Fitran's Memory — Years Earlier
The city of Thirtos shone like gold beneath the setting sun, but inside the Round Table Hall, the air was thick with secrets. Here, destiny and power intertwined like roots beneath the ancient stone.
Fitran recalled the first time he found himself alone before Bismarck. The old nobleman's office smelled of iron dust and worn parchment; blueprints cluttered the surfaces. The room felt like a tomb—silent, heavy with unspoken ambitions.
Bismarck stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "Look at it," he urged, his voice low and tense like a brewing storm. "Do you see potential, or merely decay?"
Fitran stepped closer, squinting into the fading light. "A half-built gate is a promise unfulfilled," he replied. "But every structure has its flaws."
Bismarck's gaze sliced through him. "Flaws? Or opportunities? You speak as though you long for simplicity, but war is never simple."
"I don't long for simplicity—I want a plan that can withstand the coming chaos," Fitran countered, his voice steady with resolve. "What is it you truly seek from me?"
Bismarck turned slightly, his eyes narrowing like a hawk on the hunt. "You're the paladin sent from Sanctuary, aren't you? You should understand what's at stake."
"I do," Fitran stated, feeling the weight of his title pressing down on him. "But a sword is useless in a game played with shadows."
Bismarck tilted his head, taking a moment to consider before responding. "So you still cling to your bladed truths? Tell me this—what good is a sword when the world changes into walls and wires?"
Heat rushed to Fitran's face. "A sword, wielded with wisdom, can open and close any gate—even one like yours," he asserted, the challenge resonating in his chest.
A smirk creased Bismarck's lips, a cruel twist of amusement. "Wisdom? Perhaps, but in this world, what matters more—victory or survival?"
Without hesitation, Fitran replied, "Survival. Victory is fleeting; it fades like dusk. Survival lays the groundwork for legacy."
Bismarck's silence stretched, lingering like the final toll of a funeral bell. "And legacy is what keeps this city standing, long after men like you and I are gone," he said at last, gesturing to the table with grim sincerity. "Draw me a defense. Not a fairytale. Show me what you'd do if the Mammoth Host breached the Thor Gate."
Fitran bent over the map, his heart racing as fear and determination gripped him. Threads of fate wove tightly around him, binding him to a path that could lead to honor or ruin. "I'll show you," he whispered, "but know this: every choice carries a cost."
Bismarck's silence hung between them, an uncomfortable pause that felt like an eternity. "And legacy—what a burden it is," he finally said, his voice low and measured, "is what keeps this battered city standing, long after men like you and I have been forgotten, just a breath in the wind." He gestured sharply to the table, the edges of his frustration barely concealed. "Now, draw me a defense. Not some optimistic fairytale. Show me what you would do if the Mammoth Host breached the Thor Gate. What's your plan?"
Fitran bent over the map, every line and mark feeling like an accusation. "A wall is only as strong as the will behind it, Bismarck," he replied, stealing a glance at the man whose gaze felt like a dagger, dissecting each movement he made. "I'd do more than tug at the threads of a hasty defense; I'd weave a tapestry of cunning and desperation."
"Cunning won't shield us from death, Fitran," Bismarck shot back, the tension crackling like a storm on the verge of breaking. "What if your strategies fail? Then what?"
Fitran's expression hardened. "Then we adapt. That's the essence of survival, isn't it? To gather the pieces and carve a new path."
For an hour, they exchanged strategies like warriors crossing blades—back and forth, criticisms mingling with an unspoken respect that threaded through the air, electric with rivalry. Each suggestion hovered at the edge of animosity and admiration, as if they both recognized the risk they were taking, not just with their lives, but with the lives of those under their command.
In the end, Bismarck nodded once—just a single nod, but it felt like a victory. "You're not a fool, Fitran. In this city, that's rarer than you might think. Don't squander it on the fleeting idea of glory." There was a gravity to his words, a truth that rang in the silence around them.
Those words trailed behind Fitran like a shadow, haunting him through the years, a reminder that lingered whenever the night felt endless.
Another memory flooded his mind: Fitran's boots clattered against the stone floor as he strode down a midnight corridor. The silence was occasionally broken by the faint rustle of ancient tapestries that whispered of forgotten wars. Each step felt heavy, as if the shadows themselves were judging him. At last, he reached the library, its dimly lit space illuminated by a solitary blue crystal that cast eerie shapes on the walls. Stacks of coded reports loomed like gravestones, each potentially holding secrets that could alter the very balance of power.
"Shut the door," came the cold command from Maximilian, who remained hunched over a desk, his attention divided between the scattered papers and the weight of unspoken threats that lingered in the air.
Fitran paused, hesitating only briefly before obeying; the heavy door creaked as it closed. "You summoned me, Lord Hannover." His voice held a trace of apprehension but also a faint defiance.
Maximilian finally lifted his gaze, though his eyes remained hooded, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "You know what the Earth delegation is hiding," he said, his tone low and deliberate. "I want it. Now."
Fitran's heart raced. "I'm no spy," he asserted, forcing confidence into his words, though doubt gnawed at him.
A dry chuckle escaped Maximilian's lips, lacking any warmth. "Everyone's a spy in Thirtos, Paladin. We live in a world drenched in blood and secrets. The only question is which master you choose to serve." He leaned back, examining Fitran with a gaze that felt almost predatory. "You want to save this city? Then you will play the game."
Fitran tensed under that sudden pressure. "What do you truly want from me?" His voice cracked slightly, the question both a bid to reclaim some control and a defense against the encroaching shadows of uncertainty.
Maximilian leaned forward, his voice as sharp as a blade. "I require your silence and your loyalty, Fitran." His eyes glinted, as if reflecting hidden daggers—capable of tearing through friends as easily as foes. "There are forces stirring beneath the surface that will engulf the reckless. Assist me, and I'll shield you from the Council's daggers." He stressed the last word, allowing the weight of it to linger in the air. "Betray me, and even the gods will not know where your bones are laid to rest."
Fitran locked his gaze onto Maximilian, refusing to show fear. "I serve Gaia," he declared, his voice steady, though a storm raged within him. Memories of his oaths flashed through his mind, colliding with the corrupt realities that surrounded him.
A sly smile crept across Maximilian's face, unsettling in its self-assurance. "Then you serve me. The Round Table embodies Gaia. You know that as well as I do."
Fitran's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, a reflex forged from endless battles. "You twist my words," he shot back, his heart racing like war drums. "You intend to make loyalty a leash, not a bond."
Maximilian remained undeterred, thrusting a file into Fitran's hand—names, faces, secrets, a burden of guilt and advantage so heavy it nearly slipped from Fitran's hold. "Choose wisely, Paladin. Every choice carries consequences."
Fitran stared down at the file, the weight of knowledge pressing on him like a heavy cloak. "The truths within these pages could ruin lives," he murmured, his voice low and strained.
"Or save them," Maximilian replied, his tone firm and devoid of sentiment. "This is a game of survival, and you have been given a role."
Fitran left that night, the chill in the air mirroring the cold realization settling in his chest. Knowledge, not strength, ruled the living world. It was a bitter lesson, one that tasted of iron and blood, and it left a lasting scar on his soul.
A morning in the council chambers, sunlight slanting through stained glass—light that seemed to mock the shadows clinging to the corners. Fitran sat at a sturdy table cluttered with drafts of new treaties, each paper an echo of compromises made in distant, smoke-filled rooms. Gustav hovered nearby, his thin fingers drumming a patient rhythm on the table, like a metronome counting down the moments of his frustration.
"Regulations, Fitran," Gustav began, his voice smooth yet edged. "They are what keep us safe from ourselves. The world outside Gaia," he continued, glancing out of the stained glass as if the wilderness could reach in and snatch them away, "wants to consume us. Without walls—legal, not just iron—we are nothing."
Fitran frowned, his spirit bristling at the words. "Walls become cages," he shot back, his voice rising. "Freedom dies behind them. You can't protect us by imprisoning us."
Gustav chuckled, a sharp, bitter sound like broken glass. "Spoken like a young man who has never witnessed chaos up close. You talk of freedom, but chaos is a tempest that consumes the innocent. You would learn that lesson if you dared to open your eyes."
"I've seen enough," Fitran replied, memories flooding back—the blood staining the snow, the unburied bodies, lives extinguished like candles. "Your treaties bind the hands of the innocent along with the guilty. Do you really think this will solve our problems?"
Gustav's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Sometimes a society must choose its own survival over any one soul's happiness. Even yours, Paladin. Especially yours."
Fitran's voice dropped, carrying an emotional weight he could no longer hide. "If the law becomes an end in itself, it loses sight of justice."
Gustav regarded him in silence, the air heavy with tension between them. Then he shrugged, as if to dismiss the notion altogether. "Justice is a luxury, Fitran. One we can no longer afford."
Gustav's smile faded, melting away like the last rays of sunlight at dusk. "Sometimes, a society must choose its own survival over any one soul's happiness," he said, his voice a low growl. "Even yours, Paladin. Especially yours."
Fitran felt a chill at Gustav's words. "Is that truly what you believe?" he challenged, meeting Gustav's gaze with defiance. "That one life is worth less than the twisted desires of the many?"
"Sacrifices are made in the shadows, my friend," Gustav replied, leaning closer, his eyes narrowing. "It's not just the souls we lose but the chaos we prevent. In your idealism, you overlook the horrors that await outside these walls."
Fitran's voice dropped, thick with conviction. "If the law becomes an end unto itself, it loses sight of justice. Justice is not a single thread to be easily discarded for convenience."
Gustav regarded him in silence, his expression an unreadable mask. Finally, he shrugged, dismissing Fitran's fervor with a flick of his wrist. "Justice is a term for poets," he said, his tone heavy with mockery. "I deal in harsh realities." He tapped a document emphatically. "Sign it, or the tribes depart from the table. They will not return. Is that what you desire? A world where your principles lie buried alongside the innocent?"
Fitran's heart raced, feeling the weight of the moment. "And what of honor, Gustav? What if I refuse? Will you drag my name through the mud as well?"
"Your honor will not shield you from the bloodshed that lies ahead," Gustav shot back, his voice sharp as steel. "You must make a choice. Choose wisely."
With a heavy sigh, Fitran signed the document, the ink feeling like blood seeping into the page, staining his very soul.
Dusk settled over the city, war drums echoing like a heartbeat from the city's core, while bells tolled a melancholy funeral dirge that seemed to mourn the very night itself. Ludwig Schwerin, part shadow and part legend, prowled the war room like a beast cornered, his presence demanding silence from those assembled.
Fitran stood against a battered table, rooted in place. The other generals deliberately averted their gazes from Ludwig's fierce glare, the weight of his reputation hanging in the air like a noose.
Ludwig's fist struck the table, causing pewter cups to rattle and drawing everyone's attention. "You desire command of Blood Monday? That title carries more than mere responsibility, boy. It's a curse, a burden of guilt for each soul lost. Five thousand lost souls, their blood on your blade. Can you bear such a weight?"
"If it leads to fewer deaths in the end, then I will." Fitran's voice was steady, masking the turmoil churning within him.
Ludwig's glare could have melted steel, an intensity fierce enough to unravel Fitran's resolve. "And if your efforts fail? If all you bring is more death and despair?"
"Then I'll answer for it," Fitran replied, his tone resolute, though his heart fluttered like a trapped bird. The enormity of the universe settled upon his shoulders, yet he could not waver now.
Ludwig sneered, a cruel twist of his lips. "You'll answer to me. Remember that when the graves are fresh, boy. Each life lost will echo in your ears. Will you be ready to confront their ghosts?"
Fitran nodded, the gravity of the moment weighing heavily on him. "I know what I must do. You may see it as a curse, but I will bear it like armor."
He thrust a battered insignia toward Fitran—the Knight's Sigil, still warm from his hand. "Lead them, but don't you dare come back if you fail," he warned, the weight of his words hanging in the air like a thundercloud. Fitran could feel the old man's gaze piercing into him, demanding a vow.
Fitran took a steadying breath, clutching the sigil tightly, its metal pressing into his palm. "I won't let you down," he said, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve. The council's subsequent silence was a heavy, foreboding weight. He could sense their unvoiced fears, as real as the dampness in the air.
With determination igniting within him, Fitran pinned the sigil to his chest. "If you have faith in this cause," he murmured, glancing around at the silent assembly, "then so must I." The council members exchanged glances, their faces drawn in a grim tableau, their thoughts hidden in shadows.
That night, the world turned red, and nothing would ever be the same. The wind howled through the trees like a mournful specter as chaos unfurled, and the ground trembled with the promise of violence yet to come.
After Blood Monday, Fitran stood in the gardens of Gaia's Diplomatic Quarter, blood still beneath his nails, the sky threatening rain. It felt as if the heavens themselves mourned alongside him. Beatrix Charlotte arrived wrapped in a cloak of leaves, her posture regal, but her eyes reflected a weariness beyond measure, shadows clinging to her like the remnants of a nightmare.
"So you're not dead, then," she said, her voice low, barely above a whisper, yet it sliced through the tension like a knife.
Fitran managed a bitter smile, though it quickly shattered under the weight of reality. "Not for lack of trying. I've faced death more times than I can count."
Her brow furrowed, and the gentleness in her voice contrasted sharply with the torment in her heart. "And yet, here you are. What have you become, Fitran? A knight, or a monster?"
He searched her eyes, hoping to find a glimmer of understanding. "Perhaps a bit of both. In these times, we can't afford to be just one."
"You talk about choices as if they are easy," she replied sharply, her fingers tightening around her cloak. "But every choice we make pulls us deeper into a darkness we might never escape."
Fitran sighed, recognizing the haunted look in her gaze. "Then let us be torches in the abyss. Will you stand by me?"
Her expression softened, though uncertainty flickered in the depths of her eyes. "I stand with you, but know this: it might burn us both."
"I'm willing to pay that price."
She reached into her cloak and pulled out a simple seal, the emblem glaring against the chaos around them. "The Council is prepared to banish you, Paladin. You are too dangerous, too independent."
"A dangerous weapon can wield great power," he shot back, frustration seeping into his tone. "I won't squander my potential by bowing to their fears."
Beatrix studied him closely, the fire in his resolve mirroring her own. "But I refuse to squander talent. You desire a future, Fitran? You must forge it on your own, brick by bloodied brick."
Fitran accepted the seal, confusion and gratitude clashing within him. "Is it a curse or a gift that you place this burden upon me?"
She reached into her cloak, her fingers brushing against the fabric as if seeking something deeper. "Here," she said, drawing out a simple seal and extending it toward him. "The Council is poised to banish you, Paladin."
Fitran's brow creased as he grasped the seal, his heart racing. "Banished? Why? I sought only to protect our people."
"You are too dangerous, too independent for them to control," Beatrix replied, her voice unwavering despite the storm raging in her eyes. "But I refuse to waste talent."
He gazed at her, confusion and gratitude clashing within him. "What do you want in return?"
Beatrix's lips formed a sad smile, one that carried the weight of countless burdens. "One day, this world will require bridges more than it needs swords. Promise me you'll be that bridge, if nothing else."
"You expect me to turn my back on this fight?" he questioned, his voice rising slightly. "To abandon those who rely on me?"
"I expect you to survive, Fitran," she countered, her gaze steady. "Some battles are worth losing if they lead to a secure future. Do you wish to be a martyr or a guardian?"
He nodded slowly, the promise settling deep within him, a burden heavier than any sword. "I won't forget your words."
Beatrix placed her cool hand on his arm, her touch lingering like a silent vow. "Don't let their bitterness seep into your heart. And never trust those who love you only for your strength. Trust those who accept your weaknesses."
As the first drops of rain began to fall, she stepped back, her eyes reflecting both sorrow and determination. "Go now, before the city awakens. And don't look back."
"What if they come for you?" Fitran whispered, dread filling his voice.
"Then I will confront them," she replied firmly, her gaze unwavering. "That is the price I pay for believing in you."
With a heavy heart, he stepped away, too afraid to look back.
The weight of those memories pressed heavily against Fitran's heart as he wandered through the silent, crumbling city. Every breath felt like a betrayal to the past. Every elder he had known had shaped him in their own way: as mentor, threat, enemy, patron, judge. Now they were all gone, their wisdom and scars written into the very bones of Gaia.
"Why do I even bother?" he muttered to himself, his voice barely piercing the stillness of the empty streets. "What have I become?"
He paused beneath the shattered archway of the council's old hall, rain seeping through the broken roof and painting the stones with shimmering veins. "This place…" he sighed, the memories crashing over him. "It used to fill me with hope."
"Hope?" a voice echoed from the darkness, startling him. "Hope is for the naive."
Fitran spun around to confront the shadowy figure emerging from the gloom. "Is that what you believe? That to hope is to be weak?"
"Weakness is dangerous," the figure replied as they stepped closer, their features hidden in the dim light. "But so is strength, if it blinds you."
Fitran steadied himself, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. "You'd be wise to leave me be. I have no time for philosophical debates."
"And yet, here we are," the figure smirked, arrogance dripping from their tone. "Perhaps you need to reconsider your idea of strength, Paladin."
"And perhaps you need to understand the cost of living in shadows," he shot back, his breath quickening, fueled by a surge of defiance.
He paused beneath the shattered archway of the council's old hall, the remnants of its grandeur looming like ghosts around him. Rain seeped through the broken roof, painting the stones with shimmering veins—like blood vessels, or the lines of fate themselves. A chill wind curled around him, whispering secrets of those who had come before. Fitran stood in the half-light, invisible to the eyes of the world, listening intently as the wind carried both accusation and release.
"This place feels cursed," he muttered to himself, biting back a shiver. He could almost hear Marquez's voice echoing in the stillness.
Not long ago, he had stood here with Marquez in the cold, moonlit chamber, their words cloaked in secrecy and regret. "Do you feel it?" Marquez had asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The weight of history pressing down on us?"
Fitran had nodded, feeling the truth of those words chill him to the bone. "It's as if the walls remember every betrayal, every whispered secret," he replied, a sense of dread settling over him.
In their hushed conversation, Marquez had leaned closer, his eyes glinting with a mixture of fear and determination. "They made this world what it is," he had confessed, his voice trembling with the enormity of the thought. "The council, the masks they wear. They're the architects of both our hope and our ruin."
Fitran had witnessed the headmaster's hands tremble slightly, curling into fists as if struggling with a harsh reality. "What are we to do?" Marquez had demanded, desperation seeping into his tone. "I cannot simply stand by while this decay devours us."
"You are not alone," Fitran had replied softly, his words laden with an unspoken burden. "You possess the power to alter this fate. Just take my hand and step into the shadows." A wave of regret washed over him; was he guiding Marquez toward darkness or extending a chance for salvation?
Fitran sensed the undercurrent of desperation—the yearning to act, to reclaim a sense of purpose. "I cannot be the hero," Marquez had murmured. "What if my decisions bring doom upon us all?" The fear in his voice hung in the air like a heavy fog.
With a few measured words, Fitran had provided Marquez with the encouragement he needed. "You know what must be done, Marquez," he had said, his voice gentle yet resolute. "Sometimes a city is saved not by heroes, but by the monsters we deem necessary. Allow me to carry that burden. You must follow the logic to its conclusion." There was a finality in Fitran's tone that left no room for argument, but would it be enough to bring an end to this madness?
Marquez had gazed into Fitran's eyes, the weight of his decision settling heavily in the space between them. "But at what cost? Will I lose everything?" The anguish was clear on his face, and for a moment, silence stretched taut like a drawn bowstring.
"Sometimes," Fitran replied softly, "you must be prepared to sacrifice your innocence for the greater good." Stars flickered weakly through the crumbling stone, a haunting reminder of a fate neither could escape.
The records would only reflect a tragedy of power, a sequence of deaths that could not be attributed to any single mind. Fitran's hand would be removed from history, leaving only the consequences in its wake.
"What must we sacrifice for the greater good?" a voice from the shadows broke the silence. It was Beatrix's, soft as dusk, yet tinged with urgency. "Build bridges, not walls." She stepped closer, her expression a blend of hope and despair. "You see, don't you? History won't forgive us if we choose inaction."
Fitran stared at the city's shattered skyline, memories flitting like specters through his mind. "What if the dead still watch us? What if our old promises carry no weight now that we are drowning in blood?" A distant rumble of thunder echoed, as if in agreement with his thoughts.
"What is the price of peace?" he questioned the desolate streets, his voice unwavering yet heavy with turmoil. "How many names must fade away before the world can move on?" He tightened his fists, burdened by the weight of his uncertainties. "Rinoa believes in the spirit of this city. But look at it now."
He exhaled, letting the night envelop him like a cloak. "There's no solace left for us, Beatrix. Righteousness is but an illusion in this darkness. Only survival remains—" He halted, his gaze cutting through the emptiness. "And what do we forge from the shadows? More ruin?"
In the wreckage, beneath the watchful gazes of specters, Fitran made a silent pledge. "To endure their failures. To preserve memory against the abyss." Each word struck like a blade, penetrating deep within his own resolve. "No more vengeance, Beatrix. No more watching the world burn."
Beatrix folded her arms, her eyes narrowing. "And what if the world demands monsters, Fitran? Are we to become what we loathe?"
Fitran faced her, a tempest raging behind his eyes. "If it means the dream endures, then yes. Even if it turns me into a monster." His words resonated in the stillness, burdened with a painful truth.
He turned from the council's grave and disappeared into the rain, the city none the wiser, the truth buried deeper than any corpse. "Remember this, Beatrix," he whispered, his figure melding with the shadows. "In darkness, we discover our true selves."