The duchess wore a pensive look. “Hm… You bring up a salient point, Miss Islara.”

She clicked her teeth. “I must admit, I am at a loss.”

Sprawled across a wooden table was a map of Arrowfell, inked on a dirty parchment. And beneath it, crinkled slightly, was a map of Hathforth. The day of the Nordorian duke’s execution was drawing ever closer, and yet, a cloud of uncertainty still hung above the duchess’ head.

She’d yet to come up with a plan.

Annoyance would paint her face a fiery crimson. “The risks are much too great. I…” She paused, hesitation causing her voice to quiver. “The Sparrows will be stamped out if the battle persists.”

Islara scanned the duchess’ expression curiously.

So this histrionic woman isn’t so heartless after all.

She scoffed in amusement, a wry smile strumming upon her lips like a guitar, before she offered up her own thoughts.

“You are right, Duchess.”

The spymaster rose from her chair and approached, taking the map of Hathforth and unfurling it. She held it up to the torchlight. “But we need not let it persist.”

“What we need is to sow confusion. To throw the enemy into disarray.”

She cast a lifeless glance at the man leaning against the wall, his pet wolf licking at his feet. “Then, rescuing that hapless duke becomes a matter of subtlety, and not might.”

The gears were turning in her head. But Islara needed time to let her ideas sublimate.

The process was much like steeping tea leaves and then straining them, to rid them of impurities.

Islara would begin to pace around aimlessly, the pitter-patter of her steps echoing from the walls of the… “room” they were in, if one could call it that. This “room” was akin to a jail cell, though it was obviously regularly maintained.

Islara had heard of Agrovia’s underground passageways before, from other informants, but she’d actually never stepped foot in any of them. She didn't possess any knowledge on their layout either.

A history book she’d read helped her to understand why exactly the people of Agrovia had built them. But word on the wind was that they’d fallen into disuse long ago. Perhaps the duchess had them renovated in secret…

Tsk. She would have a stern talk-to with Joachim, a “friend” of hers from the underworld, later. That bastard sold me outdated intel.

Her footsteps would pause abruptly in front of the man with the wolf. “Raiden, you know Hathforth like the back of your hand, right?”

Islara pursed her lips, contemplating her next move. “If we were… able to pry the Duke of Nordor from their clutches somehow, what route can we take out of the city?”

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “And preferably one that lets us get away without incident, yes?” She knew the man was fond of his games.

Islara would briefly recall a mission she’d gone on with the man, a memory that she would have preferred to perish in the recesses of her mind.

He’d made them crawl through a sewer slowly filling up with rot, trash, and debris. It proved to be the most efficient way to evade their pursuers at the time, but she couldn’t help but wonder if it had been the only way. Raiden had known her for a while, even back then. And what he knew about her was that she was a stickler for cleanliness.

Islara handed him the map of Hathforth, her eyes drilling holes into him as she waited for an answer.

Raiden glanced at Islara, eyes dropping to the map before cooly plucking it up in his gloved hands. He pretended to examine it, that cool demeanor never leaving them. They were thinking so hard about this. It was almost funny.

Alas, they didn't know what he knew.

“Your Grace,” He dipped his head to the duchess, before addressing both her and Islara. “If I may, we can forget about running from the fight. Or running to it.”

He smirked, giving his wolf Kai a pat before pushing off the wall, taking a step into the room. “There's a little surprise I brought with me from Tarin, one that had resided in the forested lake behind the Corrin Estate since I acquired it.”

“What would you say we could accomplish with, say… a dragon?”

His smirk widened as he laid the map on the table, pointing to Hathforth's waterfront. “It's a simple matter of flying south via the coast to their execution grounds. Then, we cause some chaos, pick up the duke, and sail on outta there. Easy as meat pie.”

The duchess met Raiden's smirk with a smirk of her own. Her previously tense expression would relax in an instant. “Well, that simplifies our escape then.”

Still, there was a question that lingered in her mind. “Pray tell, Raiden, how did you force such a beast to heel? Dragons are mighty creatures, and most of them are far from being docile.”

Raiden smiled. “You know I have a way with my words, Your Grace. The real story lies in how I acquired said dragon. You see, there was this lovely bar maiden—”

Islara cut in. “Perfect. So that matter is settled.” She gave Raiden a weak punch on the arm. “Good going there. For once.” The praise came out grumbled but sincere. Raiden gave a low chuckle.

She took back the map of Hathforth. “As for any moves on the ground,” she flashed a black, circular capsule, and flicked it skillfully between her fingers. Raiden would immediately recognize this strange contraption as a smoke bomb.

“Let me worry about that.” She caught Raiden's gaze, her voice steady and confident. “I’ll make sure you can fly away safely.”

Raiden stared for a moment, before he smirked. ”Right, boss.”

Islara could hear the clamoring of the crowd, even while submerged in the shadows. Though the evening light could not reach her, their voices did. She would listen closely.

"Oh, Duke Willowsteel..." An old woman with graying hair muttered. There was a familiar sadness to her voice, which quivered with every word that escaped her lips. She was practically teetering into a sob.

"His Grace is a good man. He deserves a second chance, like the rest of us." There went the tears. Her pleas would be lost to the wind. Like the constant ebb and flow of time, the execution would go on, and the duke would number yet another victim of the Queen.

Just as Roland was. Just like the Corrins were.

Islara gritted her teeth. I've cried my share. Now, I must act.

She would dispel her magic, appearing behind the woman with an understanding smile. She held the woman by the shoulders, her expression fraught with concern. "Are you alright, ma'am?" She put on an accent. "What seems to be the problem?"

The old woman cleared her eyes. She looked up to meet Islara's gaze, her eyes glinting with surprise. "Oh, hello there, young Miss. I... did not mean to alarm you." An apologetic bow.

"It's a shame what is going to happen to Duke Willowsteel," Islara would remark with a hint of remorse.

A sniffle. "Why, yes, it is." The woman stopped her sobbing. "If you must know, I used to serve the late Duke Arthur Willowsteel, you see." A wistful smile crossed her face. "And I also served His Grace too, when he was young. Little Sev, so full of vigor..." She trailed off with a laugh. "I still remember when he would play in the vineyards of the Nordor estate. A rascal, he was..."

A grim pause.

And with that, her smile was gone, fleeting as a firework in one of the Queen's gala. "But those days have passed."

"To think it would come to this..."

Islara pondered her own memories of the Corrins. Of happier times. Out of everyone, she could make out Roland's face clearly. His expression as he told her of his plans for the Sparrows... She could still visualize it. They lay listlessly on the wet grass of the Tarin manse. It was after a hard day's work, and they were passing the time in casual conversation.

Islara did not normally go around rolling in fauna — dirty as it was. But for Roland, she made an exception. She would turn to him, resting her head on her arm.

"So, Mr. Dreamer, think you can handle Raiden and his pet wolf in a fight?" She blurted out something random.

Roland scoffed. "Ha! I would bet my sister's ashes on it!"

Islara rolled her eyes. Roland always had a way of making light of even heavy topics, something Islara wasn't accustomed to, at first. As they grew closer, however, she began to develop some endearment for these quirks of his. This was a... natural progression to their relationship, one could say.

Still, she didn't believe him. "Right." A sarcastic response.

Of all the memories she'd made with the man, Islara couldn't figure out why this particular memory came to her suddenly. Perhaps it was because of the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

More likely, it was because the mundane, day-to-day memories made her feel his loss even more.

"Dry your tears, ma'am." She offered words of consolation to the woman. "Everything will work out."

But before the woman would be able to respond, Islara would disappear without a trace.


The drums would boom a deathly rhythm, steady as a heartbeat.

The people would whisper amongst themselves, fear as a faint wisp of air upon their lips.

The Duke of Nordor would deliver his final words, as permitted by Duke Rhinecliff.

And then his end would come.

If only that were how it played out...

As Duke Willowsteel exhaled his last rites, a smoke would rise from the stands, black as obsidian. It swept through the swathes of onlookers like a fog, and it did not take long before it swallowed them whole. From within the blanket of darkness, one could hear the unmistakable melody of chaos, a chorus of panic no doubt produced by the people caught up in it.

Islara would climb out of Duke Rhinecliff's shadow.

Wasting no time, she rushed to Duke Willowsteel's side. Snap. With an impressive display of daggerwork, she cut off his restraints. "If you wish to escape, stay close to me," she whispered in the man's ears.

Then, from her hands, she would detonate another smoke bomb, releasing a plume of red that clashed against black. Now Raiden would know where to land.

The stirred pot was now starting to boil over.

Stone-faced, Islara observed the display of ice magic from the Queen’s advisor. The biting blizzard would soon rid them of their only advantage. With her plan essentially foiled, one can only imagine the anxiety that gnawed on the woman. But she felt no such thing.

She turned to Duke Willowsteel, her free hand urgently ushering him up the dragon. “You must depart. Now.”

A steely gaze landed on Raiden. Islara would give him a solemn but firm nod. “Go. I’ll buy you time.”

She’d made her peace long ago, before this mission. She swirled a pellet on her tongue, tucking it underneath.

The duke’s life was important, far more important than hers. No doubt would word of his rescue quickly reach the Nordor demesne. Perhaps such news, of knowing that their ruler yet lives, would finally embolden the people of Nordor to rebel.

She brandished her dagger, the lingering smoke cloaking it in a temporary haze. It’s too early to dwell on defeat. Just one emotion streaked across her face. We haven’t lost yet.

But if she were to fall here, it would be on her own terms. She would make sure of it.

The smoke had now completely dissipated, revealing her figure, along with Raiden’s and the dragon’s. The Queen’s guards were closing in, their hastened steps grinding against the concrete of the execution grounds. One of the knights had even attempted to ensnare them in a trap.

Clever. However, the net would burn away, engulfed by a mystical flame, before it could touch them.

“Looks like we made it in time!” A familiar voice called out to her from the stands. It was a young man with brown hair. He wore a breastplate with the insignia of the Sparrows.

A blue flame hovered on his palm, gathering in size and intensity. He would toss it in the direction of the guards, and it would burst in a deadly conflagration, leaving a desiccated crater in its wake.

Contrasting the skinny young pyromancer was the muscular man emerging from the aftermath of the firestorm. He clutched a broadsword with his right hand, the tip of the blade trailing along dirt, creating lines and other patterns.

There were those among the Queen’s guards who survived the blast, and they would surround the man in a tight formation. But the giant would shake them off with nothing but a flick of his weapon.

“Damn it! Don’t underestimate us, interloper!” A lone knight would start to engage him head-on, blade overhead, preparing for a downswing.

He too would fail, bisected from the torso by his foe’s broadsword. His blood and entrails were splayed out on the ground unceremoniously. A squish could be heard as his killer continued his pace, the metal on the man’s feet pressing against intestines and other organs.

The other knights around him froze in place. So, the man quietly passed them by. After all, if they moved, twitched, even slightly, the fate that awaited them was staring them right in the face.

Meanwhile, on the raised platform where the execution would have occurred, Islara armed herself with another dagger, forming a pair.

She leveled her previous one at Duke Rhinecliff. “So, the ruler of Odonfield now licks the feet of this… ‘queen’ too? How shameful.” Scathing criticism spilled from her lips like a waterfall off a cliff’s edge.

Piercing eyes would shift towards Advisor Urimyar. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten, elf. The suffering you’ve inflicted… On me, on us… I will inflict it upon you tenfold.”

Those were the final words that Islara exchanged.

In the next passing moments, she would lunge forward with superhuman speed, intending a beheading. And she would have succeeded too, if not for another blade putting a stop to hers.

Sir Hayworth stood in front of Advisor Urimyar, his steel locking Islara in a standoff. He pushed ferociously against the would-be assassin, sparks flying amidst the struggle. “Apologies for my tardiness, Sir Vulluin.”

Islara scoffed. “Ha! Agrovia as well? Have the territories of Arrowfell grown soft?” An obvious taunt.

But Sir Hayworth would ignore it. Something more pressing was on his mind. How... is she matching my strength? Sir Hayworth was by no means holding back. And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, Islara, too, would push harder. The assassin had forced a stalemate: a stalemate that would not have been possible, if not for…

Prying eyes would spot a ring on the woman’s hand.

A Seed.

She was being empowered by a Seed.

So that's how it is. Sir Hayworth would change tactics.

“Guh—!” In a blink of an eye, Islara was sent flying backwards. Sir Hayworth had expelled a stream of mana from his sword, surging forth unexpectedly like a wave. Unable to resist its flow, Islara found herself ultimately swept away by it.

“Sir Vulluin,” Sir Hayworth began ominously, addressing the elven man behind him. “She is dangerous. We must not let her reach the Queen.”

Islara would soon rise to her feet, held up by her companions, who now stood side by side with her. Sir Hayworth looked them up and down, a grave expression wrinkling his face. “Not her, nor the pyromancer, or that warrior.”

Islara let a brief smile tug at her lips. Now all the attention would be on her. On them.