigh.

"Have you talked to her?"

"She won't see anyone. Hasn't left her house since it happened," Cale points out, scratching his head. "She might reconsider if you—"

"She won't," he interrupts with a deep breath. "I think I just remind her, you know?"

"No, I don't," Cale insists, prodding his friends chest with a stiff finger. "You should try to talk to her."

"We'll see," he murmurs with a leave-it-at-that sort of tone. Subconsciously following the growing commotion, the duo soon find themselves crossing the bridge into the royal district. Massive murals and streaming banners flood the open air, the patriotic orgasm of propaganda overwhelming to even the most stalwart citizen. The vast majority of the city crowds the western wall of the castle parameter for the opening of the Stone Tower, King Igos Du Ikana's newfound symbol of victory over fear, and Ikanian dominance. The colossal structure consisting of three perforated, cylindrical pylons can be seen from Southern Swamp all the way to Snowhead Mountain in the north. Rumors of its origin span from the four guardians themselves to creatures from another world, no historical text detailing anything beyond the tower's existence. The ancient doorway at its base has remained sealed for as long as any Ikanian can recall, fear of a curse having kept even the most audacious hands from venturing near it. Over time these assumed truths became nothing more than stories in the eyes of the average citizen, and shortly thereafter, little more than evangelical lies vehemently preached by the Subrosian immigrants. Intimately aware of these concerns, the King intends to put all fears and doubts to rest with this ostentatious gesture.

"By the Guardians..."

"I told you," Cale promptly agrees. "There are more soldiers than civilians." Easily vaulting from the bridge's bannister to a wooden pillar hoisting a cornucopia of decoration, he lends his companion a hand in ascending to the optimal viewpoint. With their elevated perspective, they quickly spot the king's pair of bodyguards, and expectedly, the reclusive composer brothers, only making appearances at such events. Directing the band with their newest creation, they don't appeal to the crowd at all, purely focusing on a perfect performance. The spectacle seems excessive, even considering the magnitude of the event at hand.

"That can't be necessary," his friend insists, gawking at the formations of soldiers lined up between the crowd and the king, gradually making his way to the stage. A wave of chants and enthusiastic gestures greet Igos as he pleads for calm while enjoying the praise. Few kings have enjoyed the popularity this monarchy has maintained, the unprecedented ability of a ruler to effectively govern, as well as resonate with his subjects, an anachronism until the current reign. A young and handsome king, Igos emits an aura of arrogant charm his people cannot help but love. Pacing the temporary stage with a memorable swagger, he proclaims his thanks before beginning his speech.

"My fellow Ikanians. We have been given an opportunity our fathers, and their fathers before them, could not imagine. An enemy, hiding right beneath our noses, has used the generosity, and the trust of our outstanding citizenry, to strike in the most devious, and cowardly way imaginable." His nearly condescending tone and fatherly cadence lull the crowd into an even deeper state of civic pride, hanging on his every word, and frothing for retribution. His voice rapidly gaining base as his passion rises, the king continues his address. "What will they say of us in ten years? In a hundred? That those people were too pacified by their time without struggle, too timid to demand justice for the atrocities committed against them?"

"No!" Many of the attendees bark in unison.

"Will they gasp," he continues, his tone softening as he mimics the proposed inquirer of the future. "Oh! You don't mean the crushers of the zealous rebellion?" He declares, raising a hand and snapping his fist shut.

"Yeah!" The audience roars, delighted by his theatrics.

"Your children, and their children in turn, will always remember the unfortunate souls who have fallen victim to this treachery, and even more so, they will always remember our response." He pledges, his energy spiking along with that of the crowd. "We will send a message to the furthest corners of Termina, and it all begins with the opening of this tower!"

"Igos! Igos! Igos!" The gathering chants as the event reaches the crescendo.

"Ikana does not fear! Ikana does not falter! Let us show all of Termina, we will have our justice!" He concludes, basking in the potent waves of unmitigated devotion the people are projecting upon him. Gradually making his way to the stage, a curious figure bows graciously before the king, and with that, the charismatic leader takes his place to the side of the stage. Turning to face the crowd, the man causes an unsettling chill to jolt through the attendees, his strange robes virtually unnoticeable compared to his otherworldly mask. Two bulging, yellow eyes create a piercing stare within the heart-shaped visage of purple and red. Two arrays of large spikes line the sides down to the inverted apex, each of them a darker color as they descend. Lifting his arms skyward, the masked figure seems to be chanting some sort of inaudible invocation, the gesture revealing another oddity in his ensemble. The outline of a large, white eye is displayed prominently upon his granite-blue robes, three triangles arrayed across the top resembling eyelashes.

"Who in Termina is that?" Cale mumbles, inspecting the figure as best he can from this distance.

"Some kind of shaman?" His friend proposes, shrugging his shoulders.

"Well, at any rate, you'd think Igos would want us up there," Cale points out, crouching down and getting comfortable. "We were the only survivors."

"The interrogation wasn't enough for you? Those guards treated us more like suspects than victims," he recalls, the irritating procedure seeming very unnecessary to him. "They might have locked us up if so many people hadn't seen what happened."

"You're probably right, it's just—" Cale starts, something about the entire event not quite sitting right with him.

"What?"

"I mentioned the name Garo, and they seemed hostile all of a sudden," Cale recounts, the guards demeanor having changed like the wind the moment the word was uttered. "I just think they know more than they were telling us."

"Well what do you expect? You tell them about the regiment in the forest?" His companion inquires, worried he already knows the answer.

"No. I got the sense they wouldn't have let me go so easily if I mentioned it. I think they know who these Garo are, but they're trying to keep it quiet."

"You may be right," he admits, concerned he is actually participating in one of Cale's famous theories about government secrets. "Still, if there are more of those crazies out there, the guards should know about them."

"Agreed. Problem is I haven't been able to find them all week. They just vanished without a trace."

"You think the guards found them when they were rounding up all the Subrosians? Maybe one of them talked and gave away their position," he speculates, the most obvious prospect seeming to be the most likely.

"Possibly, but don't you think it's odd that—" he starts, cut off by a sudden swell in the crowd. Having finished his ritual, the shaman figure approaches the door, placing both palms upon it near the center. With a great deal of effort, the heavy doors begin to creak, a deep and horrible sound discharging from within the tower with the effort. Instantly uneasy, the entire gathering grows quiet as the robed figure continues to pull the doors open with some manner of magic channeled through his hands. A beam of darkness spills through the opening as the doors separate, the widening line of inverted light blanketing the crowd in shadow as the rolling, thunderous sound continues to vibrate the area.

"Remain calm!" Igos blurts out with a smile, quickly making his way to the shaman with a pair of soldiers in tow. A brief conversation ensues, but Igos soon returns to the side of the spectacle, ensuring the people, "this is all expected." An impatient gesture toward the composer brothers prompts them to restart the music in an attempt to pacify the mass of people. Without warning, a dark, purple mist rapidly crawls through the door, spreading out as it immediately overtakes the lines of soldiers and makes its way into the crowd. Several worried shouts throw the mood into a panicked state, many of the people closest to the tower pushing and shoving their way out of the area. Each of their heart rates spiking, the pair of young men atop the decorative column have an internal debate about the best course of action.

"I think that's our cue," Cale decides, timing his leap between the hundreds fleeing the area. At the edge of his peripheral vision, his friend spots a profoundly odd individual casually making his way through the fleeing group. Pausing next to the wooden pillar, he rubs his hands together compulsively as if he were carefully applying lotion, while considering his next move. A massive backpack dwarfs his meek frame, the satchel covered in a large variety of masks fastened to the oversized pack. Garbed in a thin purple robe, the stranger appears to be some sort of salesman, but his yellow-tinted skin tone is certainly foreign. Beneath his squinting eyes, a worried grin parts as he begins to mumble to himself.

"This won't do. This won't do at all," he sighs, his voice oddly calm considering his surroundings. "No happiness can come of this."

"Hey, let's go," Cale breathes, socking his friend on the shoulder before springing back to ground level.

"She'll want that one recovered. It shouldn't be in the hands of men, clearly," the mask salesman continues to mumble, resuming his trek forward.

"What are you talking about?" The confused eavesdropper shouts, hopping to the ground and quickly glancing back to see Cale headed for the bridge. Deciding it is too late to catch up, he turns back toward the unusual mask-hoarder. "Hey you!"

"They won't help these poor souls. He must see it by now. They've abandoned this world. This won't coerce them down. Masks are meant to bring happiness. Never this," the salesman continues to ramble, ignoring everything around him. Losing the bizarre salesman in the increasing darkness, the elemental novice decides a wind spell could quickly help to calm the escalating situation. Nearly upon him, the dark mist has caused the legion of soldiers to wander aimlessly, their confused faces not seeming to even know where they currently are. The music abruptly stops just before he assumes a balanced stance to help himself control the spell. Crying children and confused shouting hinder his state of mind, but easily enough, he has a light whirlwind encircling him in moments.

"Wind is passion," he mutters under his breath, closing his eyes to concentrate. "Focus, damn it!" Knocking him off balance, the torrent multiplies exponentially, growing beyond his control in seconds. The mist is blown back toward its origin, but dozens of fleeing civilians are thrown off their feet, disoriented and confused as they scramble to recover. Cursing his inability to provide any meaningful help, he quickly finds himself baffled when a radiant light appears overhead, illuminating the entire area. Several of the soldiers attempt to help the many trampled citizens, the chaotic scene now quite clear, and beyond it all he can see Igos angrily scolding the masked man who opened the doors. Standing with his arms raised in a crucificial pose, the creator of the chaos appears to be ignoring the king completely, his head tilted back as he stares into the heavens. A steady wind encompasses the area as the source of the newfound light is revealed.

"You had better be on your way," an encumbered old voice commands.

"I should have known," his pupil laughs, turning to find his greatfather holding the orb of light high above with an outstretched hand, while controlling the advancing mist with subtle movements of the other.

"There will be time enough for talk, but not here," the masterful magi insists, his eyes conveying his seriousness. "Go now, while you are still unafflicted."
Reasons

"I'm serious!" An attractive young lady whines, stamping her foot childishly.

"Come on, love," her skeptical date laughs, crossing his arms. "A ghost?"

"Yeah, they say it haunts the spot where that suicide bomber attacked," she explains, searching the young man's face for any sign of approval. Scratching his head and wearing a frown, he leads her on for a moment longer before responding.

"I hope you're serious," he starts, his expression wide-eyed as he moves close to her. "Ghosts are no laughing matter. There's no way you could have known this, but you're talking to a professional reaver." Lost in his eyes the girl cannot decide if he is joking or not, and she proceeds to mumble her response appropriately.

"A ghost hunter? That's a kids story," she finally concludes.

"I wish that were the case," he retorts, continuing to sell the lie convincingly. "Truth is, I've been dealing with spooks for years. Reaving is an ancient art. Passed down through generations," he continues, his antics selling his bogus story like a professional thespian.

"Is that what those tattoos are for?" She chimes in, falling into the delusion willingly.

"That's right," he admits, eyeing her suspiciously. "You've got a keen eye. That would come in handy in the field," he continues, stroking his chin and turning slowly as he pretends to ponder. "I've got to warn you, love, this is dangerous business. If we're going to do this you've got to stay close to me."

"Okay," she obediently responds, her eyes glassy as she swoons from the prospect of such an adventure. "Do you need to get like," she pauses, instantly worried she will sound ignorant making the assumption. "Your gear or whatever?"

"Oh," he chuckles, swinging an arm over her shoulder. "Chrissy, I've got everything I need right here." He explains, tapping his index finger to his temple. "But still," he continues, leaning closer to her face. "I'll need those sharp eyes if we're going to come back alive," he points out, poking her on the nose affectionately. Shying away with a bashful smile, she nods with understanding, and with that, they start for the crime scene. Bright moonlight shines down upon the town this evening, the recent rain causing the wet stones of passing buildings to shimmer as a cool wind passes through. Trapped in an odd mixture of fear and respect, the entire section of town remains utterly abandoned. The blast radius surrounding ground zero has been walled off with wooden barricades, and covered with an obfuscating tarp suspended by crossed ropes overhead. Only the occasional curious adolescent briefly ventures near, and therefore, guards have proven completely unnecessary. Peering through the blockades, Chrissy bounces with excitement, and while her date would typically enjoy such a spectacle, he cannot help but dread exploring the scene.

"What's wrong," she asks, catching a glimpse of the trepidation on his face. "I didn't know professional reavers got scared."

"Haha, hardly," he grins, extending a hand to her as he pulls a barricade aside. "Ladies first." He insists politely.

"Oh what a gentleman," she scoffs, though she grows notably anxious upon passing through the prohibited boundaries. Pulling the wooden obstruction back into place behind them, the supposed ghost hunter lifts the tarp aside to allow her entry. Fire burns of anger. Ice spreads with sorrow. Light shines through innocence, he recalls from his greatfather's lectures. With some effort, he produces a small pixel of light, concentrating intently to keep the particle afloat and under control. Once inside, Chrissy's fearless attitude plummets rapidly as she takes one slow, apprehensive step after another. Sensing her discomfort, her date sees his chance to make a move, stealthily shuffling in close behind her. A pair of hands suddenly clamp around her waist accompanied by a loud moan, and after an involuntary twitch and scream, Chrissy slaps at his hands and doubles over with laughter.

"Why so edgy?" He mocks, stalking her while wiggling his fingers. The light overhead begins to flicker, but ultimately remains.

"Stop it," she giggles, playfully batting his hands away. "I thought you said this was serious," she accuses, tilting her head and eyeing him accusingly. Her long, curly hair bounces atop her shoulders, framing her flirtatious smile in a shadowy portrait of possibility. Struggling to come up with an excuse, he briefly ogles her form beneath her short skirt before the light overhead doubles in brightness, then vanishes completely.

"Gah, innocent thoughts," he mumbles under his breath.

"What?" She breathes, the fear returning to her voice. "Was that you?"

"Maybe it was the ghost," he instantly responds, realizing he can use the turn of events to his advantage. "You should stay close."

"Yeah," she skeptically agrees, feeling the open air as she searches for him. "Is that you?" She asks after a worried noise escapes her lips when her hand finds his torso.

"Of course," he laughs. "Don't fret my dear."

"You—" She giggles just as the orange glow of torchlight suddenly enters the dark tent, snapping their attention upward. Curiously, an old lantern hovers high above the couple, gradually descending to ground level as it lightly bobs up and down. The object's unnatural movements are unsettling at best, hanging in the air as if an invisible hand were gingerly holding it. Seeming to study them, the lantern drifts left, then slowly moves right, encircling them as they diligently maintain their distance.

"That, love," the phony ghost hunter states bluntly. "Is not me."

"Okay," she nervously laughs, gripping his shirt tightly. "You got me. You can stop." Finding himself without a clever response this time around, he can only extend a protective arm across Chrissy's chest as he waits for whatever it is he's facing to make the first move. Seeming to grow impatient, the lantern suddenly whirls three hundred sixty degrees as a horrifying laughter sounds, echoing between this world and another. A hooded wraith phases into existence through the dancing shadow created by the hovering lantern. A pair of evil, green eyes scowl through the pitch-black darkness beneath the figure's cowl. The swaying lantern dangles from a single arm, the appendage apparently made of shadow as its indistinguishable dimensions seem to morph and flicker in the eerie torchlight. The arms stretch out from beneath a shredded cloak, the creature appearing as if it has showered in razor blades, and hovering just high enough to reveal the absence of legs. Her fight or flight response initiating, Chrissy darts in the direction they had entered, intending to dive beneath the tarp and run to safety. Sensing the coming peril, her date grabs her wrist in a death-grip as he pulls her back.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!" She shrieks, overwhelming heat forcing her eyes shut as an inferno appears before her. With a vicious whip of its torch-laden arm, the ghoul throws a wave of fire, cutting off their escape route, and engulfing the tent in flame. Rapidly approaching the brink of failure, the ropes holding the deathtrap aloft immediately begin to spiral and fray apart, the intense heat all but vaporizing them instantly. His heart ready to pound its way out of his chest, the newly-aspiring ghost hunter twirls his date to his chest, hugging her tightly as his free arm glows even brighter than the flames surrounding him. Floating apathetically through the hellish atmosphere, the specter's crescent eyes seem to imply a satisfied grin in the imminent death of the trespassers. Suddenly, Chrissy's knees buckle, the pool of sweat that had collected between their bodies emptying onto the charred stone beneath them as her alleged reaver loses his concentration to dip down and catcher her. A rolling roar descends upon them, and the amateur spell-caster realizes his time is up.

"Fine! Have it raw!" He shouts, his furious gaze snapping onto the drifting wraith just as the ceiling of flame falls into view. Squeezing the poor girl as tightly as he's able, his strength all but fails him as her limp limbs wave and flail in the hurricane of wind exploding from the blinding green of his open palm. The curtain of death expands in every direction, an orb of dissipating smoke and flame swelling to a gradual halt like a mushroom cloud. "No," he grunts, his free arm finally reaching its limit as the unconscious girl is sucked into the rapidly fading torrent. An altogether clumsy series of sudden wind gusts manage to stabilize her soaring position, and with enough strain to force him to his knees, the elemental novice allows her a mere bruise-ensuring landing. The silvery moonlight glows upon her vulnerable state, and somehow, all of the commotion has failed to attract any attention as another quiet breeze pets the landscape with invisible hands. Several exhausted breaths later, he finds his feet, and unfortunately, the ghost responsible for his plight staring at him. Gliding slowly backward, the ghoul gradually turns toward the helpless girl lying awkwardly upon the ground a short distance away.

"Stop," the exhausted magi commands, his voice gaining a surprising amount of base considering his physical state. Ignoring him completely, the specter glides to a stop just above its victim, its heartless eyes fixated upon her as another otherworldly laugh echoes through the air. His eyes burning into a blinding white, the weary knight-in-shining-armor trips and stumbles toward them, his ethereal, spiked orbs scattering across the ground as they spill from his hand like a punctured bucket of water. "I said, stop," he repeats, his voice cold and callous. A high-pitched squeal snaps Chrissy from her brief unconsciousness, pulling her savior from his berserker trance as the ghastly creature sways and weaves away, clutching the hole in its chest painfully. Glancing down to his outstretched palm, the unofficially-certified reaver realizes what he has done, and quickly leaps into a sprint, determined to finish the job.

"What happened?" A dazed and confused Chrissy mumbles as her date flies past her grounded form in a hurry.

"No time, love," he shouts as he passes by, glancing over his shoulder to add, "proper fun! We'll do it again sometime!" Dashing into an alley, the hunter spots the base of a lantern dip left as its orange glow quickly vanishes, its possessor laughing once again, but in a broken, painful sort of way. Closing the distance as quickly as his legs will allow, he sees the fugitive blink in and fade out of the visible spectrum for just a moment as it continues to flee toward the market district. Subconsciously pulling a half dozen of his faithful spheres along for the ride, he only now notices them sporadically orbiting his body as he runs. Blindly jogging between closed down stalls and booths, he has lost sight of his prey entirely as he endlessly turns to find nothing but shadows and reflections of moonlight. A tense silence ensues, the hunter expecting an attack at any moment from the still night. A sudden crash grabs his attention, and in moments he has covered the distance to a stand belonging to a vendor of glass bottles. An open satchel lies on the ground, its contents shattered and ruined save for a couple lucky containers. Scratching his head and wandering a few steps further, the reaver is rewarded for his diligence.

"End of the line pumpkin-eyes," he breathes with exhausted arrogance. A single step toward his wounded prey ends in an equally fortuitous and disastrous manner as his ankle rolls atop a cylindrical bottle. His arms outstretched in a mad attempt to catch himself, a crescent blur of heat and light overwhelms his senses as he topples to a harsh landing upon his back, his orbiting spheres raining to the ground and dissipating. Regaining his bearings, he sees the ghoul recoil from its failed attack, stumbling backward in a futile attempt to keep its creaking lantern aloft. The jagged hole in the ghost's chest spreads like cracks upon a pane of glass with the effort, and with a final weak shriek, the fading specter collides harshly with the bottle stand, dropping its lantern as it agonizingly fades away. Just as the discarded box of glass and tin collides with the ground, a single bottle tumbles from atop the stand, seemingly doomed to suffer the same fate. Another echo of wicked laughter sounds as the apparition's soul springs from the lantern, the same evil eyes sneering within the gust of glowing smoke. Slowing its descent considerably, the bottle captures the escaping spirit like a net slapped down upon an insect.

"Interesting," the potential ghost hunter muses, snatching the bottle from the ground and quickly pressing its cork into the opening. "Thought you had me there didn't you?" He continues to tease, dangling the bottle before his smirking face. Suddenly, a familiar pair of green eyes reveal themselves within a swirling torrent of dark mist contained inside the glass cell. The ampule glows profoundly as a deep, deliberate voice speaks directly into the petty young man's mind.

"Foolish you are, to think me defeated," the spirit bellows, staring daggers at him.

"Oi! Now you can talk?" He blurts out with amazement.

"Release me now, and you will be spared," it pauses, adding, "for a time."

"Ha! That's your offer?" He laughs, tossing the bottle between his hands before setting it upon the vendor stall. Taking a seat upon a stool within the kiosk, he props his head upon his fist as the dialogue continues. "What's your name?"

"I am Garo," the vengeful soul states bluntly.

"That a name or a faction?"

"Your intrigue amuses me," it scoffs, its tone becoming less severe. "It is both. The Garo are legion. We wear the robe to allow passage through the dark, so the pure of soul may attain the light of their grace."

"Their grace?" He mocks, quickly recalling the crazy preachers. "You mean the she-gods don't you?"

"A blasphemer. I might have known," it sighs, the callousness returning to its voice.

"It was you, wasn't it?" He states breathlessly, the realization striking him like a crashing wave. A rapid flutter of horrifying memories rush through his mind, the desperate preacher begging the people to listen before sacrificing himself. "You killed all those people," he pauses, blinking several times as the scene replays itself in his mind for the hundredth time. "And for what? Your stupid religion."

"I embraced the purity of the cleansing flame," it corrects, rapidly growing to dislike its disrespectful captor. "Your King would see you suffer," it points out, turning the conversation around. "And for what? His heartless war."

"Igos? What does—"

"Foolish boy. You cannot see beyond your station," it reveals, the glow of its eyes fading as it grows tired of conversing. "You will. In due time," it concludes dramatically.

"I know you're still there," he points out after a moment, unaffected by the theatrics.

"Leave me alone," it resentfully responds a moment later, returning to a dark, featureless vapor. Rolling his eyes, the young man spots an intricate weave of thick string fashioned to carry a bottle on the wearer's hip. After looping the attachment about the flared neck of the container, he pulls the strings taut before tying the fishnet-resembling accessory around his waist. A handful of rupees clatter upon the timeworn wooden counter. Payment for the bottle belt he has taken, as well as the wealth of damage done to the owner's property. Satisfied with his patronage as well as his prisoner's new accommodations, he starts for the royal district, certain someone of importance will be eager to hear such a fantastical tale. If not, there is always his father. "I suspect you care little, but—" the spirit starts, its eyes whisking about within the bottle.

"You suspect correctly," he interrupts, indifferent about the soul's level of comfort. The vacant city streets pass by in a blur, the few energetic enough to be out at such an hour going equally unnoticed. Halfway across the mighty bridge spanning Ikana River, a very familiar voice sounds from the darkness.

"You surprise even me on occasion," an elderly voice admits with compassion.

"Greatfather? What are you—"

"The very same as you," he points out, gesturing at the bottle hanging from his apprentice's hip. "Reporting the poe threat."

"Poe?" He ponders, recalling the word from some unknown story in his past. "Is that what these jerks are called?"

"Indeed," his master agrees with a chuckle. "That one put up much of a fight?"

"You could say that," he snidely retorts, patting the bottle proudly. "What about yours?"

"Which one?" His greatfather smirks, lifting the hatch of a basket containing at least a dozen spirits of varying color and energy.

"Showoff," he mumbles under his breath. "Where are they coming from?"

"I cannot say, but I am certain it involves those who were afflicted."

"Afflicted?" He asks, moving closer and leaping up onto the balustrade to rest his legs.

"The darkness released from the tower has given rise to a mysterious illness among those who were closest to the doors," his greatfather explains, subconsciously rolling his shoulder, and unintentionally revealing a discolored patch of skin beneath his sleeve.

"What does an illness have to do with ghosts?" He retorts, averting his eyes to imply he didn't notice.

"Many of the soldiers have already passed away," the arcane master admits, patting his basketful of captured spirits. "And now, here they are. The dead are not at peace. I believe a vial curse has sprung forth from that tower. Just as the Subrosians feared."

"That can't be true," he breathes, eyeing the shapeless mist within his bottle.

"I would enjoy such a hope. However, the evidence allows me no such luxury. The King has agreed to a reaver regiment to combat the growing ghost population," his greatfather beams with pride.

"Why in Termina would Igos agree to fund ghost hunters?" He immediately responds.

"Your ignorance astounds me, foolish child," the dangling ghost chimes in.

"Quiet, you!" He snaps, knocking a knuckle against the sturdy glass. A confused expression from his teacher prompts the obvious explanation. "Got myself a talker," he smiles, shrugging his shoulders.

"Impossible," his greatfather breathes, his sturdy stare shifting from his pupil, to the vial, and back again. The unbelieving expression remains upon his face when the voice of a soldier rings out from deep within the castle.

"Assassin!"
Pride

"I'm sorry. It's my duty," the young soldier apologizes.

"Are we seriously going to do this every day?" The frustrated young man argues back, holding out his arms in disbelief. "You know who I am."

"Still, I'm required to—"

"Whatever," he interrupts, already running late. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, you're free to go," he absently responds, scratching at the air. "Next!" Proceeding through the checkpoint en route to the training barracks, the young reaver glances over his shoulder to see the line of people simply intending to leave town has already doubled in size this morning. The attempt on the King's life, and the multiple suicide bombings succeeding it, have resulted in a military presence the kingdom has never known. Squads of soldiers march down virtually every street, and checkpoints have been erected between every district to halt the influx of militant Subrosians. The newspapers claim the threat is under control, but estimates the number of casualties to have climbed over two hundred. Flyers hanging from the checkpoint proclaim, 'Help us fight back!' complete with a citizen pointing out a hiding extremist to a soldier. The military commanders as well as the King himself have asked that any suspicious activity be reported, fear of Subrosian sympathizers a growing concern as their continued infiltration seems impossible without some manner of internal support. The times are changing, but for most Ikanians, the change seems to be every bit as welcome as it is ignored.

"Good of you to join us," his greatfather nods as he enters the training barracks.

"Sorry I'm late," he exhales, taking his place amongst his peers.

"Your fellow reavers-in-training have each taken on an alias. I fear the coming war will prove difficult regarding this faction's secrecy, and your identities are now vitally important," the master explains, intensifying the sheer gravity of the situation they all face. "You are only to use each other's aliases from this day forward. Phantoms and zealots alike could use your family's name to their advantage. Do not forget this."

"What will my name be?" The tardy member of the ensemble asks.

"Blasphemer," Garo answers, content to ridicule his captor as escape is currently impossible.

"Walked into that one," he admits, eyeing the cloudy container after an exasperated sigh.

"You seem to have an inexplicable connection with the departed," his teacher starts, regarding the bottled spirit momentarily, still hanging from his disciple's belt. "It is because of this I have chosen the name Geist," he imparts, reading his reaction. Seeing no objection, he continues his lecture. "I will be honest with you, the King has seen fit to endorse this regiment purely for political purposes. You've heard the stories of ghosts and hauntings. Igos merely wants the citizens to believe he is doing something about it. Neither he, nor his council, believe there is a growing danger of manifestations from the beyond, but the threat is every bit as real as the Subrosian extremists."

"Are we meant to combat the extremists as well?" Another student inquires.

"If it comes to it, yes," he responds with a solemn expression. A general uneasiness falls over the assembly with this revelation, but their teacher has prepared words of assurance. "We are not soldiers. This is not a brigade of the King's army. I have decided our role will be that of peacekeepers. In the coming months you will learn a vast array of new skills, but the most important of these will be discernment. To know when to act, and when to stay your hand," he pauses, scanning the faces of his disciples as he paces back and forth before them. "However, that is an ongoing lesson. Today we will delve into conjuration, the most effective form of magic in regards to the undead." With that, the group of students spread out into their typical training formation, and await instruction. "As most of you know, Geist here is an adept conjuror, and will be assisting me during this particular course," he points out, grabbing an expected expression of shock from his student. Unprepared for such a responsibility, Geist awkwardly moves out of formation to observe his handful of peers. The day's training seems to last far longer than any other, but in due time, the sun climbs high out of the student's view, hanging at its highest point in the sky as training concludes.

"Better!" The inexperienced instructor exclaims. "To see every detail of its shape in your mind is more important than the physical appearance itself. Close your eyes if it helps you to focus," he explains, surprising even himself with his ability to articulate the method. Catching an approving nod from his own teacher, Geist feels the last of his anxiousness leave him as the long day draws to a close. He would have never believed he was capable of teaching anything, the mere thought of such responsibility never crossing his mind. Still, his greatfather seems to have proven his prudence, as he often does, and now the instructed has become the instructor. The majority of the group are far from achieving his level of skill, many of them having excelled in the elemental fields, but their strong understanding of the fundamentals will undoubtedly accelerate them to the upper echelons of comprehension. The most concerning factor in Geist's mind has become the regiment's size, or lack thereof. If the ghost population is exploding as his greatfather has warned, they certainly stand no chance with their paltry numbers. With or without his master's approval, he knows recruitment will prove essential in the coming weeks and months.

"Excellent, Azrael. Soon you will see the potent current of confusion lessens as you progress upstream," the master magi proclaims, turning from his one-on-one instruction to address the bulk of his class. "That is enough for today, everyone. Continue to practice, but do not attempt to interact with your conjurations just yet. That is a lesson for another day." The majority of the students seem to radiate a positive outlook, despite the daunting task before them. Their rapid comprehension has instilled them with a sense of purpose, imperviousness even, and as they make their way into the afternoon sun, an unspoken vow of respect is communicated through unconscious gestures between them. Heading back into town, Geist eyes a stout old man making his way to the barracks. While he is clearly younger than Geist's greatfather, he carries the same air of timeless reverence in his methodical mannerisms. Curious about the man's identity, and even more so, why he is meeting with his greatfather, Geist is soon distracted by the spectacle ahead.

"Of course I'm an Ikanian citizen!" Cale shouts at the checkpoint guard aggressively. "How many suicidal zealots have you caught with this stupid nonsense? You jerks are accomplishing one thing, and one thing only. Harassing law-abiding citizens!" He continues to rant as the irritated line of people behind him grows. Several individuals move over into the adjacent line when the confrontation shows no signs of ending.

"It's a simple question," the soldier protests, growing agitated himself. "I'm just doing my job here."

"Well your job is pointless," Cale quickly responds, not backing down. "They pay you to waste everyone's time?"

"Everyone would be on their way by now if—"

"No," he instantly interjects. "Wrong. I didn't set up a checkpoint. I'm not the one—"

"Hah! That's right," Geist cheers, thoroughly fed up with the checkpoints himself. "Tell him!" Simply shaking his head at his friend, Cale takes a deep breath as a special forces regiment appears in the distance, making their way to the checkpoint. The few citizens still waiting in Cale's line seem far more annoyed by his disobedience than the checkpoint itself, several palming their brow while others shift their weight and exhale impatiently. Entertaining as the situation is, Geist catches wind of a conversation as the line next to his moves forward.

"I don't know if it's allowed, I mean—" Azrael, a fellow reaver-in-training starts.

"What's the harm in asking?" His friend retorts.

"If what is allowed?" Geist chimes in, leaning closer.

"My older brother has been asking about what we're doing. I think he wants to train as a magi, but the way my father talks, he's too old to start now," Azrael conveys, shrugging his shoulders.

"True, but even so, we're going to need all the help we can get," Geist admits, turning his hands over with the point.

"It will not be enough. I assure you," Garo adds with a sinister chuckle.

"Bring him tomorrow. Tell your father I'll smooth it over with the old man," Geist concludes with a smile. Ignoring the internment banter of the angry spirit grows easier with each passing hour, though the passive aggressive threats are not entirely without credence.

"Alright!" He agrees, turning to his friend to see that they are in agreement. "Thanks—"

"Geist," his friend harshly interrupts, jabbing Azrael with an elbow and subtly glancing around. "Were you even paying attention? Alias's from now on."

"Ouch, I know," he nods, rubbing his arm.

"It'll take some getting used to all around," Geist laughs as his line proceeds. "Until tomorrow."

"Yeah," his companions reply in near unison. Something about the way they look at him fills the young magi with pride. He has risen in the eyes of peers and mentors alike through recent events. A growing number of people are beginning to rely on him, and the feeling is not wholly unwelcome. It would seem that obligation is not the tragedy he has long convinced himself it must be. With very little thought, he decides he will enjoy the burden while it still weighs upon him so lightly. Raising no fuss when his turn comes, Geist proceeds through the checkpoint rapidly to meet up with his stubborn friend.

"We received a report of a suspicious person in the area," the guard explains, attempting to pacify the unruly citizen, though his condescending tone does the opposite. "Therefore, we're being extra careful at the moment. We would appreciate your cooperation."

"Whatever," Cale chuckles, unconvinced. "If they were going to attack, you've given them the perfect target with all these people lined up," he points out, shifting his eyes over to find Geist gesturing for him to wrap it up.

"I might have guessed," the solder muses as he glances over to find the very man who gave him trouble this morning. Geist takes solace in the fact that his friend finds the hopelessly dutiful guard every bit as intolerable. His need to exit the city limits departing as his friend arrives, Cale decides to walk away from the whole situation. "All of that and you're not even passing through? You've got to be kidding," the guard agitatedly shouts at him.

"Looking for me?" Geist asks rhetorically as they step away from the lines, ignoring the guards complaints.

"You two had better watch it," the soldier barks, pointing a threatening finger. "We don't need any troublemakers. Not right now."

"Who do you think yo—" Cale starts, spinning around in an instant.

"Got it," Geist winks, grabbing his friend and starting away once again. "Let it go, we've got bigger fish to fry," he adds under his breath. Reluctantly, Cale agrees as they continue out of earshot to converse.

"So what is it then?" Geist asks, curious as to what would provoke his friend to travel so far just to meet with him.

"I'm thinking about telling the castle what I've seen. If I'm convincing enough, maybe they would let me talk to the King, or at least the steward," he conveys, desperation radiating from his words. "Considering everything that's happened, they must know there is something to what the Subrosians have been preaching, and this Garo Robe business? I need some answers."

"All manner of knowledge you could require was in our words, if you but listened," Garo sighs, seeming to feel genuinely sorry for Cale's state of mind. "Now you will all learn together in the hell you have brought forth."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Geist admits, regretting his earlier skepticism clearly having push his friend into this position. "I have a lot to tell you, but first, I want to ask you to join us."

"Join you?" He responds with a twisted face, blindsided by the offer. "You mean the tattoos and magic club?"

Without warning, the special forces unit charges past them in a stampede of heavy boots and clamoring armor. Spinning on his heels, Geist spots a Subrosian oddly prancing toward the checkpoint from the forest to the east. In moments, the regiment has him surrounded, spears and swords hovering inches from the hooded figure, itching to plunge into him. The figure seems to trip, dropping to all fours in a panicked gesture of surrender.

"Something's not right," Cale mumbles, not quite able to put his finger on it. His eyes dropping to the ground as he listens intently, his suspicion is quickly validated when he spots a group of laughing children at the forest's edge. "It's a prank," he whispers to himself as the situation suddenly becomes quite clear. "It's a prank!"

"Even your children mock the robe," Garo growls from within his glass prison. "They deserve their fate."

"What?" Geist asks, gradually putting the pieces together himself. The hooded figure flails about on the ground as the soldiers shout their final warnings, thoughts of revenge in each of their hearts. "Wha—" he starts, becoming animated though he isn't sure what to do. "Wait!" The amateur peacekeeper finally shouts, dashing several steps closer as his tattoo begins to glow. Several of his signature spheres spill from his hand, quickly coiling around his wrist in a rapid spin before he flails his arm forward, launching the spectral ring into the hostile group. The Subrosian finally manages to hoist himself upright, and an instant later, Geist's orbs spin around him in a protective ring. Only three of the elite soldiers remain undaunted, stepping forward and stabbing at the would-be terrorist from all sides. Flicking his arm upward parries all three of the spears simultaneously as the rapidly spinning ring becomes a halo, each of the attackers thrown back a step by the unusual defense.

"Geist! Look—" Cale starts, the warning coming far too late.

"Don't interfere," a deep voice bellows from overhead. A massive shadow envelops the reaver before he has completed turning around to face the new threat. Instinctively recalling the saddest thing his mind can conjure in the moment, Marta's face after the suicide attack allows Geist to rip a mighty wall of ice out of the ground as a forearm larger than his entire body sweeps down upon him. The beast of a man smashes through the defense, transforming the wall into cold confetti as he sends the magi skipping along the dry earth. The spiked spheres protecting the robed zealot dissipate an instant later, and the regiment encircling him parts to allow their commander access. Keeta, captain of the Ikanian army, approaches with heavy footsteps, absently shaking the wet shards of ice from his absurdly large arm. The juggernaut of a man is triple the size of the mightiest warriors the citizens have ever seen. The entire kingdom has heard tales of his stature, but the myths and lore fail to encompass just how enormous the reclusive man actually proves to be. A stillness falls over the area, everyone staring in awe as Captain Keeta stands over the hooded figure.

"Stooooop!" Cale's voice pleads, charging toward the scene. Stepping out from the crowd, Azrael's tattooed form glows green as he thrusts an arm above his head. His friend quickly follows suit, thrusting an open palm into the dirt as his body emanates an earthy, orange hue. The ground surrounding the alleged Subrosian tilts outward, tossing every member of the elite squad off their feet, save for the captain, who doesn't so much as flinch. A spiral of wind originating from beneath the hooded figure spikes upward, ripping the robe apart and sending it skyward as the identity of the troublemaker is revealed. A young girl seated upon the shoulders of a pudgy boy of similar age stare dumbfounded as their ruse has been exposed. An elaborate mess of wooden planks and rope allowed their illusion some credence, but the crowd remains dumbstruck until Captain Keeta turns away unapologetically, and begins to march out of the area.

"Play time is over," he announces, his tired face tilted in the direction of the recovering Geist as he passes by. "Chase your ghosts elsewhere, and stay out of our way." A clenched fist rises languidly as he addresses the soldiers in his wake. "On me!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The squadron promptly declares, falling into formation behind the captain. Painfully climbing to his feet with a helping hand from Cale, Geist makes his way over to the approaching duo who ultimately thwarted the disaster. The group of laughing children have long since fled into the forest, but the pair responsible for the debacle are overrun by the angry group formerly waiting in line. Parental voices scold them thoroughly while the peacekeepers regroup a short distance away.

"You alright?" Azrael's friend asks with an unbelieving chuckle. "I thought we were going to find you somewhere out on Great Bay after that," he imparts, shaking his head.

"Well it felt as bad as it looked I guess," he breathes, cringing when he applies too much weight to his right leg. "Quick thinking by the way. Those kids owe you their lives."

"No," Azrael insists, explaining, "we froze when it started. Wasn't until you stepped in that we—"

"Don't," Cale interrupts, adjusting his friends arm on his shoulder. "Don't play the modesty game. You're all heroes as far as I'm concerned. No one else was going to do a thing. Including me," he admits, the revelation initiating a heavy sigh.

"Who is this?" Azrael asks, not recognizing his face from the training sessions.

"This, I believe, is our newest recruit," Geist proudly proclaims, followed by a painful whimper. "Welcome to the tattoos and magic club."
Decline

"—and that's when he did it," a captivating student reveals, the entire class gathered around him, and hanging on every word.

"Wait, how did he get onto his shoulders?" A skeptical member of the audience interrupts. "Have you seen Keeta? He's crazy huge!"

"Like I said," the irritated narrator sighs, eager to continue his recount. "By that time there were so many arrows in his back, the Sub just climbed up like a ladder."

"Ohhh," the skeptic nods, wide-eyed.

"Anyway, Keeta is so busy throwing Subs around, just picking them up and launching them into the woods, right—" he continues, energetically describing the scene as Geist makes his way into the barracks with Cale alongside.

"What's going on?" Geist can't help but ask.

"Awww," several members of the group moan. "C'mon! It's the best part."

"I'm telling them what went down in the graveyard," the storyteller explains.

"In the graveyard?" Geist asks, turning to Cale with a puzzled expression.

"You haven't heard?" Cale blurts out, shocked there is anyone who isn't aware of the fall of Captain Keeta. "Aqua lives in the housing closest to the graveyard. He saw the whole thing chopping lumber with his dad last night."

"Craziest thing I ever saw," Aqua breathes, shaking his head.

"What happened next?" An impatient member of the crowd insists.

"Ok so Keeta is smashing and stomping on Subs left and right, but the archers in the woods are just raining arrows on his whole crew. He's the only one still standing when a Sub climbs up the arrows on his back and stabs into his shoulder. Before Keeta can slap him off, the coward suicides," he reveals, miming an explosion. The audience of enthralled students reels back, picturing the horrific moment in the battle. "The captain drops to a knee, and he looks like a corpse. Most of his upper half is burned to the bone, there's just enough muscle left to hold him together. The Subs stopped attacking, but that was their mistake, because Keeta wasn't done yet!"

"No way," a couple students insist, not buying the absurd tale.

"I'm telling you, he killed at least a dozen more of them. His face was gone, there was only a skull. He roared like a demon, and kept thrashing them, but they finally got him when two more Subs charged in and did their suicide attack," Aqua sighs, overwhelmed with respect and admiration. "After that, they had no choice but to retreat. My dad is at the castle right now reporting what happened. He called him Skull Keeta," he adds with pride, turning to Geist as the story concludes. "I know you didn't like him, but he saved a lot of lives last night."

"Sounds like it," Geist has to admit, still bitter about the incident at the checkpoint. The assembly continues to rant and rave about the tale when their teacher arrives uncharacteristically late. Quickly quieting down, the group files into their typical array, waiting for instruction. Geist feels immediately uneasy, his greatfather having never moved so sluggishly anywhere in his memories. After struggling to sit in his traditional meditative way, and exhaling a deep breath, the master magi addresses his class with a tired tone.

"By now you've all certainly heard of the Subrosian encampment nearby. It is believed they intended to move through the graveyard under the cover of night, and strike out into the residential districts," he reports, pausing to stomach the potential outcome of such an attack. "This is a form of warfare Ikana has never seen, and regardless of Captain Keeta's questionable tactics, we have learned not to underestimate this foe," he pauses, struggling to keep his composure. "That having been said, I cannot begin to emphasize how important every single one of you have become for the days ahead. We haven't seen the last of the Subrosians, and more importantly, we haven't truly seen the first of the apparitions this conflict will breed. As some of you know, I've been consulting with an expert in supernatural dealings, and he has graciously agreed to instruct you in my stead," he concludes with a sad expression.

"What?" Several members of the class mouth, looking to their peers for understanding.

"My greatfather has fallen ill," Geist reveals, emerging from the rank and file students, and speaking beside his mentor, too proud to conduct the meeting in any way other than that in which he is accustomed. Sensing his teacher's weakness, he cannot watch him continue to strain himself. "When the Stone Tower was opened, a curse emerged from its depths. Many of the soldiers, as well as some of your friends and family have suffered the effects. This man," he asserts with pride, pointing to the old man seated behind him. "Charged into the darkness and held the curse at bay, and probably save more lives in the long run than even Keeta did last night."

"Geist," his greatfather pleads, embarrassed by such flattery.

"No! It's true," Geist maintains, only now questioning if he is out of line taking charge of the meeting.

"It is true," a gruff voice agrees. Stepping into the barracks, the very man Geist saw the day of the checkpoint prank gives him a respectful nod before speaking to the ensemble. "My name is Grahn, and I will be your instructor moving forward." Tired, yet commanding eyes rest within a weathered face, the new instructor promptly taking a sturdy, but far from imposing stance. "While I'm certain many of you find this to be an unwelcome change, unfortunately, it is very necessary. I've little hope of filling this man's shoes," he admits, glancing over to his predecessor. "But I will aptly prepare you for the trials ahead." The room falls silent for a moment, the students struggling to come to terms with such a drastic change to their day to day routine. As Geist helps his greatfather to his feet, Grahn offers a proposition to the class. "Many of you will soon see, if you have not already, time is not a luxury we can afford any longer. The souls of the departed are not at rest, and many are angrily searching for retribution. I will begin instructing you today, however, considering the nature of this change, I will permit any number of you leave until tomorrow."

"Need a hand?" Cale asks, looping the free arm of the proud old man between them, over his shoulder. Grahn continues to address the class as they assist the proud elder, too stubborn to allow the bulk of his weight to rest on their shoulders.

"Appreciate it," Geist conveys as they make their way out of the barracks. Approximately half of the remaining students decide to leave as well, their hearts heavy seeing their mentor in such a state. A harsh, cold wind pierces through the area, the grey sky advertising snowfall, though it has yet to be seen. The heavy crunch of frosted grass becomes soft scraping upon cold stone as the trio reaches the shack of solitude just outside of the residential district closest to the barracks. Never willing to accept any manner of assistance from the wealth his son amassed, Geist's greatfather has preferred a simple life of seclusion since the passing of his wife many years ago. With little effort, the pair of assistants manage to set the old man upon his bed with a sigh of relief. The unforgiving wind is kept at bay when the heavy wooden door clamors shut behind them, the end of fall all too apparent as the temperature continues to decline.

"Thank you. Both of you," the stubborn magi expresses with a stifled cough.

"What are you doing out and about in your condition?" Geist immediately retorts.

"You would rather I sit here and wait to die?" He responds with a smile.

"I would rather you not go out looking for death," Geist sternly replies, moving to and fro within the small space in a frustrated trance. "We're going to see the apothecary to get you some more aloe. I'm sure he has something for the pain as well."

"I am so proud of you," he breathes after a brief silence.

"What?" Geist mumbles, preoccupied with straightening up the living space until he hears the solemn tone in his greatfather's voice.

"The selfish, arrogant adolescent I once knew is gone, and now here you stand, a compassionate, responsible man. You're going to survive this," he insists, absently twirling a hand in the air. "This is not the end of our family, and it is not the end of our people. I could not honestly say this until recently, but I believe in you. I believe you are capable of leading us all out of this tragedy. I believe you can save us," he manages to express before another coughing fit. The dark affliction beneath his robes is briefly revealed, the discolored hex spreading around his neck in its quest to blanket his entire body.

"What are you talking about?" Geist asks, his face twisted in confusion.

"Well he's right about one thing for certain," Cale interjects, socking him on the shoulder. "You've grown up in the past few months."

"Very funny," Geist sighs, rolling his eyes. "What is this, a—" he pauses, too flustered to think of a witty response. Just then, three knocks sound at the door behind them. Cale finds four fellow students waiting in the cold behind the door, and their intentions quickly become apparent.

"Come in, we were just about to run into town," Cale greets, stepping aside.

"I do believe this is the highest population this old place has ever sustained," the sickly host laughs, humbled by the gesture.

"I'm glad you guys came by," Geist adds, nodding with approval.

"I'm sure we won't be the only ones," Azrael shrugs, moving over to greet his teacher.

"We'll be back soon," Geist announces, and with a grateful nod from his greatfather, he and Cale make for the market district.

"We'll keep an eye on him," another student assures, watching the duo exit. The wind seems to lash out in brief intervals, almost as if it intends to knock over anyone attempting to traverse its wrath. Making their way up the long path between the residential districts, the marketplace comes into view, though there are few patrons out in the cold. The grim scene strikes Geist as more depressing than usual, but he knows nothing will be the same now that attacks are occurring on Ikanian soil. Even the soldiers patrolling nearby hang their heads, their defeated attitude showing in every action.

"Hey!" Cale suddenly mutters, smacking his friends shoulder and pointing out a hooded figure near an alley. Just as Geist spots him, a flash of green eyes vanishes into shadow as the cloaked individual dashes out of sight. His adrenaline spiking for just a moment, Geist ultimately stays put.

"Did that just happen?" He mumbles, unsure what, if anything, he should do.

"We are everywhere. You resistance is nearly as laughable as it is futile," Garo suddenly interjects from his bottle.

"No sense telling the patrol," Cale sighs, shaking his head. "They won't catch him, but they will take us in for questioning."

"I guess you're right," he agrees, attempting to set his mind back to the task at hand. Considering the direction everything seems to be headed, he cannot help but wonder if this is simply the way things are going to be from now on. Lurking spies, random attacks, and perpetual fear among the citizens is rapidly becoming the new norm. He cannot help but wonder how his tiny group of reavers could restore any manner of balance to the kingdom.

"Come on, let's just get the medicine for now," Cale breathes, adjusting his coat as they continue into the market. Passing patrons simply stare at the ground as they pass, a mixture of desire to be out of the cold, and deflated optimism. Nearby a middle-aged man towing his son along confronts a pair of shopkeepers discussing the heroics of the newly named Skull Keeta. The bits Geist manages to overhear portray two very different versions of the battle. While some believe Keeta thwarted a surprise attack, others appear to have learned he charged into a Subrosian encampment without reinforcements, and suffered a shameful loss because of it. Either way, no one can debate the army's morale has never been lower, their ranks suffering cataclysmic losses between the suicide attacks, and the affliction the tower wrought upon them.

"What! Where?" A nearby patrolman exclaims upon hearing a muffled report.

"Should we contact the—" the soldier delivering the message starts.

"No. We'll handle this," the leader of the patrol affirms. With that, the regiment charges toward the royal district, their incessant marching hardly missed by the shoppers and merchants.

"Is it just me or did that sound like—" Geist implies, shooting his friend a knowing glance.

"Yeah. There must be some kind of apparition," Cale confirms, taking a deep breath. "Let's check it out."

"That's more like it," Geist praises, joining his comrade's rapid pace to the bridge. "Confidence. The spirits respond to it," he explains, briefly glancing at the bottle on his hip before adding, "not well, but they do respond to it." Across the bridge the duo quickly stumble upon dozens of troops concaved around an abnormally tall figure. Moving closer reveals the creature at the center of the group to be an animated corpse, the likes of which neither of the reavers have ever encountered. Blood stained bandages conceal its form from head to toe, and its unnatural movements are disturbing at best. The soldiers charge in smaller and smaller groups, ramming a sword or spear through the creature, only to watch it retaliate violently before pulling the blade out of its form. The figurative sea of brutalized bodies in its wake tells the obvious plight of the few remaining soldiers, and its direct course to the castle gates. A small fireball explodes after striking the ghoul's chest, knocking it backward for the moment.

"We're here to help," Cale announces to the remaining soldiers.

"I don't think so," a soldier quickly retorts. "Keeta warned us about you people. You're going to get someone killed throwing those spells around."

"We'll he's dead now," Geist chimes in, his conjured spheres multiplying as they begin to orbit his form. "And it's no fault of ours."

"How dare you—" the soldier starts, instantly livid at the level of disrespect from a civilian. Seconds later, a wave of shouts and exhaled grunts sound as a massive offensive commences against the castle. Garo Robe spring from every shadow, only the sharp, disquieting sounds of metal piercing flesh, and the unsettlingly brief death throes fill the air moments before alarms begin to sound. Though the initial attack leaves the castle guard backpedaling, the counterattack is nearly as impressive as the guards have been tirelessly training to oppose the ninja tactics. In the blink of an eye, all-out war has erupted on the castle perimeter, and the casualties on both sides are increasing unnervingly quickly.

"Join the castle guards!" Geist shouts, snapping the soldier back to his senses. "We'll handle this guy."

"I don't take orders from you!" The soldier fires back, defiant to the bitter end. The rest of his regiment tensely waits for the resolution, no single one of them ready to take a side.

"What choice do you have?" Cale inquires, appealing to the man's reason. A brief struggle between pride and duty ensues, but a moment later, he is charging the castle gates to join the defense with the remaining soldiers in tow. A terrible moan drowns out the cries of men and the clang of swords momentarily as the bandaged creature has resumed its trek forward. Dashing a few steps back, Cale lowers his head to concentrate, a tiny orb of fire taking shape between his palms. Geist charges forward, assaulting the blundering zombie with a flurry of mimed pitches, the spiked spheres impacting heavily with every swipe, and seeming to singe the ghoul with every blow. A haymaker strike from the creature misses the mark by a wide margin as Geist rolls to the side just in time for Cale to finish forming his attack. A much larger explosion throws the foe off of its feet as the fireball finds its target. The wealth of bandages covering the monster's form catch fire, gradually revealing flesh already charred as the monster lumbers away as quickly as it can manage.

"Where do you think you're going?" Geist taunts, surprised to watch his partner quickly dash past him in pursuit.

"Keep up," Cale smirks, rapidly closing the distance to the burning figure. Breaking into a sprint himself, Geist cringes at the horrible noise the zombie emits, flailing wearily before tumbling into the nearby well. Taking a moment to recover from the terrible scream that stopped them in their tracks, the duo regroup atop the deep, empty shaft, staring down into pitch-black darkness. The war rages on across the castle perimeter, neither side seeming to have a clear advantage as both ninja and soldiers alike continue to strike each other down. Spears rip through robes leaving trails of red in their wake while arrows and daggers find the spaces between Ikanian armor with eerie efficiency. The bloody scene becomes unsettlingly quiet as even the fleeing dignitaries are cut down, the Garo numbers indiscernible as they constantly vanish from view until the moment they strike. Their imminent victory goes unseen by the pair of reavers as they prepare to chase down their prey.

"Clever," Geist admits, the flaming creature certainly finding solace in the water below.

"I didn't hear a splash," Cale warns, closing his eyes momentarily to concentrate.

"Been practicing?" Geist grins, admiring his friend's rapid command of his potential. A spectral blade emerges from his comrade's knuckles, his open hand slowly luring the weapon out of his closed fist as they separate.

"Naturally," Cale shrugs, hopping over the cylindrical formation of brick an instant later.

"Wait!" Geist exclaims, following suit upon realizing his warning is far too late. Illuminating the descent, Cale's arm-blade leaves a translucent stream of light in its wake as his partner falls through the illusion with ample dread. Rolling to break his fall, Cale scours the darkness as Geist repeats the maneuver shortly thereafter. Ankle-deep water does virtually nothing to impede their progress as they begin to move forward. His conjured blade lighting the way as best it can, neither of the reavers are able to see the path ahead clearly. A random droplet of water lands on Geist's neck, the ice-cold intruder sending chills down his spine as he decides with certainty they shouldn't have come down here. An unsettling ambiance keeps each of the hunters on edge, warped screams and deep moans too distant and diffused to determine a potential source. The catacomb expands, revealing multiple doorways in what is soon revealed to be a maze of chambers within the dank, moist expansion of brick and grime.

"What in Termina is this place?" Cale mumbles to himself.

"Remember when we learned about discernment?" Geist starts, ready to leave at any time. "What possessed you to dive into here? Especially during a Garo attack. One of those rag-wearing backstabbers could have followed us down here you know?"

"We are legion. We watch from every shadow, but we are not without our own form of honor. What would you know of valor, child?" Garo grumbles, always ready to put his two rupees in.

"Listen to you," Cale chuckles, thoroughly amused. "I never imagined you would be the voice of reason on one of these little excursions," he admits, lowering his blade and considering their options. "Do you think Grahn will try to use the reavers to help repel the attack?"

"Hard to say," Geist shrugs, crossing his arms. "I don't know the man. If he's half the tactician my greatfather is he would send them into the residential districts to stand guard."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Cale agrees, glancing around once more. "More importantly, what's going on down here?" He asks wearing a face of disgust, pointing to rows of shackles hanging from a nearby wall. Overhead, a massive log has been fashioned into some manner of torture device, large spikes spiraling around its form with a mechanism to raise and lower in on either side. Echoing around several corners, a much louder and clearer shriek jolts the pair of explorers upright, each of them seemingly ready to depart at this point. Raising his arm-blade in the direction they entered, Cale finds the creature they chased into the well barreling toward them. A quick flick of Geist's wrist hits the ghoul in the shoulder with a sphere, but it doesn't miss a step, nearly upon them with its eccentric pace.

"Take—" Cale starts, throwing another fireball. Effortlessly the zombie scoops an arm through the water, extinguishing the projectile and continuing forward. "That," he concludes with diminished enthusiasm.

"Let's move," Geist announces, dashing through a nearby door. His partner follows suit as they proceed deeper into the unknown. More nearby screams sound, the duo pushed to run even faster into the darkness, their bearings leaving them when another cloth-wrapped monster appears. Geist throws an orb forward as often as he is able, projecting a faint amount of light on the path ahead as the number of angry zombies continues to grow. A dead-end forces them to backtrack briefly, the dozens of white creatures shambling toward them with their dead eyes locked on the pair of trespassers. A hallway to their left looks like salvation, but just as they turn the corner, a deafening scream paralyses them both. A cold sweat beads over Geist's lips and down his neck as the ghouls concave around them, their horrible shrieks gradually become discernable words while they continue to close in.

"Eeeeeverything! You haveeee takeeeeeen, eveeerything!"

"Takeeeeen!"

"Froooom us! You haaave!"

"We thiiiiirst! Weeee huuuunger!"

"You haaaaave!"

"Eveeeeeerything!"

"We neeeeed someeeething!"

"You will leeeeeave it!"

"Leeeeeave it!" They continually scream, inching closer to exert their demands.

"Geist!" Cale manages to exclaim, fighting to will his muscles to cooperate. Barely able to twitch his arm himself, Geist cannot form a plan with the overwhelming cries cascading over him. A groan of exertion escapes his lips as he manages to take an awkward step forward, nearly toppling over with the effort. Seconds later, one of the creatures latches onto his outstretched wrist, pulling him closer to its grotesque, emotionless visage.

"Leeeeeeave it!" It shrieks into his face, frigid air caressing Geist's cheek as the zombie languidly paws his form, drawing even closer.

"My brethren," Garo beams, enjoying the spectacle too much to remain silent. "Cleanse these blasphemers in the name of their grace!"

"Geist!" Cale shouts, slicing one of the creatures in a fit of rage, but ultimately succumbing to the same fate.

"Garo!" Geist cries, completely out of options. "Help!"

"Hahahahahaha!" Garo bellows, reveling in his enemy's desperation.

"Please!" He begs, hopelessly attempting to appeal to the vengeful spirit. "You know now. We're not all like them!" Seconds pass, seeming like an eternity to the reaver, before Garo responds.

"Release me," he commands, his tone drastically dialing down. Completely out of options, Geist struggles to free the bottle from his hip as he is slowly tackled from behind. Another groan of exertion sounds as he launches the glass container as hard as he is able. A shatter of glass seems to stop time itself, and a moment later, the horde of ghouls piling upon the duo gradually climb to their feet before slowly meandering back into the darkness.

"What the—" Cale blurts out, sprawling back to his feet and testing his returning motor functions. "What happened?"

"You know now. What you have done. The atrocities your people have committed," Garo growls, his freed spirit hovering over the grateful survivors. Cale trips into a seated position, gawking upward in shock while Geist stands firm and listens. "Your hearts are pure, but they will yield to the same corruption. It is your nature. I cannot forgive you," he explains, his tone slowly growing less severe. "Only they can. Should you seek their grace, in time, your tortured soul may yet find it."

"Thank you," Geist conveys, nodding his head respectfully.

"Wh—" Cale stammers, his eyes darting between his friend, and the intimidating spirit.

"We will always hunt you, Ikanian," Garo warns, his jagged eyes glowing brightly, illuminating the entire area with their unnatural green hue. "Ikana will fall. It is destined. I leave you to ponder your fate with what little time remains. Do not mistake my intent as kindness."

"I understand," Geist responds, exhaling a ragged sigh.

"No," Garo sighs, his presence dipping backward and beginning to fade. "You never will." With that, the specter fades away, and the pair are left in darkness once again.
Answers

"What?" Cale inquires, holding his conjured weapon overhead. The meager amount of light reveals their immediate surroundings, and his hopelessly confused expression. "How?"

"Garo saved us," Geist shrugs, pointing to the destroyed bottle lying nearby.

"But," Cale retorts, mashing his eyes shut as he fails to understand. "He hates you."

"Yes," he chuckles, beginning to look for the way out. "But he didn't want to kill us originally. He wanted to teach us. In a way, he thought he was going to save us from all this."

"Okay, that does it," Cale declares, following his friend around a corner and waving his arms arbitrarily. "The cuccos are out of the pin. You've lost your mind."

"Say what you want, it doesn't change the fact that we'd be zombie chow right now if he hadn't called them off," he pauses, realizing the dozens of tormented creatures were Subrosians. Immigrants, mothers, traders, they were surely the first to be rounded up, and subsequently interrogated. The Ikanian army has been obsessively trying to uncover the location of their homeland, and the reaver can only ponder with intense dread whether or not the king was aware of what went on in this place, and if any of the unfortunate souls talked.

"I feel like there's a lot you're not telling me," Cale points out, illuminating another door.

"All in due time, my friend," he nods as a ladder leading out of the depressing environment is revealed. "Finally." An icy wind spirals down the shaft leading back to the surface, the duo eventually emerging behind a clandestine fountain in the castle courtyard. The fight continues to rage on the other side of the wall, but it seems the inner sanctum of the royal district has remained untouched for the time being.

"Now's our chance," Cale smiles, turning his palms over. "We could walk right in and see the king. Who's going to stop us?"

"What?" Geist responds disapprovingly, though he has no legitimate argument to counter the idea. "What are we going to tell him he doesn't already know?"

"It's not what we're going to tell him," Cale smirks, socking his friend on the shoulder and dashing toward the nearest doorway. With a minimal amount of effort, he presses against the huge, round door, causing it to roll into a groove in the adjacent wall. "Fancy," he chuckles, carefully proceeding into the massive castle. An immense chamber of extravagant décor lies beyond the foyer, more hallways and doors leading in every direction. The path forward quickly becomes apparent, the largest path undoubtedly leading to the King's chambers. The duo move forward, and soon heightened voices are heard emanating from the throne room. As the reavers cautiously draw closer, a heated argument becomes audible.

"You lie!" The King shouts, his temper clearly gone. "Are you even capable of honesty?" Pressing their backs to either side of the entrance, the eavesdroppers peer into the dim room to find a figure in heavy robes, his face obfuscated by a hood. Standing casually before the throne, the man does not seem to care about the king's temperament. Thick shades have been draped over the windows lining the room, the resulting atmosphere unwelcomingly dark and foreboding.

"What promises have I broken?" The figure asks, his cavalier tone intentionally disagreeable. "You are the most memorable king in history. You have the love and devotion of your people. Disagree with my methods if you wish, but the results—"

"Results?" Igos shouts, becoming increasingly animated. "Rack and ruin! My kingdom falls, my enemies on my doorstep, assassins leap into my throne room at every opportunity," he declares, thrusting a finger at the windows. "Are these what you deem to be results?"

"It matters little," the figure shrugs, slowly pacing as his thoughts apparently wander tranquilly. "Death should not concern you so," he points out, briefly inspecting his open palm. "It is the curse that should concern you now."

"The curse?" Igos bellows, marching over to the man. "The curse you brought down upon my people? Is that the curse you're referring to?"

"Careful," the figure scoffs, placing a hand on the king's shoulder and raising a single finger. "You do remember who you're talking to," he inquires, rhetorically.

"Yes," Igos confirms with a charismatic smile. Turning his back and marching slowly back to his throne, the king reclines in his seat before briefly waving a beckoning hand. A pair of swordsmen step into view on either side of their king, each of them radiating confidence in their mannerisms as they casually move toward the cloaked man. "An enemy of the state," he grins, his unusually wide smile equally capable of being charming or sinister. "Arrest this man."

"What is this?" The figure chuckles, not backing up a single step as the elite guards draw closer. "You are every bit as responsible for your kingdom's plight as I, and you will have an eternity to regret testing me," he starts, bowing slightly. "Your majesty," he concludes, a pair of red irises visible for just a moment within the veil of darkness.

"These two are rivaled only by one another in the exquisite art of the sword and shield. I fear they would rather enjoy any attempt to resist," Igos muses, sequentially tapping his fingers together beneath his chin. Making no attempt to reach for their weapons, the pair of guards slowly encircle the man, eyeing him carefully as an enthusiastic attempt to escape is duly expected. A maneuver far too sudden for either of the surveilling reavers to perceive prompts the taller of the two guards to twist his shield in a deflecting motion. A bolt of lightning bounces off the barrier aggressively, the hooded figure's agility proving overwhelming as he dashes toward the stout guard opposite his initial attack. An impressive sword draw ends in a spinning slash, the royal guard missing the mark as the figure ducks into a sweeping strike, his heel knocking the guard's feet out from beneath him. The guard instantly recovers, utilizing his shield arm to roll back to his feet while his comrade lunges into a thrusting offensive. An absurd feat of athleticism ensues, the cloaked man springing into an inverted position, his shrouded visage drifting inches from the slender guard's unbelieving face. The overzealous attack ends in disaster for the guard when the hooded figure spins into a physics-defying back-fisted strike, the guard's momentum multiplying the force of the blow exponentially.

"Out of my way!" The stout guard growls, deflecting his fellow soldier's unintentionally approaching blade as he twists into another assault. An impressive flurry of strikes cannot find their target, the mysterious figure clasping his hands behind his back as he dodges with precognitive efficiency. A sudden blast of lightning rebounds off the guard's shield as he continues the assault, his companion regaining his senses, and charging back into the fight. The cloaked man twists and drops low, throwing another lightning bolt in his methodical dance of evasion and attack. Bashing the edge of his shield into the stone floor, the guard springs into the air athletically while deflecting the spell, but the redirected attack misses his partner by a negligible margin. Scarcely able to dodge in time, the trim guard becomes infuriated upon regaining his footing.

"Watch what you're doing!" He shouts, battering the stout guard aside with a shoulder check as he occupies his place in the battle. The hooded figure continues to use their lack of cooperation against them, their swords clashing when he dodges their simultaneous attacks. Dropping to a knee, he hears the edges of their shields bounce off one another, leaving them vulnerable for the briefest of moments. Their egos quickly become their downfall as they angrily glare at each other while their true foe rises into a finishing blow. An electric palm slaps against each of their foreheads, the destructive energy forcing their limbs to spasm uncontrollably while spastic jolts of electricity flash throughout the room. The steady scream pulled from each of the guards proves to be the only act of harmonization they accomplish in this life, their eyes turning pure white as sparks of lightning sporadically jump from where their pupils were once visible. Finally deciding their mortality has been confirmed in spades, the cloaked man ceases the attack, keeping his arms outstretched as the pair fall abruptly to the ground.

"You—" the king starts, his formerly taunting hands dropping into his lap as the enigmatic figure slowly brings his outstretched palms together. A deep breath swells the man's chest as he widens his stance for the accumulating spell, his wrists colliding as he sweeps his arms in a flowing motion away from his target. Igos roars in desperation, snatching his shield from its resting place beside the throne, and diving forward, rolling to a knee as he braces for impact. The blast eclipses the room in blinding light, electricity radiating around the king in a vortex of devastating power. Holding the force at bay as long as his body will allow, his shield is finally launched aside, the potent torrent instantly pinning him to his royal chair as he shudders violently. A brief outburst of painful cries is followed by unintentional murmurs of gibberish before the mysterious magi relents, rolling his shoulders as his arms drift back to his sides. King Igos du Ikana, the last ruler of a ravaged land, rests silently in the darkness, his eyes frozen in shock as he exhaled his final breath.

"Royalty," the man scoffs, twitching with anger. "The true Sheikah will never serve royalty again," he mutters to himself, lifting his head to loudly ask, "did you enjoy the show?" His back still turned to the hidden duo just outside of the room, he makes no effort to engage them in any way other than conversationally. Both Geist and Cale share a worried glance, neither of them quite sure what their next move should be. "I have no quarrel with you sad creatures," he admits, turning with his arms crossed behind his back, and promptly proceeding to the door. Jumping back a step, neither of the reavers are inclined to believe the dangerous figure, his ultimate intentions beyond anything they could possibly fathom.

"Who are you?" Cale works up the courage to ask, glancing at the symbol proudly displayed on the chest of the figure's blue robes. A convictive eye stares into him, three triangles arrayed atop the shape paying homage to some tribe or custom the young magi has never known.

"In the eons your souls will soon roam these lands, one such as you could never conceive what I am," the man explains, walking between them with a purposeful stride. "Should you encounter the mask salesman, tell him I've no further use for this doomed world," he adds just before turning a corner. "I'll be waiting in Hyrule," he concludes, the cryptic message of an unknown land falling on uncomprehending ears.

"What—" Cale starts, dashing after him. Following suit, Geist rounds the corner to find his friend staring at the vast, empty room, equally perplexed.

"None of this makes sense," Geist mutters, palming his brow.

"No kidding. You've got to fill me in," Cale pleads, desperate to understand.

"There's no time," Geist sighs, understandably frustrated. "The king is dead. The soldiers are fighting a losing battle, and without a leader. We've got to get as many people as we can to a safe place," he rambles, his thoughts quickly spinning into a purée. "Why is all of this happening at once?"

"But—" Cale starts, realizing he is right moments later. "Okay, okay. We need to move fast. We'll get people to the barracks. It's the furthest place from the battle."

"Yes, good idea," Geist nods, motivation charging back into his veins. "Let's go." With that, they dash through the castle, emerging into the courtyard to find a horrifying scenario they could not have anticipated. The battle has crashed through the fortified barrier at the castle gates, but the combatants have long since ceased spilling blood. Ikanian soldiers swing and stab listlessly, their charred and mutilated bodies clearly no longer among the living. The Garo share this trait with their nemeses, their vanquished essence seeming to will itself back into their robed shells, eager to rejoin the assault. The grotesque war rages on endlessly, the losses on both sides clawing their way back into the fray, the blight which emerged from the stone tower continuing to curse the wayward souls with undeath.

"Tell me this isn't happening," Cale exhales, his jaw hanging in disbelief.

"He knew this would happen," Geist mumbles, his overburdened mind demanding he put the pieces together. His hand grasps for the bottle no longer hanging from his hip, and the wealth of previously unwelcome information begins to flood back into the forefront of his mind. "They all knew from the start. How could they?"

"What are you talking about? Geist!" Cale retorts, shoving his friend to initiate any kind of physical reaction to the task at hand.

"Errrrghhh!" He groans, his anger multiplying tenfold as the concepts overwhelm his mind like tidal waves enveloping an island. "Enough!" He finally bellows, suddenly conjuring a fireball every bit as massive as it is unstable. Utilizing his entire body, he flails the spell into the heart of the fight, the explosion knocking everyone in sight off their feet, including the pair of reavers. A high-pitched whistle rings in their ears, the excessive attack robbing them of their bearings as they struggle to regain their focus. Geist lies inert, staring into the sky dumbly while Cale quickly comes back to his senses.

"Hey!" Cale exclaims, feverishly extinguishing the tiny bits of flame on his coat and scrambling back to his feet. "Calm down! We've got a job to do."

"Sorry," the emotional magi mouths, rising to a sitting positon. "I'm sorry," he repeats more directly, his eyes seeming to return from someplace far away. "You're right, you're right."

"One crisis at a time," Cale encourages, offering a hand. "Come on." Accepting the assistance back to his feet, Geist follows his comrade through the newly created scar of scorched earth, a fleeting reprieve in the battle quickly concluding in their wake. Rapidly proceeding out of the royal district, the duo see that several smaller battles are taking place throughout the area, no corner of the kingdom necessarily safe from the escalating war. Crossing the bridge, Geist's vision shifts to focus inches from his face, the first snowflake drifting through his vision before the blurry backdrop sharpens to reveal legions of spirits and zombies ravaging the other districts. Their fellow reavers courageously keep the ghouls at bay, but their odds could not be worse. Spotting the cavalry crossing the bridge, Azrael slices an approaching specter with a conjured sword before waving excitedly for his classmates to join him. Moments after his companions spot him, a Garo Robe descends upon the unsuspecting peacekeeper from a nearby balcony.

"Look out!" Cale shouts, pulling his signature blade from his fist and doubling his pace into the fight, leaving Geist in his tracks. A pillar of ice knocks the descending assassin off course allowing Azrael time to throw a spectral spear through the ninja's chest. Turning to give Aqua a thumbs up, the reaver's eyes double in size as yet another Garo pulls its blade from the magi's back. Falling limply to the cold earth, Aqua mouths some undistinguishable words while the ninja retreats back to the shadows to stalk its next victim. "Stay focused," Cale demands, cutting down every spirit in his path with rapid efficiency en route to Azrael, now on his knees helplessly staring at his murdered friend.

"We're not ready," Grahn gruffly sighs, already sounding defeated. Effortlessly scooping Azrael from the ground, he commands an array of swords hovering about his form, launching and slashing them at any ghoul who wanders too close.

"Some of us are," Cale declares, his tone morphing into that of a hardened warrior as he helps clear a path for the scattered survivors. Hovering skulls engulfed in flames join the already ample numbers of poes and redeads plaguing the area, no corner of the districts closest to the castle safe from the spreading violence. Utilizing what they have learned up until this point, the reavers beat the teeming ghouls back, but even their most optimistic members cannot believe they are fighting a winning battle. The few Garo in the area move among the spirits as if they are one of them, some manner of allegiance apparently formed between the religious fanatics and the restless aberrations. Unable to keep up with his significantly more athletic friend, Geist isn't quite sure why he slows to a stop upon reaching a familiar path leading into his district. His heart tugs him in that direction, and soon enough, the obvious realization spills through his lips.

"Marta," he gasps, instantly sprinting as hard as he is able down her street. His signature orbs whip about his form, every ghoul and Garo unfortunate enough to cross paths with him instantly enduring a violent barrage of the ethereal spheres. One of the few residences still intact, Marta's house looks abandoned, the front door hanging open and creaking in the inconsistent wind. "Mar—" he starts, dashing through the open door haphazardly. The distinctive whirr of a broom handle brushes against his eardrums as he barely manages to evade the unexpected attack. Quickly realizing who she is assaulting, Marta drops her impromptu weapon, her fearless demeanor shattering the moment her eyes meet those of her rescuer. Completely speechless, she simply throws herself into his arms, shuddering emotionally as her friend embraces her. Considering saying something comforting, he thinks better of it when he spots a body awkwardly lying behind a smashed table in the next room.

"What's happening?" She eventually asks, regaining her composure slightly.

"It's complicated," Geist sighs, several previous sentences failing to intelligibly initiate. "We have to go. I know a safe place."

"What about Cale?" She quickly retorts, far from eager to venture outside. "What about your family?" Failing to even consider the fate of his parents until now, Geist feels the barbed embrace of hopelessness begin to bind him. There are too many choices to make, each of them slamming the door on another potential decision. Gritting his teeth, the exasperated magi fights the desperation back, seizing Marta's hand and starting for the door.

"Cale is meeting us there," he responds, distantly. Briefly checking the empty streets outside, he pulls his distressed damsel along as he quickly darts through familiar alleyways.

"Okay, what about—" she starts, growing increasingly worried reading his body language.

"Look," he interrupts, pulling her close as he struggles to suppress his rampant emotions. "I have to make you safe, okay?" He inelegantly blurts out, milling his thoughts down until only a single objective remains.

"But—" she weakly tries to protest, touched and dismayed at the same time by the proclamation.

"Come on," he instantly interjects, pulling her along as they round a corner leading toward the wooded area outside of the district. Without warning, a tenacious Garo blinks into the visible spectrum, nearly cleaving the reaver's free hand completely off with an upward slice.

"No!" Marta squeals, tripping to the side as Geist pushes her out of harm's way. Four conjured orbs whirl around the magi's fortunate wrist, crunching together in front of his open palm before they are thrust into the ninja's gut. Reeling from the unexpectedly effective attack, the robed enemy snaps its head upward, locking eyes with the reaver just as the four spiked spheres encircle its head.

"Damn you! You and your goddesses," he growls, snapping his open hand into a clenched fist. Immediately snatching the wide-eyed Marta from her seated position, Geist treks back toward the main street, the forest undoubtedly crawling with more of the sinister killers. A stampede of civilians draws the reaver's attention, emerging back onto the main road with Marta's hand clasped in a death-grip. Dozens of men, women, and children cautiously follow Grahn's lead, a pathetic perimeter of both reavers and soldiers attempting to escort them to temporary safety. Bringing up the rear of the convoy, Cale suspiciously eyes the alleys and rooftops, ready to cut down any form of surprise attack. Rushing over to meet him, Cale's relief is palpable as Marta gives him a long hug, his eyes closing for the first time in quite some time while he exhales emotionally.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Marta smiles, overjoyed to be with her friends once again.

"No time for a reunion," Cale admits, returning to his vigilant stance.

"He's right," Geist agrees, assuming a defensive posture himself. "We've got to get out of town. Where is everyone else?"

"This is it," Cale responds, coldly.

"We making another sweep once we get this group through?" He inquires, confused.

"No," Cale sighs, struggling to keep it together. "I mean this is it. There isn't anyone else."

"What do you mean there isn't anyone else?" Geist demands, his gaze slowly drifting to find his friends eyes, conclusively conveying he meant exactly what he said. Standing upright, the devastated peacekeeper scans the dozens of panicking survivors, finding only a few vaguely familiar faces. "This can't be all," he mouths, shaking his head in disbelief. "This can't be all that's left of us."

"Look!" Cale shouts, jerking his friend's attention back to the road behind them. A larger than average Garo wielding a large scythe deflects the attack of an undead Ikanian soldier, grabbing him by the neck and lifting him off his feet. The armored corpse twitches and struggles before falling limp, an otherworldly essence spiraling out of his face, and into the darkness beneath the Garo's cowl. Idly tossing the motionless Ikanian aside, the large Garo's green eyes sweep across the battlefield, searching for another victim. "Guardians help us, what is happening?" He pleads, rapidly reaching the edge of his unsustainable resoluteness. Terrible roars and cries of agony, clashing swords and suicidal explosions eclipse what is left of the kingdom as the group of survivors gradually reach the outskirts of town. The snowfall begins to amplify minutes before they reach the barracks, the bitter cold seeming to shove the desperate Ikanians into the structure with contempt.

"Geist!" Cale shouts from the door, unsure why his friend has lagged so far behind. A single classmate of theirs hangs his head as he closes the door of a nearby shack. A deep breath later, he starts for the barracks, stopping in his tracks when he spots Geist staring at him with bloodshot eyes. The snow whirls through the scene, falling consistently and beginning to accumulate on the forms of the stationary few who still stand beneath nature's unforgiving wrath. Shaking his head solemnly, the distant reaver starts for the barracks as Geist falls to his knees, finally shedding his emotional defenses as he cannot process so much loss. The steady wind carries echoes of death from the kingdom, through the trees and far beyond. The sun slowly sets on the first winter snow, and draped in accursed shadow, Ikana falls.
Consequences

"Uhnn, my head," Geist mumbles, blinking slowly as his hazy surroundings gradually come into focus. The smell of seawater fills him with dread, and removing his palm from his brow confirms his suspicion. Smooth, solid stone beneath him and an array of metal bars confine him within a small cell of Gerudo making. The consistent sound of water lapping against the risen platforms of the room ticks like a wet metronome. The hideout of the self-proclaimed pirates is well known to the magi, residing on the northern coastline of Great Bay, tucked neatly into a cliffside out of view. The events of last night have yet to become clear in the Ikanian's mind when a distant swell of voices cause an already sufficient headache to worsen. Giving the old lantern an impatient, but mostly tired glance, the voices gradually subside, and the eerie, blue glow lessens. Moments later, a distant, metallic door slams up into the ceiling, revealing an angry Gerudo woman garbed in red.

"Awake now are we?" She snaps, rhetorically.

"Abooru, baby," he starts, swaying slightly as he climbs to his feet and opens his arms.

"Do not," she interjects, pointing a threatening finger. "Abooru baby me. You get one chance to explain yourself. One."

"Well," he breathes, a blur of pictographs rushing through his head. Between the potions, the boat racing, and running into the twins, very little of his evening is clear, and the few parts he recalls are far from chronological.

"You don't remember," she states, wide-eyed. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Listen," he insists with a smile, licking his lips as his eyes briefly drift upward in search of a convincing lie.

"No," she interrupts, banging a fist on his cell door. "You listen. You crashed one of our boats, Aurea spent the night fused to a barrel, our potion inventory is devastated, and don't even get me started on Tonya and Sonya," she rants, her rage becoming palpable. "So I don't need one of Geist's famous apologies right now, I need to know how you plan on paying for all the damages."

"Relax, love," he insists, reaching for his rupee pouch. "Relax," he mumbles, when he cannot locate it. Dashing over to the lantern, he lifts it off the table to find nothing beneath it.

"Relax?" Abooru muses, lifting his missing pouch into view, producing an audible jingle of gemstones. "Forty rupees? You think this even begins to cover it?"

"Not sure why I expected to wake up with my wallet in a pirate den," he quips to himself, reattaching the old lantern to his belt, allowing it to dangle on his hip. Indiscernible shapes swell and shrink within the slowly churning whirlpool of souls, the relic glowing too faintly to invite attention.

"You're going to be working off this debt for a long time, reaver," she nods with a cynical grin.

"Afraid not, lovely," he smiles, his arm beginning to glow as he lifts it. "Exit stage left," he smiles with condescension before snapping his finger. An ethereal doorway opens to his left, the rectangular prism reflecting the contents of the cell in an unnatural way. Promptly stepping through after an unenthusiastic, thespian bow, Geist vanishes completely beyond the inexplicable illusion of a door.

"What?" Abooru exclaims, thrusting a key into the lock and flinging the door open to give chase. "Wait!" Two steps into the cell, she sees nothing where the supposed doorway should have led. Something about her surroundings seems insincere, as if she is viewing them through an augmented lens. A reflection of a reflection. An instant later she slaps her own forehead and mutters in a whiny tone, "Guardians, what is wrong with me?"

"Too many potions will do that," Geist shrugs, tying his rupee bag to his belt while haphazardly kicking the cell door shut behind him. A brief trot to the exit is interrupted by an appealing voice sounding from behind.

"Don't leave me in here like this," Abooru pleads, toying with the loose strands of her ponytail and wearing a pouty face.

"Fool me once, gorgeous," he replies with a wink, flipping the key to the cell across the room like a coin. The hope in the woman's eyes vanishes as quickly as it appeared as the tiny vestige of her freedom twirls past the cell and into the water with a barely audible splash. Passing through the door, and into the main courtyard of the complex, the magi cannot pull the door shut quickly enough as the scorned woman bellows for the aid of her fellow pirates.

"Everyone! The prisoner is escaping! Stop him at all costs!" She manages to shriek just before the door slams down, the ropes and pulleys vibrating within the metallic wall. Cringing and freezing in place, Geist waits in silence for any sign her announcement was heard. Opening a single eye, he sees no change, and wonders if luck could be on his side this day.

"There he is!" A voice calls from overhead, initiating an avalanche of sword-wielding women with their sights firmly upon him. The predictable outcome spurs a healthy dose of initiative into the reaver, and without a second thought, he dashes for the lagoon leading out of the area, the entire multilevel complex suddenly teeming with life. Rounding a corner, he dashes past a familiar Gerudo sitting depressingly atop a large barrel. Elbows upon her knees, her face lights up and springs from her hands as she struggles to turn around to face the pausing fugitive.

"Hey! I had to spend the whole night like this! You—" she starts, nearly toppling over in her effort to maneuver the wooden container.

"A bet is a bet, sweetheart," he laughs, ceasing his escape for the moment to saunter closer to her, palming the cylinder to keep it from tipping. "You ready to pay up?"

"Okay, okay," she smiles, shooting him a learned smile, and reclining to prop her hands on the edge of the barrel. "You win." Rolling his eyes, Geist quickly touches his glowing palm to the side of the barrel, freeing the poor woman's rear from its overnight internment. "Oh, thank you. Thank you," she practically whispers, thoroughly stretching her back with a loud groan.

"Afraid I'm dealing with something of a time issue, so if we could," he begins to explain, briefly glancing around the corner he traversed to find the horde of women nearly upon him. His focus doesn't return to the barrel girl a moment too soon, her scimitar nearly cleaving his head clean off as he arches his back with a look of disgust.

"Oi!" He blurts out, regaining his balance as the two share a glance of contempt. Her next swipe misses the mark as well, the Ikanian nimbly dodging past her, but allowing his hand to brush against the barrel once again. The sword chomps into the wooden drum in his wake, and in a flash of light, becomes mostly wooden itself as the sneering woman fails to retrieve it. "Have they no honor?" He asks himself aloud, eventually tripping to a stop at the edge of the short cliff leading down into the lagoon. Preferring not to swim back to civilization, he realizes he is short on options when an arrow very narrowly misses him. Turning back he finds the mob of witch-hunters closing in, and atop a nearby structure, Abooru is carefully lining up her next shot. "Come now, this is madness!" Geist shouts, appealing to the leader of the angry women.

"There you are," a pirate sighs, appearing next to her leader. "Something's got to be done about those bees—" she starts, only now taking in the scene. "Oh, what's going on?"

"End of the line!" Abooru shouts, ignoring her subordinate.

"Hardly, love!" The magi shouts, his tattoo and lantern beginning to glow a deep blue as he points out over the bay. "Stage left, remember?" Suddenly, a large wave crashes, and subsequently freezes as the reaver dives off the cliff toward the newly created slide of ice. A single arrow zips through the spectacle, slicing through his rupee bag, and causing the few colored jewels to topple out. "No, no, no, no, no!" He cries, flailing after his departing money. Evading his grasp as he ceases falling and begins sliding, he watches in horror as the lone red rupee dips into the water, and is promptly gobbled up by a grotesque, worm-like creature. "Oh, come on!" He protests, clumsily climbing to his feet as his momentum carries him toward an approaching boat. The frozen surface beneath him becomes increasingly wet, two trails of water growing in his wake as a single naginata-touting guard steers toward him. Timing the maneuver carefully, the magi leaps into the air just before his deteriorating ice bridge ends, waving a glowing arm over the bow of the boat as he twists through the air. A jet of water violently ejects the woman from her vehicle just before the reaver lands with what could almost be considered grace. Quickly steering the motorized vessel away from the fortress, he turns back to blow a kiss to the fuming woman atop the cliff, shaking with rage as she throws her bow to the ground. "She just needs some space," he decides, breathing in the fresh air and taking in the sight of Great Bay. "She'll be alright."

The lightweight craft skips along the cresting surface of the murky blue water. The distant shore seems lacking in activity, but upon closer inspection, a boy wearing green comes into view near the old scientist's shack. It isn't until the figure inflates a large, red balloon that Geist realizes it is only that tiny, eccentric man who is constantly doodling maps. The sporadic winds give Geist an ominous chill as he gradually makes his way southward, the late afternoon sun doing little to quell his suspicion of ill-fated events on the horizon. Soon enough, the murky blue water becomes a swampy green, the motorized craft immediately communicating its inability to continue traversing the thickening bog. "Made it further than I expected," he shrugs, steering the sputtering vehicle toward the shore. Eventually, the boat is able to drift close enough for the magi to simply leap the short distance to dry land, though the wild thicket of tangling roots and vines does nothing to expedite his travels. "Deku palace seems like good place to hide out for a spell," he murmurs to himself, finally pushing through the dense wood and onto a cleared pathway.

"Release us!" A voice screams within the reaver's mind.

"It's over, man. Just let it be over," another pleads.

"You killed us. Your entire race," yet another insists, each voice cascading over the preceding one as they quickly become a crescendo of angry shouts.

"Nothing can come of this!"

"You can't stifle us with potions forever."

"I wanted to fight! I wanted an honorable death!"

"Just breathe," a familiar voice adds, separate from the overwhelming rabble.

"I want my mom!" A child's voice cries, sobbing loudly as the souls of his people grow increasingly restless. The lantern grows brighter with every step the magi takes, the voices finally forcing him to a knee as he holds his temples in his palms. The forest spins around him, quickly, yet slowly at the same time, his senses betraying him as gravity seems to become an abstract concept. The buzzing and croaking of the swamp fades away, the dim orange light against his tightly closed eyelids fading to the deepest blue.

"Geist," Cale calls, his voice loud, but calm. "Just breathe." A violent exhale spews a cloud of dust outward, dissolving into the twilight as the reaver rises to a sitting position upon the forest trail. A twig snaps within the foliage to his right betraying the silent recoil of whatever manner of creature has been watching him. Apprehensively, the magi's eyes drift over to the depressingly dim lantern resting against his thigh, its inhabitants having returned to silence at some point during his unconsciousness. "Why do you all—" he starts, failing to find the words in his frustration. Every decade has been worse than the preceding one, the trapped spirits of his people, of his friends, endlessly ridiculing, judging, and most of all, hating their captor. A lazy wind weaves through the silent trees and over the soft earth of the marshland as the man climbs to his feet and attempts to get his bearings. Another sudden rustle of leaves catches his attention, this time accompanied by a low, threatening growl.

"Really not in the mood, chaps," he sighs, dusting off his thoroughly worn clothing. One patient step after another reveals a wolfos, and as the hunter begins to circle its prey, a second steps into the fading light of evening. The creature flashes its large fangs with a snarl, its partner now circling the idle man between them as they study their dinner. "Alright, if this is how you want to play it," Geist groans, rolling his eyes. Utilizing his vanishing trick, the beasts find themselves staring at their own reflections before a piercing whistle snaps them to attention. Casually proceeding down the path, the magi gestures for them to follow, his quick pace far from a jog, but too hurried to be considered a swagger. A pair of howls signal the chase has begun, each of the hunters sprinting full force after their elusive meal. Easily able to deter and confuse the predators, Geist soon finds himself in Termina Field, though the pair of hungry beasts are not far behind. After a quick glance at his empty rupee pouch, he turns to find the thoroughly agitated wolves have nearly caught up to him. A moment later, he has a plan to transform his potentially dismal situation into a profitable one.

An intricate weave of colorful lattice fencing encloses the pathway leading up the slope to the town's south entrance, the impressive pathway designed to keep the less intelligent creatures roaming the area from wandering into the community. The rhythmic bang of hammers barks through the alleyways of South Clock Town, only a few of the town's inhabitants still out and about at the late hour. A small construction crew seems to be wrapping up their long-term project for the day, gathering planks of wood around a decorative, multistoried platform reaching high overhead. A cocky child struts up the distant stairs beside the massive clock at the center of town, its face decorated with indecipherable murals, slowly grinding in a circle as the impressive display of technology ticks in a rhythm all its own. The magi bids the pair of guards a respectful nod as he casually strolls by, acting convincingly unaware of the furry killers closing in from behind. It isn't until one of the carpenters drops the load of lumber he is carrying that everyone in the area freezes in place.

"Look out!" He yelps, pointing feverishly past the exit. Taken by surprise, the guards spin on their heels, only to become terrified themselves at the sight of the charging beasts. Shouts of terror cascade over the once peaceful town, the few still present rapidly taking flight into the other districts. A fake look of shock overtakes Geist's visage, reeling at the improbable catastrophe now playing out before his eyes. Several pensive steps backward becomes a leap of fright as the Ikanian's hand falls on one of the guards shoulders.

"I'll handle this, boys," he declares, thumbing his nose at the approaching animals. "Watch closely," he adds, raising a condescending finger as he looks down on the sentries with raised eyebrows. "Most mercenaries don't consider property damage, but I—" he boasts, his arrogant smirk instantly melting away when a thunderous shriek blasts through the sky. Its purposeful stride warbling for a moment, one of the Wolfos falls to the earth limply in the wake of an invisible beam slicing through the decorative path in an explosion of shattered wood. The hunter's partner is thrown off its feet when the perpetrator of the attack lands with a heavy thud a short distance from the town entrance. The vast majority of the elaborate corridor is blasted apart when the creature beats its wings angrily, only the thick support pillars lining the walkway remaining erect for the time being. A futile attack is met with overwhelming resistance when the keeserroc twists into an effortless backstroke, catching the pouncing wolf with his forearm and launching it into the recently constructed platform like a furry wrecking ball. The foreman's cries of disbelief can be heard nearby as the entire structure comes crashing back down to its foundation.

"Got my foot in my mouth quite a bit today," Geist mumbles under his breath, briefly surveying the damage. "Miss me?" He sighs, slowly advancing toward the centuries-old bat-dragon, carefully maintaining a close proximity to his foe as the reaver steers him away from the entrance. The creature shows clear signs of recognition, lowering its head and snarling as its tall ears follow the magi's movements like a pair of hollow eyes. Remaining considerate of the town, the reaver tries his best to avoid initiating the confrontation until he is a safe distance from the people, now cowering in their homes. The monster stalks his target slowly, a barely perceptible jingle of metal sounding with every encircling step. "That must have hurt," The magi admits after a brief hiss through his teeth, noting what is left of the chain dangling from the beast's ankle. A sudden influx of air doubles the size of the creature's chest as it levels its stance in a bracing fashion. "No small talk, eh?" The magi jests, waving his glowing arm as a series of translucent mirrors seem to create a dozen copies of himself all around his foe. The beast shows no sign of confusion, remaining locked onto its target as it unleashes a piercing scream.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Geist mocks himself as he sprints in a crescent past the dragon, the destructive torrent of sound sweeping too close for comfort in his wake. Quickly taking a knee, he is lifted into the air as a pillar of earth erupts upward at his command. The annihilating noise torrent eats through the base of the temporary safe haven, forcing the magi to leap skyward, his arm glowing green as a powerful gust of wind pulls him through the air. No stranger to aerial combat, Reek takes flight with alarming speed, the pillar of earth crashing back to ground level in his wake. A pair of fireballs roar past the massive bat, the monster proving extremely agile despite his size as he twists past them with ease. Another blast of sound forces Geist to conjure another gust of wind, but he quickly discovers his foe is something of a tactician, predicting the dodge and darting in to punish the obvious maneuver.

"Hugh!" The reaver grunts, avoiding the monster's snapping jaws, but falling victim to a fierce kick from his hind legs as he passes. Spiraling back to the earth, the magi reclaims his bearings after a brief struggle only to find the dragon closing in for the kill. Forced to play his trump card, Geist spins in signature fashion, producing his spiked orbs and immediately launching them upward in rapid succession. One after another, the spheres are either dodged or batted away, but the beast is forced to slow its descent considerably to do so, lagging behind his prey's accelerating descent. Another pillar of earth springs upward, quickly dropping back from whence it came as it gently receives the falling man. Scarcely allowed a deep breath, the magi crouches slightly, taking a more serious battle stance as Reek lands heavily a short distance away. A violent quiver of anger is quickly followed by an imposing gallop, the monster sucking in yet another deep breath as he approaches the paragon of his hatred.

"Think I see where this is going," Geist breathes, his tattoo glowing a calm blue before fading into a blazing red. "Let's finish this," he declares, his voice utterly calm. Slapping his wrists together, the reaver unleashes an explosion of flame from his outturned palms, the concentrated vortex of fire colliding with Reeks relentless scream in an unnatural power struggle. Slowing to a crawl of exertion, the beast gradually gains ground, though the nexus point between the two discharges of force remains almost exactly halfway between the combatants. A nervous glance downward reaffirms the magi's angst, the lantern clinging desperately to his belt slowly dimming as the hurricane of force threatens to rip it away. The consistent pitch of the screaming dragon's attack suddenly dips drastically, the beast's lungs all but empty as his opponent drops to a knee. Exhausting their strength simultaneously, the pair of warriors recoil as the power struggle subsides, Geist dropping to all fours as Reek gasps for air. All of his options extinguished, the magi sees his only opening, and final option to end the battle.

A section of earth twists out of the ground launching the Ikanian the short distance forward, the approaching man already upon the monster as he is unable to reel backward quickly enough in response. Thrusting a glowing palm into the mighty beast's chest, Geist places his free hand to his own, the resulting flash of light eclipsing the enemies entirely for several seconds and replacing the last of the days light in the process. Momentarily confused by the unfamiliar sensations coursing through his body, Reek shakes his thoughts free, lunging for the man in an unstoppable, decapitating chomp. A smug grin is the magi's only attempt at defense, and a sudden jolt of understanding causes the keeserroc's body to cease up in a fit of horrified awe. His fang-laden jaws closing with contempt, the dragon's shovel of a nose moves in close before it sucks in two quick sniffs, ruining what is left of the man's somewhat kempt hair. The gesture confirms the beast's suspicions, his own scent filling his lungs as the man smooths his hair back with a controlled agitation. Taking a step back, Reek drops to a seated position, teeming with anger as he attempts to understand what has happened, and decipher a way to kill the man he has hunted for longer than he can remember.

"You get it now, yeah?" Geist asks, his arms open as if he expects a response. "You can't hurt me, and I can't hurt you. I call it a heartbind," he explains, betting it all on the hope that Reek isn't deranged enough to kill himself simply to exact his revenge. "We don't exactly have to be friends, but it's certainly in our best interest to look out for one another from here on out," he adds, taking an apprehensive step forward. Instantly deciding the magi is too close, the dragon jabs him in the chest with his nose in an instinctual attempt to establish dominance. Thrown off his feet, the reaver's head bounces off the ground, prompting him to palm the back of his skull with a grimace before returning his gaze to the would-be alpha male standing over him. Groaning in pain himself, Reek realizes his mistake as he shakes his head, seeming to stare daggers at the grounded man before beating his wings rapidly, departing the scene in the dragon equivalent of an irritated tantrum. "Yeah, right back at you," he coughs, taking his time to return to his feet.

"You can't be serious!" The foreman of the carpenters bellows as he takes in the scene, his subordinates filing in behind him. Gradually, more members of the town make their way outside of the gate, surveying the damage.

"Dotour will want this cleaned up," another carpenter adds, scratching his head.

"We've only got four days to rebuild the decorations now!" The foreman rants, working himself into a frenzy. "Guardians damn that overgrown keese! Where's is gone?" He asks, rolling up his sleeves in preparation for a brawl while his workers do their best to pacify him. Chuckling to himself as he makes his way through the debris, Geist works his way through the growing crowd and back into town.

"Did you see that?" An onlooker exclaims, elbowing what must be his twin brother as the two gossip about what has transpired.

"It was a keeserroc! I thought they were extinct!" His brother insists excitedly.

"Such a waste," a suspicious looking man mutters, standing apart from the crowd and staring at what remains of the constructed platform. Rubbing his almost completely bald head, he spots Geist approaching, adjusting his anachronistic sunglasses, and changing his demeanor as he rests his chin between his thumb and index finger.

"I'm sure they'll get it rebuilt in time," the magi shrugs, eyeing the archway leading into East Clock Town, and more importantly, to the inn.

"No, no," the man corrects, his tone and mannerisms reminding the reaver of a salesman, and not the honest kind. "The animal. What's going to happen to all that fur?"

"What?" Geist responds, eyeing the rubble more closely. Half buried beneath the wood and banners, the wolfos Reek sent on a one-way trip into town lies inert. "Oh, I see," he admits, still unsure what the strange individual is getting at.

"Way I see it," he starts, glancing around uneasily to be sure no one is listening in. "You're some kind of hero. You deserve something for your trouble. I kid you not!" He proposes, adjusting his vest and looking over his shoulder once again. "You seem like a man who's no stranger to style, am I right?"

"I suppose you could say that," the magi agrees, raising an eyebrow.

"Tell you what," he starts, leaning in close. "You help me get this thing over to my shop, discretely," he pauses to highlight the point, "and I'll make it worth your while."
Dawn of the First Day

"You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?" A woman mutters, causing Geist to spring to life in a panic. Seemingly lost in thought, an attractive woman stands near the foot of his bed, staring at the lantern residing on his bedside table. A kind face within a frame of red hair, she suddenly shifts her glance over to the formerly sleeping man as if he has snuck up on her. Quickly realizing she is the innkeeper, the magi's fight or flight response fades away with a deep breath as he composes himself.

"Can I help you?" He must ask, the woman simply staring in silence for several seconds.

"Oh," she blurts out, becoming quite flustered as her cheeks turn red. "I'm so sorry. It's um," she stammers, unable to construct a meaningful sentence.

"No worries, love," he grins, all too familiar with this sort of attention from the fairer sex. "Have a seat," he insists, tapping a hand on the edge of the bed. "Get comfortable."

"Oh my, no," she gasps, holding a hand to her mouth. "It's just," she starts, her overwhelming politeness restraining her ability to communicate the problem. "You were talking in your sleep, and," she pauses, glancing at the lantern and quickly becoming lost in thought again.

"Apologies, sweetheart," he halfheartedly conveys, rubbing his eyes with a yawn.

"Oh, it's quite alright," she insists, taking an apologetic tone herself. "Where is my head today?" She mutters under her breath, adding, "a curious man dropped off this package for you." Eyeing the meticulously wrapped box lying next to the bed, Geist is able to put the pieces together quickly enough.

"Thank you," he starts, unsure if he should ask what he is really thinking.

"What is it?" The innkeeper asks, oddly drawn to the enigmatic man.

"What was it you said earlier? Something about fate?"

"Oh, it was nothing!" She vows, suddenly very embarrassed. "I'm so sorry to have barged in on you," she continues, bowing as she quickly backs her way out of the room. "Please stay as long as you like," she adds, beginning to shut the door as she remembers what else she'd like to say. "Thank you for protecting the town. It was very brave," she declares, badly blushing before pulling the door shut. "Bye."

"Don't mention it, love," he sighs, knowing she cannot hear him now. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he looks at the large brown box with unenthusiastic eyes before climbing out of the bed. "She was wearing an engagement ring," he laughs, shaking his head. "I usually catch that stuff right away. I'm losing my touch." The early morning sun peers through the single window of the room as he lifts the package onto the bed and tears away the ordinary brown paper. Upon opening the equally mundane box within, the reaver's eyes light up as he can't help but exclaim, "what is this?"

Strutting through the lobby with more confidence than usual, Geist adjust his new coat, shooting the innkeeper a wink before proceeding through the exit. A pair of fangs hand in his field of vision, the wolfos head fashioned into a hood, while the arms serve as furry sleeves, the trench coat rather unnecessary on this mild day. Clock Town seems to dance with life, the inhabitants quite cheerful as the magi makes his way to the trading post to thank the man he would not have guessed was a gifted tailor. An unshakeable sense of nostalgia overwhelms him as he makes his way past the pair of jugglers, diligently practicing for the fast-approaching festival. Everything about his own actions seem unsettlingly familiar as he enters the shop and approaches the smiling man behind the counter.

"Greetings, squire. I love it," he grins, pulling at the lapel and resting a forearm on the counter. "You really outdid yourself my friend."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you mean," the friendly man responds with a pleasant smile.

"You," Geist starts, noticing the man's full head of hair and completely reversed demeanor. While he is certain the man behind the counter shares the same face as the man who sent the coat, the similarities end there as the salesman's cheerful smile is becoming unnerving.

"I'm afraid you may have been dealing with the guy next door. I'm told we look alike, but he's an unsavory character. I kid you not!" He explains, briefly scratching at his back. "Can I interest you in anything?"

"No," the reaver retorts after a moment, still profoundly suspicious. "If you see that guy around, tell him I said thanks."

"Certainly, thank you for stopping by," he concludes, busying himself with arranging his inventory on the shelves behind him as Geist makes his way back outside.

"What in Termina was that about?" He ponders aloud before his stomach reminds him of his rupee situation. "Guess it's time to pay him a visit," he thinks aloud, emphasizing 'him' as he ponders where the bizarre character might be this time of year. Something about this particular day has the magi feeling uneasy, though he cannot seem to put his finger on it as he makes his way eastward. Traveling through a treacherous ravine, growing steadily closer to the borders of the now-ancient Ikana Kingdom, he effortlessly avoids the plethora of hazardous terrain and dangerous wildlife preventing the majority of Terminans from exploring. Moments from deciding he must be in the wrong area, a cackling voice sounds from overhead.

"Eee-hee-hee! What are you doing in a place like this wolf-man? Surely you don't—" a thin figure in a hooded robe announces theatrically, his practiced voice deflating when he recognizes the approaching man. "Oh, it's you." His feet dangling over a ledge high above, he twirls his walking stick in his palm, climbing to his feet and awaiting his friend. Briefly rolling his eyes, Geist summons a vortex of wind just powerful enough to lift him up onto the ridge, stepping onto level ground with the shadowy figure.

"Are you serious with that routine—" the reaver starts, shaking his head.

"Ah! Let's keep it professional. If I have to call you Geist," he muses, pronouncing the name condescendingly. "Then you can refrain from spouting my name for all to hear."

"All to hear?" The magi scoffs, looking around the desolate area.

"The Garo have become rather active since the boy arrived," he points out, glancing over his shoulder toward the Stone Tower.

"Boy? What boy?"

"I was sure you followed him here. You just missed him. Persistent little guy. I told him I wouldn't let him through unless he got a special mask from those rancher brothers," he explains, shrugging in disbelief. "Figured it would get him out of my hair for a while. Not much of a conversationalist."

"Why would the ranchers give him a mask?"

"They'll bet anything on a horse race. The kid had a cute little horse so I figured I'd get my cut of the rupees he lost later. Problem is, he won," he laughs, quickly sensing his friend doesn't find the situation so humorous.

"What kind of mask?" Geist asks, his tone growing very serious.

"Take it easy. I was just about to go check on him when you showed up," he asserts, growing defensive.

"What kind of mask?" The reaver repeats more slowly, his eyes conveying the gravity of his emotion on the matter.

"They made Garo-looking masks for," he starts, unsure how best to explain their purpose. "The just made them, okay." Without another word, Geist immediately begins trekking into the canyon, determined to find the foolish boy before it is too late. "What are you getting so worked up about? Have you been through here lately? The kid has nowhere to go," the poe collector insists, struggling to keep pace with the determined magi. Finally reaching Ikana River, the collector's words become apparent, the topography having changed drastically since Geist last visited his home. A massive cliff face hangs over the river, the steep, rocky crag having too few protrusions to even consider climbing. Nearby an odd man prances about, clearly lost in his own world as the duo approach.

"Good day, good sir," Geist greets, surprised when the man stops his extravagant frolicking to speak with them.

"Hello," he greets, seeming to be friendly enough.

"Did you see a kid in green pass through here by chance?" The poe collector inquires.

"Sure did. He's up there," he points out, thrusting a finger upward.

"How," the reaver starts, falling silent when he cannot find the words.

"Couldn't tell you, but the little guy is fast. By the way, that is one niiice coat," the man purrs, leaning in closer the magi would prefer.

"Thanks," he suspiciously retorts, backing away from the man.

"So long," the man concludes, shrugging and resuming his antics as he assumes the conversation finished.

"You believe this guy?" Geist asks after the pair are out of earshot.

"Well," the collector starts when a waterfall suddenly spills over the cliff face and into the river. Showing no sign of stopping, each of the men exchange confused glances.

"It was Sharp who cut off the stream," he states more than asks.

"That's a nasty spook too. He's not one to be reasoned with," his friend agrees, leaning on his walking stick casually.

"Who is this kid?" He blurts out in frustration, holding out his arms in disbelief.

"He reminds me of," the collector mutters, suddenly lost in thought. "That kid from Hyrule. He was about that age—"

"You never talk about Hyrule," Geist interrupts, shooting the hooded man a subtly confused, but mostly concerned look.

"No reason to start now," he chuckles, proceeding toward the river. "Come. You want to catch this kid or not?" Fading away like a phantom, the poe collector reappears atop the daunting cliff moments after his friend has ascended with the help of the elements. The traditionally bleak area takes on an almost chipper ambiance, the sound of carnival music filling the air as the duo approach a peculiar house in the center. Decaying structures and severely dehydrated trees litter a small collection of ledges cascading up into a featureless mountainside, and at the center of it all, the clear origin of the music, an absurdly colorful house resembling a phonograph. Proceeding alongside the freshly flowing river, the baffled tourists catch a glimpse of the boy, rapidly covering ground as he advances toward an unknown destination above them with a fairy following close behind. Before either of the men can utter a word of protest, the tunic-clad child has leapt into the well of the former royal district, his long, fluttering cap vanishing beneath the lip of the grey cylinder.

"Gods, how does he remain a step ahead of us?" The magi exhales, crossing his arms and shaking his head in disbelief.

"We're not very good at this," the collector adds, casually leaning on his cane once again.

"What good are you? Just stay here." He retorts with a quiver of irritation, marching along the streambed with determination. "I doubt I catch him at this rate. I think it's time we find out what he's after." A small cavern of colorful stalagmite serves as the origin of the water outside, a steadily churning pool of spring water pouring up and out of the cave. Carefully surveying the damp grotto, the reaver feels the presence of a spirit all too soon.

"Dreadfully popular today aren't I?" A deep, yet smooth, gentlemanly voice asks rhetorically. "I do not concern myself with the affairs of mortals," he explains, a reflective sort of melancholy clinging to his tone. "Be gone from this place."

"I may not be eternal, but no mere mortal, Sharp," the magi declares, watching the composer idly tumble his baton between his ghostly fingers.

"What manner of sorcery is this?" The poe demands, spinning around to face the intruder. "An Ikanian still walks amongst the living. Preposterous!" He booms, rising to the center of the room and wielding his instrument of conducting like a fragile weapon. "And yet, it is true." He breathes, eyeing the souls within the lantern, partially concealed by the man's heavy coat. With that, the specter grows more cordial, slowly descending to eye-level, and studying his guest thoroughly. "What has drawn such an improbable conclusion to our race here?"

"A boy in green passed through here," Geist states plainly, preferring not to waste time. "I ask if you know his business in these forbidden lands."

"He is of no concern to you, reaver," the ghost growls, his composure balanced on a pin head. "He does not fear the dead, rather, he seems to see all forms of consciousness for what they are. If intentions are what you desire, he aims to save the spirits cursed to roam these lands forever. Not imprison them," he concludes, maintaining his distance as he stares intently at the swirling essences within the lantern.

"You would allow him closer to the tower?" The reaver asks, breathless. The red-hued ghoul offers no response as he scowls at the ghost hunter. "I'm not your enemy. We shared the blood of our proud race once. Blood spilled until none remained. Centuries in this purgatory and you've learned nothing!" The magi begins to rant, growing increasingly angry himself. "Your king and his ilk were not the only ones who suffered. Better men than you or I paid dearly for mistakes they had no say in."

"You are correct," the spirit sighs, reluctant to communicate his torment, even to the final remnant of his culture. "My brother was one of them," he expresses, turning away from the mortal as he gathers his thoughts. "When the tower was opened, and the plague brought down upon us, I could not stand idle while that fool of a king conspired against us all. However, I could not risk involving anyone close to him," he pauses, chuckling for a moment. "The enemy of one's enemy can prove a valuable asset in times such as those, but I fear I was a fool myself. My dear brother learned of my meeting with the Garo, and had I not locked him away in secret, the assassination could not have moved forward." Shocked by the revelation, Geist listens even more intently as his clenched fists fall open at his sides. "I would have freed him afterward of course, but there was no such opportunity. The plot failed, and I was outed as a conspirator, forced to flee the castle on that fateful night," he painfully recounts, staring at an inconspicuous spot on the far wall of the cavern. "It was there. A member of the Garo Robe promised to spirit me to safety, but his true intent was to silence me, quite permanently. I did not weep for my life that night, but for that of my brother, doomed to wait for a freedom I could no longer offer."

"That's terrible," Geist must admit, trapped in the awkward silence that ensues.

"I do not wish to be saved, but there are some who deserve a chance to repent. Even that bastard who still wears the crown," he concludes, fading away peacefully. Temporarily reeling from the tale, the reaver decides it puts a great number of things into perspective, and more importantly, it makes the path ahead utterly clear.

"Some may deserve a chance," he agrees, his eyes as distant as the passing clouds as repressed memories of that fateful night swirl into his mind. His hand tightly gripping the lid of his lantern, he finishes the thought seconds later. "But not him." With that, the Ikanian bolts out of the cave, ignoring the castle to the east, as the chambers and passages beneath the well only lead to one place. Stopping the enigmatically resourceful fairy boy ceases to be his purpose as he sets his sights on the barely recognizable creature ahead, its long tongue serving as a path up to its doorway of a mouth. Charging up the decayed slope leading into the Stone Tower, he intends to track down the demon spawn who took so much from him. The one who, even now, he scolds himself for failing to confront sooner. Now inside the crumbling tower of his people's lament, the magi cannot believe his eyes when he spots the boy in green, nimbly leaping across deathly gaps high overhead. The gargantuan cylinder of ancient construction bears no pathways traversable by any practical manner, instead proving exceptionally resistant to anyone intent on scaling its interior. Not wasting an instant, the reaver springs into the air, a powerful torrent of wind sending him soaring past the many stories of the convoluted tower until he lands on the last floor without incident. Even so, the boy in green dashes through a large door in the distance, a pair of long, yellow ears bouncing atop his head as he moves out of sight.

"It defies all logic," the Ikanian protests for none to hear. "What manner of magic allows him to proceed so quickly?" Crossing the few remaining sections of bridge in a short series of leaps, he too enters the Stone Tower Temple in a desperate race to an uncertain destination. The temple itself is a testament to irrationality, the common laws of the world the reaver lives in left at the door in this sacrilegious sanctuary. Cautiously proceeding across a narrow bridge of curved rock, he notes the clear, blue sky both above and below him, this prehistoric relic defying the goddesses of creation in every way it is able. Only able to traverse a few difficult-to-reach doors, the magi finds himself at a loss for words when the entire temple rotates one hundred eighty degrees, the ceiling becoming the floor and vice versa. Robbed of his bearings absolutely, he reestablishes himself on solid ground easily enough, and continues to frantically search, caring little for comprehension, but wholly focused on reaching whatever chamber his mortal enemy resides within. The enormous ruin rotates several more times before he once again catches a distant glimpse of the boy, charging across an enclosed walkway with his sword and shield in hand. Horrified by the thought of the child somehow knowing where the demon resides, he has no choice but to resume chasing in the boy's wake.

Circling around to the very passage the child crossed, the Ikanian's fears are realized when he hears evil laughter beyond the door ahead, quickly followed by clashing metal. Predictably, the door will not budge, the Garo notoriously preferring a one-on-one battle whenever they can manage. Out of options, the reaver touches his palm to the door, closing his eyes and concentrating intently. Reluctantly, a temporal window of volatile shape spreads from the center of the iron obstruction. Sudden waves of light burst from within between the sounds of blades cutting through the air, and the screeches of dozens of swarming bats. To his dismay, the conjured aperture reveals an invulnerable magic barrier, but even so, the events transpiring inside are not at all what the magi expected.

Gomess, the keeper of souls, narrowly avoids whirling sword strikes, breathing raggedly as he drifts through the room, surrounded by a paltry number of bats. Time has not been kind to the mutant subrosian, the essences he devoured failing to maintain his power once the kingdom was finally depleted of life. The glowing orb within the fiend's stomach, revealed by Geist's attack so many decades ago, no longer radiates with energy, instead glowing a depressing shade of green behind the curtain of keese. A telegraphed attack misses badly, the scythe-wielding demon twirling his weapon as he charges past the nimble young warrior. The boy in green sheathes his sword while returning his shield handle to its holster upon his back, drawing both his bow and a single arrow in a fluid motion, rivaling the most seasoned of archers in speed and technique. A magnificent halo of light eclipses the iron spade at the tip of the wooden projectile, the entire room glowing brilliantly just before the drawstring is released. Without a heartbeat to react, Gomess reels from the impact of the holy bullet, bellowing in pain as the tenacious warrior dashes in for the kill, his sword hand skillfully twirling the blade overhead as he leaps courageously forward. Unable to stand the pulse of light, the bats are scattered in every direction within the expanding ring of divine energy, and in his foe's most vulnerable moment, the boy cleaves the orb of souls from the creature's form.

Geist cannot believe his eyes as the sphere shatters against the stone floor, an untold amount of restrained energy exploding forth in a whirlwind of freed spirits. Disintegrating within the torrent, Gomess cries his final, pathetic scream, his scythe torn from his grasp as he slowly vanishes along with his loyal bats. Apathetic to the fate of the monster he has vanquished, the child throws open a chest concealed within a small alcove at the rear of the room. Satisfied with whatever it contained, he flings open the lone door of the arena, dashing past the magi concealed behind a conjured mirror. Too shocked to move for several minutes, the lone spectator of the battle finally makes his way into the now-unlocked arena, still able to sense the liberated souls gleefully finding their way to the afterlife. His emotions overwhelming his thought process, the Ikanian stares in disbelief, tears welling up in his eyes as he falls to a seated position, watching the spirits depart.

He takes his time journeying back to the valley, the few remnants of his civilization a depressing reminder of who he was, and what he has become. Having avoided returning here at all cost for longer than he can remember, his cowardice has become painfully clear watching a mere boy display more courage than he has ever witnessed in such a small span of time. The stream continues to flow, turning the waterwheel of the musical house, still playing its cheerful melody. Hopelessly lost within the labyrinth of his thoughts, Geist fails to notice the carefree poe collector making his way to the daydreamer's side.

"Spoke with your little green friend a moment ago," he greets, joining his friend, staring at the horizon. "That's why you can't seem to catch up with him. Just have to wait for him to come to you. Simple," he chuckles, failing to find any sign of humor on the daydreamer's face.

"He killed Gomess," the Ikanian sighs, scarcely believing his own words.

"So you know now," the collector nods, utilizing his cane to gently drop to a sitting position on the rocky earth. "He isn't just some kid. You can see it in his eyes. He's a voidwalker. Just like the salesman," he expresses, knowing how his friend will respond.

"Just like you," the reaver smirks, shooting him a patronizing glance. "Still, I think I know now what I need to do. So many times I've wanted to just do what they're telling me to do. Begging me to do," he pauses, glancing down at the lantern, rocking slightly in the breeze. "Just end it, you know." The collector doesn't say a word, listening politely while the tormented man gets everything he has suppressed off his chest. "I never knew if it was a higher calling or just cowardice that stayed my hand, but now I see it clearly. I wanted so badly to believe I could save them somehow, but the truth is they don't need me. They never have. I need them." The afternoon sun strikes the Ikanian as abnormally dim, almost as if something were blocking it partially. Undaunted by the minor anomaly he continues, "I want to understand. I want to know what this insane religion that spawned the Garo is all about. I'll find them. Every last one. They have too much to answer for."

"Sounds like you're setting off on a crusade of your own. Maybe you're not so different from them," the collector infers, gauging his friends response.

"This isn't about revenge," he states plainly, shaking his head. "There will be those who will fight, but I won't stop until they know what they've done. The beauty and the innocence of the many they destroyed over the mistakes of the few. It's the only reason I'm still alive. I'm sure of it."

"I like to think we've stayed friends because we never talk about religion, but I think it's time I told you. If you want to know the truth, you won't find it in this world," the collector shrugs, tapping his cane on his shoulder as he talks.

"You're talking about Hyrule," he smiles, chuckling to himself.

"The goddesses are every bit as real as you and I, even more so. If you want someone to blame, you can only blame yourself. They've left this world, forever. I've heard your tales of the past, and I've spoken to the people here now. You don't believe. None of you," the hooded man sighs, staring at the dirt. "Your guardians are like insects to them, but I'm afraid they're all you've got left. I know it doesn't seem fair, but I don't intend to defy the creators of this world, of all worlds. They've made it clear what happens to those who do."

"And I thought I was the coward," Geist laughs, maintaining a positive attitude despite the heavy topic. "If I'm forsaken so be it! I'll never yield to the ones responsible for this," he declares, his eyes sweeping across the depressing relics of his once great civilization. His gaze lingering on the sun once again as it is becoming irrefutable something is blocking it from view. "Everyone who touched this land will remember Ikana. Even the goddesses."

"I suppose you'll want me to show you the portal," the collector ponders aloud, tapping his finger to his shrouded chin. "He'll be there you know."

"Good," he instantly retorts, pumping himself up for the trials ahead. "Mask peddler has plenty to answer for himself."

"I suppose your course is set. Haven't seen you this lucid since we met," his friend laughs, climbing back to his feet. The Ikanian does feel lucid, equipped with newfound purpose he feels ready for anything. The souls at his side seem to weigh on him a little lighter with the revelation, though he doesn't know if he could ever truly make them proud. He will need to lean on them for a time, and if they will permit him, he may just find some kind of peace in this excessive life of his. The poe collector starts out of the area, turning back to find his friend squinting into this distance. Before anything else, Geist must determine the answer to one burning question above all else.

"Is that the moon?"

