Disclaimer: I do not own Magi

"She's dead."

Muu runs towards the gloaming dark, an impending doom awaiting him in the distance. Yet a shred of hope is beckoning him, replenishing his browbeaten spirit to dive forth, delving onto the truth beneath the thick walls of lies that lurk within the unfathomable expanse of the Great Rift. He has traveled relentlessly for fifteen days and fifteen nights in an almost outmatched resilience, stopping only for short-lived requisites. He is about fourteen, old enough for an unaccompanied expedition, three years late in his search for his mother's disappearance.

"She's gone, don't you understand, child?"

His mind is as hard as steel and as sharp as blades and he will not falter. He can no longer count the minutes, the days or weeks that has come to pass, but he does not cease running, even if his heart begins to waver by an inch. Starvation does not faze him, even when the last of his provisions have emptied long ago, for the hunger of something far more profound and nostalgic, a natural yet unnatural bond, lies behind the murk— he will cast it with light if he has to. Not even the warnings of a magi will impede him.

Perspiration bathes his strained muscles, coating his skin in a thin layer of numbing cold. Though the heat in him remains, thriving in adrenaline and fervency. The pain throbs, real and harsh, and it sears in the wounds. The flesh under his feet tear and blister, bleeding sopping trails, as he runs through a sea of sharpened rocks. It does not concern him just as much for it does not par with the sting of the other highborn scions' baiting and the servants' gossips of the repulsing Fanalis blood in his veins or the words of his father with that grim and severe look upon his eyes.

It does not even come close to the vile rumors circulating about his mother, of how he tries so hard to unearth the black-stained lies to truth, to erase the words beast woman and murderer and slut in her name. She is none of that, never that. He will avenge her gradually, punishing the plebeians through the flog, humiliating a patrician in public, putting up a charming smile to persuade those hearsays are false, thus silencing them in submission.

But it can never surmount the yearning of his brethren—the distinguishable pining of belonging—and this search, he knows, can grant that wish. Somewhere out there, within these vast miles of land, he knows she is in that side of the world, waiting, seeking for him too.

"She's dead, Muu."

"S-she's not dead," Muu refuses still, in between pants for low-ventilated air. His mother is a Fanalis and one of their kind simply cannot be killed by falling off a cliff by the sea. She is steel made flesh, all Fanalis are. A day before the grave tidings of her 'death', she has come to his quarters that one faithful night in tears as she has gratified him a parting embrace. One day will meet again, my little cub, she has whispered in his ear, intimate and sad. I love you, all of you. Remember that, please. Then she has kissed his forehead, leaving in haste, taking all her warmth with her. Too drowsy from his sleep, he has never understood from that day on that his mother vanished for good.

He closes his eyes shut, bottling his own regrets within before it has a chance to spill out. He keeps running and running towards the unknown. Why didn't I try to stop you? Why did you have to leave? He looks up only to see a chasm of darkness, hopeless. Mother, why did you have to disappear?

He set his course in approximation, a destination his heart only knows. His sane mind warns him that further away is the land of death. But his ache wins him over, and as he draws close, he feels as light as a feather, soaring in his paces, his legs swelling with great power, as if the tethers of the surface world has rusted and snapped. A strange beast, that is he. A beast with skin like steel, deep crimson like smelted metal on flames. Power overflows within in him in abundance, a fire growing inside, and it feels right. No one controls him here; he is free and wild. There afar, it is pulsing with life and warmth, that it hurt so much.

That he knows this is where he belongs, in a place so familiar and attracting yet so horrifying.

The burden weighs tenfold and he collapses upon it, before the presence of these ancient beasts he calls kin.

Eventually he gives in, prostrating in the ground in heavy gasps. He can no longer hear Yunan's words when he has spared him from the sight, from the ineludible pull of it. An image of a woman projects in his mind, smiling at him lovingly, reaching forth a hand. Come to me, she says. And he wants to grasp that hand, feel the blood beneath her palms, but she disappears again once he falls into a lapse of darkness.

" . . . she can't be."

.

.

.

"— Alexius."

Muu blinks from his daze.

"Did you oversleep? You've been daydreaming since we've marched out."

Priscus— well, Lucius—as he insists to be called—pokes a questioning eye at him. For a moment, he feels more thankful than chagrined. If not for his intervention, his mind might have distanced away from reality. From the battle, he corrects. Then it occurs to him why he has been feeling adrift lately. It isn't like he lacked sleep last night, since he isn't really assigned on watch duty, or have overslept as his associate points out, but ever since his confrontation with his cousin—

Lucius clears his throat, drawing his attention.

"Sorry," Muu mumbles, keeping his stance rigid and uniform like the man next to him. "Must have overslept."

Lucius does not look particularly convinced, probably knowing his belated excuse is no more but a blatant lie. He shrugs and averts his eyes, dedicating his attention to a far more interesting specimen to gawk to his liking.

Muu mirrors his actions, his eyes flicking in conscious vigilance at the terrain. Nothing truly snares his interest - not that there should be - aside from the early preparations hours ago, where the soldiers rove about their campsite, weapons are sharpened and disposed for the upcoming battle, and the mobility runs rampant. Movement pacifies his nerves, makes him think clearly.

Though nothing compares to the profile of his cousin under the pre-dawn day. General Augustus Alexius is the very paragon of a prodigious warrior. Many stories revolve around his name for his valiance and ruthlessness, lauded in songs from bards as far as the Parthevian coasts. As early as the age of thirty-five, he has been dubbed the Hero of Maurenia and Stormbringer during the Cathargoan war and is the youngest to take the mantle of a general.

Muu remembers how he carries himself with confidence and dignity as he is mounted up on a fine warhorse. His sharp eyes, dark blue like a storm, lance through their hardened hearts, a tremor of respect and fear wedging within them, and as he speaks, nothing else feels more reassuring than the knelling sound of his voice echo in their silence, terrible and revere and inspiring. The voice of a born leader, that's what his men felt— what he believes and aspires.

As he stands still, he gazes up to see the sun has yet to rise, leaving the sky under the mercy of a cluster of hazes, which rolls down the plains, even the hilltops, in a thin shroud of fog. The Tron climes are a little too cold, just as raw and pale as its dawn. He represses a shiver. The bite from the morning chill is less forgiving on his skin. Despite his peeves, the morning remains pure and unimpressionable; its gentle winds whispering of calm and almost a promise of ominosity.

Per mandate of their general, they have halted from the dirt road, where the banks are located from their right. High forested hills flank their left wing, which in turn should block entry for the enemy within the defile. The fog may more or less benefit them to their strategic advantage, he surmises. Either way, such a minuscule thing does not deter the legion even if it is a threat.

The third legion is appointed to rid of the skirmish force—which from what he has heard is believed to be two-thousand to three-thousand infantry with an additional one-thousand cavalrymen, outnumbered by their forces by two to one—and is stationed in line of ten divisions, all in their standard formations, along with the cavalry from the legion's rear.

As they lay waiting he cannot deny the scent of iron and adrenaline in the air. His ears perk from the sound of slow marching afar, about a mile away, and then a grave anticipation, as it comes naturally, rushes in his system in pinprick shocks, overwhelming his taut muscles, pumping blood to his heart. The thrill of the fight, almost distinctly animalistic, tingle in his fingers.

Sound spares him from his maddening apprehension, the brassy, guttural cornets bellowing the enemy's arrival. It is the first blow of the horns that heralds their movement frontwards, shifting their formation—a division of three with a rearguard—in an overlapped column toe-to-toe against their divisions. The second blow for raising shields and maneuvering spears in the offensive. The third blow feels like a howl, a battle cry, as the vanguard charges on to clash against the Tron men, spears against long swords.

Each whistle blow from the centurion as the men switch positions from the frontlines keeps his heart racing, alert and anticipative and ready. As his turn comes, he finally fights, raising his shield from each blow, impaling Tron men with his spear, ringing from each clash. It is kill or be killed, simple as that. Muu maintains his place, restricting the savage urge to tear a man with his bare hands. The Fanalis blood in him courses through his veins, boiling hot.

From the corner of his eye, a woman soldier lunges at him, her arms raising her blade high for a swing. He positions himself to counter the blow, delayed, but before her blade can strike at him— her throat is cut clean by a spear, her blood spraying on his face, and drops along with the other trampled corpses. He looks at his right to see Lucius giving him a wink.

Lucius just smirks, running a spear through a man's chest and kicking his body away. "You owe me that one, Alexius."

Muu nods with a slight smile. He notices another soldier about to charge at Lucius with a battle ax, and with quick reflexes, he swipes a dagger from his belt and throws it at a headshot, the powerful force of impact plunging the assaulter's body backwards. Lucius cocks a brow at him.

Muu shrugs cheekily. "Now we're even."

Another whistle rivets his attention, their regiment retreating back, replaced with a fresh regiment behind them. Muu intakes a long breath, sucking in the stench of blood and sweat and metal from his nostrils. Unbearable still, as it clings to his armor, his hands, his face.

He remembers the woman soldier, the bright orange hair beneath her headgear and her delicate pale throat sliced. He touches his face and pulls his hand back hesitantly to inspect the fresh smear on his fingers, as crimson as his mane. It troubles him somehow, even if she is a soldier. Even if he didn't kill her. He hasn't seen a woman in the battlefield before. The image of this woman, who could have been someone's wife or mother, disturbs him. He should have been desensitized from the trauma of gore and violence long since. Death is inevitable after all. Many people die from the field, from the sword on their hands to the doom of their aspirations.

Though, the inevitability of who he is supposed to kill is what thrusts him in a spiral of dismay, an unsatisfying reality. He can kill anyone and get away with it, with the mounts of bodies of men and women and children weighing upon his shoulders. Everyday, haunting him. And for the sake of his country and a truly selfish goal.

His hand curls in tight, clenching, quivering. Ambition leads him in deep water, but there is no action in this world without consequence. Backing his spirit with resolution, he opens his hand and gazes at the bloodstain with smoldering eyes. He will not falter, especially when he has chosen this path. No matter how cruel or vile, he has something to protect and achieve.

The battle prolongs for quite a time. He cannot count the minutes that has progressed but the enemy is wearing down from their brunt, being pushed back and eliminated swiftly. Nearly finishing the small resistance in a final decisive assault.

But it is the sound of a horn that surprises them— a foreign horn from the hilltops.

His eyes pulse wide.

The soldiers rattle, clamoring.

"Asturians! Above!"

Astures.

Beneath the thin fog, behind the barks of trees and shrubbery, the Asturian contingents, in their discrete, fur-trimmed armor atop their wild horses, sweep down in a sortie, descending like hurling boulders to their forces with the strength of one. Muu slightly recoils from their attack to their westmost side; even his fellow soldiers are rebounded, some injured, others dead from contact. Another blow of their horns echoes aloud, ushering the remaining divisions to position themselves and prepare for battle. Their cavalry unit goes into action, opposing.

All this time, he thinks frantically. All this time . . . could this be the ambush.

Outmanned and fatigued from their recent battle, Reim puts up a good stand though Tronje regains a little by each minute and the odds aren't doing them a favor. Muu sees the soldiers, his countrymen, being executed from left to right, toppling each mangled corpse. He forces himself to still fight, to avenge those who have fallen in vain. Though something trembles in him, small and chilling— fear? He doesn't need fear. Not now. He wants to be brave.

But hopelessness grapples his heart and he isn't the only one who feels it.

"Stand on your ground!"

Augustus.

He follows his voice, catching the sight of him dismounting, picking up a shield, and joining the midsection of the legion in command, in control.

Proud, unyielding, dauntless. A man of power and confidence. General Augustus is their leader— their general and he fights back along with them without hesitation or fear to the death. He fights for them, for Reim—

"Don't let them push you back!"

It is then the third legion roars a war cry.

And they will not perish under his leadership. They will live and triumph with him to the end.

Muu feels alleviation, reassurance, a newfound strength recoiling within him. He can feel it from the other soldiers too; their courage restored, their spirits heightened to its peak. There is movement in the legion, feet of thousands galvanizing to march forth. Not one man deserts their post as they coact in defeating the enemy forces, all ten divisions congregating together into one unit.

As Muu trudges forward, he stabs his spear on another man, flinging his hull to the side, but in a flash, a mountain of a man with an equally thick and enlarged sword slashes the head of his spear from its shaft in a single swing. He lunges at him, thrusting the tapered edge to his large hands, but his opponent dodges, maneuvers his sword, and charges on. He ducks in his shield from the blow, cracking its surface, and reaches for the sword on his hip, fingering the hilt.

His opponent persists in sending him with consistent blows, the force breaching holes on his battered shield. As the sharp end of his sword pierces through, Muu steps back with a gash near his brow. A little closer, his skull will have been stabbed. He notices Lucius's side glances, indicating him to settle this fight quickly. Not that Lucius is concerned, but he can tell that do-it-already-I-don't-want-to-finish-off-this-giant-brute-if-you-die look from his eyes. Hiding, he still waits for the right momentum, his heels scraping back and digging deep on the dirt. As the delay makes the blows shallower, his opponent heaves a breath with each haul of his sword, turning into a routine. A routine he can take advantage.

Muu hears another pant, tailed by the swoosh of metal— and then he jabs his shield on his chin, earning a grunt. His foot moves with lightning speed, kicking his legs with crushing force. The mountain of a man yelps, the snap of his bent bones rendering him in pain. He then lurches forth, swiping his sword upwards, severing his head from his shoulders. The body tumbles down, blood oozing, squirting, from its headless corpse.

Then Muu sees Lucius witness his fight, speculating as if he has anticipated the outcome. His mouth is sealed shut but his silence has spoken in volumes. Those dark eyes, wide from shock yet still full of meaning and mystery, glare at him. He cannot tell what musings wind in his head, except for one; there is a hush voice in there and it whispers of the strength of a magnificent beast. The startled man then averts his eyes, spearing Tron soldiers in his wake, with a cold smile on his lips in the stead of a grimace. He decides to dismiss it.

The battle lags on, delaying enough for the legion to recuperate from the guerrilla attack. They are rebuffing the enemy, slowly getting the upper hand, when the familiar sound of horns bellow though it isn't from their horns or from the enemy's. It suspends both parties in deep confusion.

From the west end of the defile, the crimson banners of Reim brandish from the strong winds, along with the emblem of the seventh legion. General Pompeius, on horseback, raises his sword and motions it to the battlefield, ushering his legion to battle. The reinforcements, although delayed and unannounced, aids in putting the bloodshed into a conclusion. Not that they need it when they can end the battle themselves and emerge from it victoriously.

Regardless, fate decides that Reim will triumph.

Clack. The sound recurs within the tent in intervals, an almost cutthroat determination surfacing beneath each placement of ivory and black stone pieces on the board. Naevius regards their fair contention in Latrones with manifest aplomb and relish. To foist someone as obstinate as Augustus in playing a game of strategies, he gesticulates a grin, one that is amused and sated from boredom. No rival equals with his competence in the game, excluding his cousin who has contrived intuitive and arbitrary yet deliberate moves in the play; somewhat competing against his intellect and apt skill. It is the reason why contending with him appeals him in a way.

"That was a very bold move, I must say. You were at the brink of reaching a stalemate if you didn't take the lead," Naevius moves an ivory piece, the click profound. "Still risky, though. You could have died in the frontlines for resorting to such front but having to bolster your legion's morale is rather impressive to say the least."

Naevius recollects the tidings of the battle in the quorum early this morning, his attention locking on the general of the third legion. Even as a man of nobility, his armor of polished steel and cavalry leather far suits him more, glistening in the stead of purple robes and jewels. Having been tended and freshened, Augustus still has smelled of blood and earth like perfume and his countenance, still radiating with asperity, has been drawn with worn and humble lines as if having to report their deprivations left a bad taste in his tongue. He is not be surprised of his sullenness; the man simply detests staking his men due to failures.

Albeit being deeply bemused of other precarious matters, his perception has yet to wander off too far from the vying company of overbearing generals and the string of spurned murmurs under their breaths, spewing foulness like bile. Labeling the Tron men as mad dogs and barbarians and suggesting their executions—and if rejected, their fate is to be divided amongst the soldiers as spoils—then trivial nonsense and whatnot, and it does not take long to hear his name in their vitriol. Ah, then he remembers why he awfully hates being part of the military.

Plucking his black Dux, Augustus reproves, "My men are still culled out in number," he takes his turn to move the significant piece. "Half injured, some dead. I take responsibility in that debacle and their lives, Naevius. Perhaps, it was the wisest choice to wait for the enemy until the damned fog has gone."

"But it was wise to take immediate action," Naevius contradicts. "The predicament demands a quick, decisive victory, as there are no viable actions to consider. Hesitation will be seen as weakness. Promptness insured a certain conclusion, however delay would simply entail more losses for our part,"

Naevius moves an ivory piece with knowing confidence. "A great example will be that retarding sluggard, Pompeius," he says in unswerving, measured tones, his words betraying the civil amiableness of his disposition. "If he has time to spare for bragging, he would have done excellently in actually aiding you in the battle on time. Less honorable men would have been slain. Blaming a wounded cavalryman who asked for reinforcements for his delay is a lousy excuse, who would even believe that drivel? The defile isn't even that far off."

Augustus stamps his black stone piece, a heavy thud resounding after.

"Naevius," his voice lowers into a grumble, perfecting that rebuking tone that can make a man flinch. But Naevius isn't like any other man for he is unaffected with his intimidations ever since their adolescence. "Maybe General Pompeius didn't deserve the credit just as much though he still fought. Although I'm tolerating your lose tongue in my tent, I best suggest you reserve these opinions of yours to yourself. You've only raised disdain with most of the generals in the quorum! It's inexcusable and you know it."

His blue eyes roll in response, earning a scowl from his cousin. Naevius moves another piece. "Oh please, cousin. Do stop chastising, you sound like your father," he retorts, the mordancy of his voice blatant and cutting. "Prideful ignoramuses will get defensive with the smallest criticism, which is true by fact. Although I do admit there's a bit derision in it, I still spoke of the truth. Praising a sluggard isn't even worth a whit of respect."

His broad shoulders squaring, Augustus sighs hotly as he folds his arms. "For a man with unparalleled genius, you are by far the most reckless fool I've ever met. Damn, you can make enemies in your wake with that tone of yours."

"For one thing, I take no pleasure in making enemies but I simply cannot stand dealing with a bunch of ignoramuses."

"Mind your tongue, cousin. Those ignoramuses are well reputed generals of Reim."

"Indeed," he reiterates in blithe nonchalance. "Well reputed and senile ignoramuses."

Augustus arches a brow, eyes pointing menacingly at him.

Naevius lifts a halfhearted shrug. "Well, of course, not all of them," he smirks wickedly. "Most of the time."

His ears perk at the sound of a chink; his cousin's thumb flips the well-crafted hilt of his blade from his hip. His hotheadedness and proneness to violence is a renowned personality of his and who knows better about it than he. If Naevius still has the gall to further rile this brute of a man, he will have been no different from a battered idiot. He wags his finger. "Ah, ah. No violence, please," he placates his temper at bay, still wearing his pleased smile. "What makes you different, cousin, is the fact that you're a good listener,"

Naevius leans on his palm, fingering his pearl-white Dux to tip back. "They will charge on for the fight and the glory and spoils that come with it but won't heed the advice of another," before the piece is bent plunging downwards, he ceases his prodding letting it stand firm in its place. Shaking his head in disapproval, he sighs. "Who has more sense than their stubborn minds could ever have."

"Is that a compliment for me," Augustus questions, ever skeptical and incisive. "Or for yourself?"

"Whatever works," Naevius shrugs, beaming with smug cheek. "I'm fine with both."

Augustus frowns in warning. The scar marred on his cheek creases down from the expression. "Naevius," he sets his hand down on the table, an authoritative gesture. Very Ignatius-like to his taste, but Naevius tamps the urge mentioning the comparison. "Don't mistake me for not having faith in you and I did not speak of such to stroke your ego but for the purpose of encouraging you to go through with what you've set for yourself. You're a smart man, the smartest man I know, and one thing is certain,"

His dark hair does not hinder his sharp eyes glaring at him, full of vehement urgency. "You have Tronje fighting against you on the front," he reminds. "The least thing you should you do is stir bad blood against those behind your back."

Naevius musters enough tolerance to repress an annoyed snort, well aware that his advice is one to regard seriously.

He sighs in defeat. "Fine."

He moves another piece, cornering his coal-black Dux in the game.

"Ah, and you've lost."

Augustus stands abruptly, poking his nose on the board, sputtering in disbelief. "Wha— how did I even—"

Naevius tips his chin arrogantly and chuckles. "Simple, really," he states brazenly, grinning from ear to ear. "You pay little attention to your pieces. Really now, Augustus, you've grown to be a very tedious player."

Mocking him is certainly an unwise move for his part, especially when the last time they have played Latrones the man has flipped the table from his temper with a sword in hand, hollering demands for a fair sword duel. Though he still does it anyway, amused of whatever outburst he can recreate. Whenever is it boring with Augustus? He might as well be a sensation in the making.

He appears like he is about to succumb into a fit but suppresses it before it unfolds in all its furious hysteria. Sighing in vexation, he sits down and crosses his arms. A huff leaves his glouting lips.

"This game displeases me."

"Very blunt," Naevius remarks, patronizing. "For a man who advises me to silence my own opinions. It's contradictory, don't you think?"

"You don't see me making enemies with ivory and black stone."

"Point taken."

"Either way, I think you should be blunt," he intones. "General Pompeius stole your victory from that skirmish yesterday."

"The guerrilla assault was unanticipated," Augustus explains matter-of-factly, although not wholly relenting to the cause as a warranted reason for the general in question to cheat the victory from his legion. "Though whenever has Tronje not resorted to such strategy? The Asturians are of no exception to it, knowing they're still mountain raiders and that they despise Reimans."

Tronje is quite notorious for their guerrilla style of fighting, even if these men come in army units, and their fast, deadly modes in combat, ascertaining victory in the battleground through hasty, well-calculated sorties, especially when mounted since it gives them that leverage. Almost alike to the lethal style of fighting with the infamous Kouga clan from the eastern lands. Whereas Reim adapts a more uniform and offensive approach in combat, advantageous through time lagging battles and its vicious blows, Tronje contrasts and clashes evenly, having the slight upper hand in terms of terrain and furtive incursions.

Naevius surveys the board, observing the black stone Dux cornered in its spot. He considers the many theories and alternatives that has occurred during that battle, even if those circumstances has made a lot of sense. Though if something does feel amiss, it cannot escape his weather eye.

He says, "Tell me about the skirmish force."

Not anticipating his response, Augustus complies either way. "A force of four-thousand. In my opinion, they're too short in men for an inroad and too simple to push aside. It did not take long for them to shorten in number."

"Which makes it rather convincible for the unexpected ambush of the Asturian contingents," Naevius comments, still dubious. "But why would they intrude belatedly? If it was an organized ambush, they would have not prolonged the attack if the battle is already shortening them in number. I find it coincidental."

His brow arches curiously. "You're saying it wasn't an ambush?"

"It was an ambush. There's a reason why Tron men were stationed in our rear but for a different purpose, I believe, but I think, if possible, the Asturian contingents aren't really a part of it. If you see it in a different perspective, I think it could be possible that they coincidentally stumbled upon the battle or have heard about it. At least, enough for them to gather and prepare."

"Where would they have come from then?"

"Asturians are known mountain raiders. They don't live within the walls but they reside in the outskirts. It'll be natural for countrymen to save one of their own, even with a rather bitter past," Naevius fills in for him. "There's also the issue of using a spy. If the ambush is meant for something else and not for the purpose of luring the enemy, then they should have hidden themselves for no one to see them. Tron men know their terrain than all of us combined."

His eyes pulse wide at a possibility.

What if.

"The man who gave you that information," Naevius broaches, heeding him in slight concern and apprehension. "Search for him. Question him of his origins and if he is bribed to tell information."

His brow curves at him but there is consideration in his eyes. "That man did what he is bid," Augustus returns, yet he draws near him as if to share a conspiracy. From intuition, he is keen in comprehending his disturbances, almost predicting them, even when he schools his face into a collected facade. "But do you suppose this is an underhanded tactic by Tronje?"

"Perhaps," Naevius cups his chin, still ruminating of the subject. "But it seems too obvious and specific."

"What do you mean, Naevius?"

"It's as if that kind of strategy is meant to kill you," he looks at him, his fists clenching in response. It is someone else's scheme, a third party, and he fears the high chance that it can be one of their own. "I meant it, Augustus. Search for that man and question him. Torture him for answers, if you must."

Augustus can only gratify him a nod, trusting his counsel. "Then I'll take your words to consideration."

It is then Naevius gives him his biddings and excuses himself to leave, as his visit postpones too long. As he ushers himself out, he is greeted with both his aide and his pupil—who currently takes the role of boy cupbearer—and stands tall, as dignified as he should. Mintho is already whispering important news to him while covering his nose. Then again, the stench of decay and iron and sweltering bodies hurts his nostrils, the stink so wretchedly nostalgic. The humidity of the weather has been unforgiving for these men as the stench intensifies tenfold, almost nauseating beneath the heat.

His aide is worrying over his white robes being dragged on the ground, sullying the fabric with blood and dirt. It doesn't concern him one bit. He is a soldier once and minuscule trivialities do less to pester him. Yet as he treads, his attention is fully captivated by the Fanalis child with him. Is this familiar to you too, Seneca?

It is when they have returned to his tent that he excuses Mintho out, leaving him to his own devices, and drives himself in contemplation.

On the other hand, Seneca peers from the gap of the tent flap monitoring her surroundings—outside, men skitter about, busying themselves with the injured, their soldiers and the captured alike, towards the medical tents, all bearing the horrors of war from their scarred faces to their amputated limbs—though her gaze is not one full of curiosity or dread but one that is grave and sentient, as if laden of experience.

The child who dug graves, he remembers. He mulls of how many times she has seen the sight of a corpse, rotting and cut-open, in the open field, feasted by vultures high above, or when a brother is weeping for his missing sibling, one that has now parted from the living. How many times, hundreds? Thousands, maybe? If only to regard such things with calm apathy, that any sane man will want to have that sort of quality for himself. Her words echo still, words a child should never speak of.

People could only live and die, she has deadpanned from a small conversation. Once you die it's over. Even if you live you still die. Killing is not the problem. It's dying. That's how it is here and it's always been normal.

Gore and murder, violence and ruin, plunder and rape, all those sinful and wretched deeds, are what she regards normal and it shall always remind him of his sins, of what he did. He cannot help but ponder how many children in Cathargo also has the misfortune of having her fate, one stolen with a decent childhood, from war— from his own doing. Cathargo, in the battlefield and the metropolis all blown away like ashes in the smog, can never regain back its once glorious grandeur because his strategies can't spare a life, because he can't stop them— it was their fault, his fault as well.

He releases a sigh, concluding his meditation all at once. After all, regrets can never revive the dead back to life.

Nothing intrigues her red eyes, as they are stark and precocious. She just stares. "Navi, the rukh whisper to me," she speaks in a faint voice as her back is still turned against him. "They tell me secrets, memories of both living and dead. Sometimes, I hear their screams, their pleas . . . the battle took many lives again, like always. This isn't new to me, though."

She finally averts her heavy gaze outside and looks at him thoughtfully, at the rukh around him. "But wars cause misery in its wake," her head tilts, as if she has discovered something riveting. In him. "You know it too, and yet I couldn't understand why you engage in it if it displeases you."

Naevius sucks breath through his teeth. Her words strike a cord, reverberating deep within his soul. Coincidental yet utterly unnecessary. Why does she have to broach the matter of all times? "For an end I am willing to stake for," he answers in a solemn tone, unwavering. "Freedom."

His bargain for his services from Lady Scheherezade is freedom. Specifically, to no longer be a Reiman citizen and to be under her protection when he does complete his end. He could have just run away without a trace, but they will find him, question him, maybe even kill him if he poses as a threat. He still has his enemies after all. This is the way out of that, the best one there is.

"That happens to be a very selfish end," she comments, blunt and tart. "It doesn't exactly justify the means."

"It's not meant to," he says, his eyes growing somber. "But, little one, is there not an act in this world that is not selfish?"

"Then what of the acts imposed for the sake of others?"

He simply shakes his head in negation and refutes, "Regardless of the matter, the choices we opt and the acts we make are solely grounded from self-interest which imposes us to commit it in the first place. Perhaps, the deed was done for the plight of others or from a selfish end though these actions is what defines us still," he pauses for a moment, maybe a minute, as a memory steals his attention. "And war is the most selfish act ever procured by men."

Her face is calm but indulgent and impartial. "That doesn't change the fact that you're still selfish," she quips, shrugging after. "But you make a good point. You paint a bad image of yourself and you didn't hesitate to further worsen it, but you're right."

Sighing, Naevius regains his composure. "Of course, I'm right."

"Oh, by the way," she adds shamelessly. "That just made you look more arrogant, Navi."

"You hold a loquacious tongue," he barbs, huffing at the thought. "Use it for the ears of another who is obliged to listen to your impertinence."

Seneca looks up, contemplating. "Hm, I'll think about that."

He clears his throat, turning pragmatical. "Setting that aside," he reiterates in a sophisticated voice, his hands lacing together. "I have a very important task I wish for you to do."

As she returns her attention back at him, he then warns, "Don't take it lightly because you happen to have a great role in this war."

She shrugs. "Sure."

A/N: To clear things up, this will still delve more to her past until it leads to the prelude. Like I said, this will be AU and it won't be tackling the current storyline of Magi. Also, as I've stated before, the progression will be slow.

OCs everywhere: I should have written this as a warning in the prologue but this story will be abundant of OCs so don't be surprised if you encounter different POVs aside from Seneca, Muu, and Naevius. I hope it isn't too overwhelming. I mean, most of you would prefer reading the main cast, but this was set when most of them were just starting out before they became who they are at present. In other words, I'm using a tweaked version of AoS. Putting that aside, each character has his own motivations in fudging the plot so you could say this is more of a character-driven plot. If you forget someone, I can make a list of them if you want to.

What is the plot?: Hah . . . the shit that these characters do. Kidding, just kidding (partly). Well, for the most part . . . it's a coming-of-age story since it mostly revolves around Seneca and Muu's past and the origins of the Fanalis Corps, but also mishmash of subplots. Yeah, that's the only thing I can give since it's kind of hard to explain without mentioning a spoiler.

Muu: It's a bit of a pet peeve of mine explaining a character directly. I mean, there's a story up there and I prefer letting the reader understand with their own perception of a character than having to explain it again sooo for now this one will be an exception. If Muu is OOC in any way, I'm sorry I wrote him that way. He's too serious and less lovable, yes. Why is he different? Do remember that before Muu was even Captain of the Fanalis Corps, he didn't have a pack with him yet. Aside from that, Myrion is too young to comprehend and share his troubles. In an omake, it is even stated he has very few friends (I doubt Lady Scher would count) and Yunan even called Muu in said omake, "Mr. Muu 'I'm on my High Horse' Alexius". The pressure of social standing and expectations, the lack of any real friends with the same age, identity crisis with the Fanalis thing, and a bit of teen angst can put a person off edge. So . . . that's my excuse.

Oops, that went longer than I expected. Anyway, thank you for those encouraging reviews and I hope the chapter wasn't too much of a snore-fest. Feel free to share your opinions, questions, and theories, if you'd like!