Chapter Text
Due to intricacies of Frelian tradition, each member of the royal family was permitted to swear in a personal knight to serve as their retainer; this ceremony was unique in the fact that the vows of loyalty swore therein were not to the nation or bloodline, but to that singular person. While these royal knights were typically high ranking members of Frelia’s military, there were very few restrictions on who could be selected. By contrast, standard knights had to both be Frelian citizens and pass numerous trials and evaluations to join the sacred order.
Because of all these factors, it’s little wonder that Princess Tana’s induction of the former knight of Grado caused something of a scandal amongst the Frelian nobility. There was no shortage of capable and experienced knights in Frelia’s employ, ready to faithfully serve the young princess; yet for some reason, she was set on this commoner from a vanquished enemy nation, one whom she had spent years searching for if rumors were to be believed. There were many theories as to why this man was chosen: a political move to improve relations with Grado? The man’s status as the late Sunstone’s brother? Perhaps something that occurred during the War of Stones? Even the other members of the royal family seemed perplexed by the decision. King Hayden expressed some concern over his daughter enlisting a man he did not personally know, and Prince Innes supposedly questioned whether or not his sister was sane.
None of this was lost on Cormag at any time. He could still remember the day he had arrived in the Frelian capital behind the princess.
It wasn’t as though he expected a hero’s welcome; his nation was responsible for the destruction of their sacred stone and the suffering that followed. Many Frelian fathers, sons, and friends never returned home, and that pain presented itself as hatred. Most in the castle town who saw him gave only glares, some muttered or hurled vile insults, and a select few threw stones. When one rock thrown connected with the side of his head, the princess saw fit to tend to Cormag’s wound right there in the square, despite his repeated protests.
“Princess, please. This isn’t necessary. The wound will mend on its own, and the scar will be minimal.” Princess Tana seemingly ignored his plea as she continued cleaning and bandaging the man’s wound.
“Cormag, I want the people of Frelia to see, to know that you and all other citizens of Grado deserve our support and compassion. I have to show them that this is the stance of the royal family. Besides, you have more than enough scars already.”
While the man did appreciate her genuine kindness and concern, he was more so surprised at how mature the princess had sounded. The girl who only introduced herself by name the day they met was now actively considering the impact of her actions as a royal. And despite this newfound growth and understanding of her position, she hadn’t been robbed of her tender heart.
Alas, Cormag suspected that actions such as this would fail to have the desired effect. While Frelia joined with the other nations in accepting refugees from Grado, practically no other displaced people had made their way to the capital. Princess Tana and the rest of the royal family could speak of hospitality and make decrees sending aid, but all that would be seen by the nobles and commoners in Frelia’s capital is a hike in taxes. Even though Frelia had won the war, Grado was in no position to provide reparations as a result of the numerous natural disasters that subsequently ravaged its landscape. Many Frelian citizens not connected to the war industry already found their incomes crippled through displacement, damaged crops, or loss of family. One could hardly blame the average subject for feelings of malcontent.
There wasn’t much love to be found from visiting refugee hubs during relief missions either. While most were willing to set aside their pride long enough to resist biting the hand that feeds, they still routinely barked at the man who abandoned them. A blight on the Sunstone’s family and the murderer of the Fluorspar.
Even the knights of the realm possessed little but scorn for the man. To die for one’s country was the highest honor, to break one’s oath the most heinous sin. A betrayer of his homeland turned lapdog for the young princess.
There were some moments of solace. A handful of Frelian knights and servants Cormag had fought alongside in the war treated him decently enough.
The green haired Pegasus knight sisters Syrene and Vanessa told him how the system he and the princess had developed of using the mounts of airborne units to communicate during battles was being utilized by more and more riders. They also were accepting and accommodating of Genarog, despite the nation having no native wyverns.
The silent armored knight Gilliam provided a strong sparring partner for when Cormag needed assistance in shaking off the rust he had accumulated. His training drills which had been designed for new recruits proved equally effective for a man years removed from his last battle.
The wise priest Moulder had offered a rite of confession for Cormag and to absolve him of past sins. Cormag was never one for prayer in the past, and yet he found himself in quiet contemplation in the castle’s chapel on a few occasions.
Despite these warm, familiar faces, Cormag still found himself isolated. For all the kindness offered to him by Princess Tana and those he had fought alongside, he was not of Frelia. And the refugees from Grado had long since disowned him. Cormag had believed the simple pleasure of being home, with family and loved ones, forever lost to him.
That was until he saw the Obsidian again.
Cormag wasn’t sure what exactly he felt when he laid eyes on Duessel as the man arrived at the castle one day. He had come to help coordinate relief efforts in Grado with Frelia’s princess. The visit was expected, but the representative who was supposed to undertake the trip was unable to, leading to the task falling to the former general. Cormag had been expecting it to be a rather formal and stuffy affair, with perhaps one or two deriding comments directed at him by the official. Instead of a mocking jab, Cormag was attacked with a crushing hug as soon as Duessel laid eyes upon him.
“Cormag my boy, I had thought you dead.”
Ah, relief. That was what he had felt. Something so foreign he had almost forgotten it existed. Cormag found himself nearly brought to tears as he returned the general’s physical gesture. The wyvern knight even let slip some humor as he addressed his old superior. “Seems I will be after you break my ribs, general.” Both men smiled and laughed at Cormag’s poor attempt at a joke.
Knowing that the official business could be postponed for a time, Princess Tana graciously allowed the two veterans to catch up whilst she attended to other matters for the day. Duessel’s questions were nearly endless: where Cormag had been, how Genarog had been doing, what had led them to Frelia. It felt strange to fully detail and describe everything he had been through since the end of the war, but Cormag found himself unable to hold back even the most mundane of things.
Duessel himself had no shortage of new tales and experiences since they had last met. He had been working closely with the twins of Renais to assess and respond to the developing situations in Grado, from the aftermath of the war to the subsequent natural disasters. As the head of one of the last still living noble families, the Obsidian found himself in a role not dissimilar to a regional governor or warden. Of course, many Gradoian citizens saw him as nothing more than a turncoat turned puppet for foreign royals. A sentiment Cormag was all too familiar with, yet he couldn’t help but feel twinges of resentment at the thought of Duessel being thought of and treated as such. The wyvern knight made his thoughts on the matter clear to the old general.
“Even after falsely being branded a traitor, you continue to give everything for our homeland. No matter what the people of Grado believe, you’ve always been and always will be the empire’s faithful son.” The Obsidian, with small gleams of surprise and maybe even embarrassment in his eyes, thanked the younger man for his words.
“Ah, that reminds me of something we spoke of once before…”
Duessel, with a brief but notable amount of hesitation, turned to his steed and removed a spear which was latched to the saddle. The head of the weapon was covered in a cloth bag, but Cormag instantly recognized the sensation of dread that traveled down his spine upon laying his eyes on the metal shaft and spiked end.
“The lance that turned the Valter mad…” Duessel gave a solemn nod of affirmation.
“Yes. I’m not surprised you remember it, despite us only speaking of it once before. A brief skirmish with this in his hand was all it took to turn Valter into the monster you knew. It’s part of my family legacy, yet I’ve no heir to pass it on to. I know you asked to be entrusted with this weapon once before, but we both understood that to accept it in the midst of war would be dangerous. And soon after the struggle had ended, you vanished without a trace.” No small amount of guilt rose in Cormag’s chest as he saw the twinges of regret and sorrow in Duessel’s face. When the war ended, he felt unworthy to stand beside the Obsidian and the others in their efforts to rebuild Grado. So he had left on his own, leaving behind the cursed weapon he had asked to be endowed with. Turning his eyes back to the younger man, Duessel continued.
“Cormag…I offer you this lance once more. Know that while I won’t judge should you now refuse, I will never make you the offer again. Should I fail to find another worthy inheritor, this weapon shall join me in my grave, along with the knowledge of its existence. Perhaps that would be for the best, but if you still trust in your past ideals and convictions, then I leave that decision, along with this spear, in your hands.”
Cormag felt great pause as he contemplated the choice before him. While the war was indeed over, only a fool would believe it forever gone. If the power granted by this lance could truly be mastered, entire conflicts could be swiftly resolved or even avoided. And yet, wasn’t that the same logic that led the late Prince Lyon to become a thrall of the Demon King? Surely there exist unavoidable fates, dark forces that should not be tampered with.
Cormag’s mind turned to what became of the late Moonstone. Should he fail the task before him, he would go down the very same path, one of insanity and bloodlust. Could he really succeed where the Moonstone and others before him had failed? Valter was put down like the mad dog he became, by Cormag himself no less…
…No. Valter truly died when he lost his mind to this lance. This weapon murdered him and all those in its twisted past. It needed to be brought to justice, to be conquered and tamed. The past sins of this spear cannot be erased, but it can be made to atone in the present and future. Cormag, with a focused and clear mind, reached out and tightly gripped the weapon with his right hand as he finally answered Duessel.
“Even with the Demon King having lost his body, his soul still rests within Rausten’s Sacred Stone. The risk of him somehow returning, no matter how minute, cannot be ignored, especially seeing as four of the Sacred Stones are gone. And even beyond that monster, there rests no shortage of other devils and malefactors that may one day threaten us all. This lance, I will see it used not to instill chaos and despair, but peace and hope.”
The old general, with a look of fatherly pride, relinquished his claim and hold on the weapon, only to then rest his right hand on the left shoulder of the inheritor.
“According to my family’s legends, no mortal has ever succeeded in wielding it; all those who tried found themselves seduced and transformed by its wicked wrath. It will invade the wielder's mind, latching onto any and all darkness and madness it finds, before magnifying them tenfold. Perverted power will be promised and even granted, but at a terrible price. If you truly intend to master this weapon and not have it master you, you must discover how to quell and restrain its strength through your own. Be cautious and safe, Cormag. Do not attempt to bring it into any battle until you are certain you have control over its magic.”
Cormag absorbed the Duessel’s words, knowing that he had just agreed to shoulder an immense responsibility which had no doubt heavily weighed upon the Obsidian. The warning was solemn and most definitely warranted, but the younger man still felt as though he had to reassure his former general.
“I won’t be brash, but I will do you and my brother proud. I promise.”
Oh how naive he was.
After his first attempt at using it, Cormag refused to even look at the cursed lance for a time. It sat in his chambers, hidden in the corner behind a closet. He had wanted to leave it in the field, maybe drop it into the ocean, or perhaps even throw it into the fires of Mount Neleras. But the risk of the weapon somehow falling into the wrong hands was too great to ignore. That, and Cormag’s own mixture of guilt and pride meant that he would never be able to face Duessel again if he discarded the artifact or tried to return it to him.
That same errant hubris is what led Cormag to repeatedly engage in the futile attempts to master the weapon. Whenever he again mustered the nerve to bring the cursed lance to the secluded clearing, it was always the same. Valter’s specter would appear once Cormag had bared the head of the spear to the night air and would battle him until he, willingly or otherwise, lost his grip upon the weapon. The moonstone and any injuries Cormag had sustained would inevitably vanish into nothingness, although he would be left with phantom pains that could take days to fully heal.
Then there were the mental aftershocks. Cormag was no stranger to nightmares of the past, but they had been somewhat fewer in frequency since the war ended. Now every single time his exhaustion brought him to slumber, he would be beset by vivid recollections of the countrymen he had murdered. The tortured screams, the bloody rivers, they were endless. And no matter how much Cormag wanted to stop himself in these night terrors, he was never able to; he continued to kill and maim those he had once stood beside and loved. What frightened him the most was the glimpses he caught of his own face in reflections. He always wore a psychotic smile, one that delighted in the carnage of battle and bloodshed.
Cormag’s turbulent imagination also found torture him during the waking hours. Upon quickly turning his head, rounding a corner, even passing a mirror, they’d be there. One of the figures from the past and his dreams, seemingly alive but with the same injuries they had died with, the very wounds he had bestowed upon them. It was infrequent at first, and the specters initially vanished as soon as Cormag noticed them. But each time he laid hands upon the cursed lance, the apparitions became more recurrent and perpetual. They used to not speak: now their accusations of treason and demands for answers were almost indistinguishable from the voices of reality.
Cormag had to make it all stop. If he could just defeat the Moonstone’s phantom and claim that damnable weapon for his own, then surely its attacks on his mind would cease. That small, unfounded hope is what led him to redouble his efforts. Valter had intimate knowledge of the lance’s spells and abilities which Cormag had yet to fully grasp. He had to move faster than possible, strike fiercer than possible, and fight longer than possible just to keep up. And since he had little to no talent or experience with magic, the man’s only course for getting strong enough was to spend any and all free time training.
There were many ways to gain and measure physical strength, but one Cormag favored and always came back to was javelin throwing. It was a common drill for wyvern knights of Grado that could be modified in numerous ways: throw farther, throw more rapidly, throw with a tighter grouping, throw with enough power to pierce several targets, and then do them all simultaneously with consistent results. The sheer focus it demanded was also a fair way to keep his mind occupied. And yet despite the excessive amount of time he spent in the castle’s training grounds, Cormag was left only with exhaustion and no signs of significant improvement.
“God…damn it…” Cormag breathlessly cursed as he retrieved the numerous thrown javelins from the scattered targets on the range. The muscles in his arms screamed with the soreness that his lungs couldn’t express. Bleeding blisters replaced the fabric which had been lost in his gloves. His current session had lasted from midday to the early evening, him missing meals as a result. Despite the discomfort emanating from so many parts of his body, all Cormag could think of was how he had broken so many practice javelins and targets for no discernible benefit. He couldn’t get the javelins to travel completely through the target and then the backstop. To be able to throw a javelin with enough force to pierce shield, armor, and then flesh, that was the strength he needed. But how?
Just then, a silver arrow sailed in front of Cormag, the fletching kissing his armor as it whistled by. The projectile passed through some holes previously made by a javelin before punching through the rest of the backstop and ultimately breaking against the stone wall. A well made shot, regardless of how close it came to striking the man. The combination of reckless confidence and unquestionable skill let Cormag know who was now in his presence even before the prince’s dry voice confirmed it.
“I’d expect our country's knights to pay more attention to their surroundings. Were this a battlefield, any backwater archer worth their salt would have skewered your neck.” Prince Innes’s icy gaze and words shot their own arrows at Cormag’s vitals, as they had done countless times before. Typically they hadn’t been alone in the past, so the knight had always felt it best to simply stand unflinching in response to the intangible attacks. However, seeing as they were currently the only souls present and the assault now carried a physical component, Cormag felt compelled to defend himself.
“Were this a battlefield, I wouldn’t be expecting to be attacked by my own allies.” Prince Innes scoffed in response.
“Oh yes, no one ever expects to be attacked from behind. I’m sure your countrymen thought the same in the war.” Cormag felt his blood pulse against his temples as the prince’s words summoned visions of the past to his mind. He recalled how the men he had commanded looked at him once he turned his lance against them. The shock and disbelief which quickly turned to scorn and resentment. Cormag somehow managed to return to the present and respond to the prince’s interrogation.
“They taught many things to soldiers and knights in Grado, your highness. Honor, tactics, bravery. But one thing that never needed instruction was loyalty. Almost everyone had a story of how Emperor Vigarde or Prince Lyon had treated them as one would close family, no matter our station. We all fought for them, and to betray such kindness was unimaginable.” Prince Innes looked on with apathy.
“Appears that they should have spent some more time on obedience instead of displays of amity.” Cormag felt indignation build in his veins as he continued to receive the prince’s verbal barbs.
“Would you have preferred I stayed loyal and continued to fight against you and Prince Ephraim? Strike down the sons of Frelia which you had been entrusted with as future sovereign?” The royal shook his head.
“Of course not. Commoners pay taxes to those of higher blood so that their best interests may be served by them. Grado was on the wrong side of the war and would have destroyed both itself and Magvel had it not been stopped. To expect loyalty to such a regime would be as foolish as maintaining one’s oath to it.” Cormag took a small amount of pause as he absorbed the argument. There was logic to it, but the prince’s high born background had made him ignorant of certain realities.
“You make a compelling point, your highness. However, you assume that the average citizen or soldier has the knowledge so often kept behind closed doors. Not only that, the ordinary man seldom knows what is truly in his best interest. Isn’t that precisely why he trusts his superiors to make those decisions for him?” Prince Innes almost appeared impressed with the retort.
“Ha. You’re a commoner born knight, but you speak with wisdom more befitting a general or governor. How strange that the Sunstone didn’t seem to share in it.” The mention of his late brother’s epithet drew a look of confusion from Cormag.
“You met Glen?” Cormag had known his brother had met Princess Eirika once in the past, but to his knowledge he had not had personal contact with any other foreign royal. Prince Innes must have seen the ignorance on the knight’s face.
“Oh yes. The Sunstone found Princess Eirika and mine’s party whilst we were passing through the mountains of Carcino. He claimed that the Emperor himself had ordered him to bring her to justice, the charge being the senseless slaughter of the citizens of Carcino.” Cormag recalled how Glen had shared that exact duty with him, how troubled he had appeared by it. It was the last time he ever saw his brother. What Prince Innes was telling him now was the truth.
“Frankly,” the prince continued, “I’m stunned one of the legendary imperial three proved so stupid. Then again, perhaps I expected too much. The Obsidian only joined our cause after being branded a traitor. And I heard that the Fluorspar chose not to surrender to Prince Ephraim despite knowing her beloved Emperor was deranged. With those three as the highest officers, I can see why the ranks had to be doubled with the addition of the Tiger Eye, Blood Beryl, and Moonstone.” While Cormag was used to having insults levied against himself, hearing the prince subject the names of Glen, Duessel, and Selena to such ridicule stirred something inside him. Either not noticing or caring, the prince continued to goad the knight.
“Then there’s you, the contemptible turncoat who proved smarter than all Grado’s generals and royals combined. You even killed the Fluorspar for us. Perhaps if you had been a general and named after a pretty rock, Grado wouldn’t have fallen to Frelia so-”
Innes’s words were cut short as a javelin sailed just past the left of his head, deeply embedding itself into the stone wall. The point had come so close to the prince that it had clipped his high collar, sliced a lock of his ashen hair, and nicked his unblemished cheek. A small trail of blood emerged from the laceration as the sundered fabric floated to the ground. The prince’s glacial gaze locked with the knight’s amber eyes which smoldered with fury.
“You may malign me. You may threaten me. You may stand me at the edge of Valni’s tower before firing an arrow through my heart. But speak one more word against Glen, Duessel, or Selena and I will see to it that your throatless corpse rests in Grado’s deepest waters.”
The venom tipped threat seeped through the otherwise silent courtyard. Prince Innes, seemingly unimpressed, brushed his damaged cheek with his thumb and examined his spilt blood before responding.
“If you’re going to issue me a threat, you should at least make it convincing.” Cormag felt what little restraint he had left slipping. The arrogant blue blood deserved to be brought low. He wanted the prince begging for mercy and gasping for air as he crushed his windpipe in his bare hands. The man would gladly take the walk to the gallows if it meant he would be afforded that opportunity. Prince Innes, however, crushed that possibility with his final words before walking away.
“Or do you honestly expect me to believe that you’d dishonor and grieve Tana by killing me?”
The mention of the princess is what finally gave Cormag pause and extinguished the murderous desire building in him. Princess Tana often confided in him her numerous frustrations with her brother, but it was evident that a large part of her discontent was due to her love for her sibling. He knew the pain of losing kin all too well, yet here he was, seconds away from inflicting that same sorrow upon her without sparing so much as a passing thought. And beyond that, the knight had just injured and threatened the crown prince.
Guilt seeped into the Cormag’s mind and he cursed his own foolishness for being possessed of such blinding wrath. To desire to kill for only himself, completely disregarding friend and foe alike, was the mindset of a beast. A mad dog without remorse, that was how he had acted just now. He had always stood against such monsters, or so he had thought.
Guilt turned to horror as Cormag realized that he, without even knowing, was turning into the very kind of man that Valter became.