When Ren opens his eyes, his eyes that were tightly squeezed shut, all he sees is a clash of red and white. The sight alone almost sears his retinas and makes him blind. Meeting the massive sphere of energy, the ball lodged in its jaws, is the fiery dragon.

“Is that—” Hal’s voice is but a whisper over the roar of the flames, and he takes a step back. The children shrink back as well. They chatter amongst themselves, their lips moving, but Ren cannot hear a single word that they are saying.

With a whip of its head, the dragon hurls the sphere aside. It crashes into a snowy mountain, and the explosion is so loud that Ren has to jam his fingers into his ears. A cloud of snow swirls in the air, almost like a white tornado. The chill seeps into Ren’s bones as the snow splatters onto them. Like a bus spraying water onto unsuspecting pedestrians.

The dragon appears unfazed, staring down at Hal with a most ferocious gaze. Why now? Why did it choose to manifest now? Ren doesn’t think he’s controlling it. He’s not imagining the dragon in his head and conjuring it with his scores of magic. So, why is it here? To protect them? Nothing like this has happened with Mira, nor Claymore, nor Aerius, Gridel’s crossbow, before.

Why is Ifrit so special?

“Ifrit,” Hal breathes. “At long last, I can see you in all your glory.”

The dragon huffs as if in response, before fizzling away, as though it were never there to begin with. All that’s left are puffs of smoke that quickly fade in the cold, wintry winds. Penny turns her attention to Hal, brow raised.

“Wait, you know Ifrit?” she asks.

Hal laughs. “I’ve longed to be acquainted with the famed warrior of lore: Ifrit, Ignis’ right-hand man!”

“Ignis’ right-hand man?” Mavell cries, glancing from Hal to Ren. “How do you know that?”

Hal ignores him, and he turns to the children. “There is no sense in fighting an opponent that is clearly stronger than I. Let us head home, my dear children. If we remain, the dragon will not hesitate to strike us down.”

“But…” Zan starts.

“Stop! You don’t get to decide where to go! Come back!” Mavell shouts, running straight towards Hal, his sword raised. However, Hal merely turns, and holds a palm out. Mavell’s blade slams into a pinkish barrier, sparks flying from the contact.

What kind of magic is that barrier? Surely, it doesn’t belong to one of the four elements—surely not water, not wind, not earth… and not fire, either.

Mavell goes bouncing off the shield, and he lands harshly on his buttocks. With a wave of his hand, Hal turns and leads his army of children away, back towards Beville. They’re probably going to skirt the city’s perimeter, though, considering just how disliked they are. Ren and the others only watch them go—it’s useless to pursue them; there’s no point catching up to them, to be deflected by one of Hal’s shields. Sure, the dragon could probably deal some serious damage to Hal, but…

Ren glances down at Ifrit. Was what that man said true? Is Ifrit really Ignis’ right-hand man? An advisor, or a general?

For the longest time, the soldiers stay at the entrance of Drasil Mountain’s cave, unmoving. Not even Mavell orders them to march forth. At least, until Hal and his army are out of their sight. When they disappear behind the smoking debris that was the snowy hill, though, Mavell sheathes his sword, and, with a hollow voice, commands the soldiers to return to Beville.

And so, through the snow, they trudge. Tiv stumbles alongside Gridel, while Penny accompanies Ren at the back. No one raised any questions, no one asked anything, as they make the journey back down the dirt path. Soon, the small houses of Beville get bigger and bigger, till the buildings loom over Ren, and the Clocktower stands ever so intimidatingly tall.

Upon reaching the edge of the city, Mavell is greeted by the guards and their husky dogs. Their frantic voices dissolve into incomprehensible babbles, though Mavell silences them with a stern glare. He demands that they deliver the harvested Duskbells directly to the hospital, before turning to Ren, Penny, and Gridel. He actively avoids looking at Tiv.

“Thank you very much for your help. I mean it,” Mavell says. “If not for the stunt that you pulled, I think the Nidhogg would still be very much alive today.”

Gridel bows her head. “It is an honour to have played an integral part in felling the creature.”

Mavell turns to Ren. “You and I… we need to have a word.”

Once more, silence blankets them. None of them needed to ask why, because the reason is strikingly obvious. Ren bites his lip. “Sure.”

“Can I come with?” Penny asks. “I’m the other Luminary, so whatever you need to tell him, you can tell the both of us.”

If Ren expected Mavell to look bothered, he would be sorely disappointed. “Of course. Be my guest.”

Mavell drags himself towards the Clocktower, with significantly less vigour than what he started out the journey with. Gridel tells them that they—she and Tiv—will return to the house first, and perhaps pick up some lunch on the way back.

“All right,” Penny says. “Let’s go, Ren.”

Mavell has already walked half of the shopping district without even having turned around or waited for them. Penny and Ren take off after him. Whatever Mavell has to say about Ifrit, or Hal, or even the children, Ren wants to be there to hear it with his own two ears.

*

“Have a seat.”

It’s only been two days, but it’s felt like ages since Ren sat down across the desk from Mavell in his office. He’s taken off his armour, and he fitted the bloodstained suit on one of the armour stands by the door. Ren watches as he paces over to his chair from the door, the man himself morphing into a silhouette against the light of the sun shining through the massive window.

Ren can’t help but fidget as he sits in the chair. All those times, when the red dragon appeared, Ren thought that it was nothing more than a flare of power. Like, a limit break, or a special move that only comes out when he’s fulfilled certain specific requirements or something.

But to think that when Hal called it Ifrit, the dragon reacted to the name… Does that mean that…?

Mavell slides into his chair, but he does not speak immediately. He watches Ren and Penny, eyes searching, and Ren can only wonder what he is looking for. After a pregnant pause, he sighs, and leans against the chair’s backrest, his arms resting on the desk.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” Mavell says. “About that… staff of yours.”

“You mean… Ifrit?” Ren lifts Ifrit up, and Mavell nods. “Yeah, you’re right. I do have a ton of questions.”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“First of all, who’s that dragon?” Ren asks. “I mean, that dragon’s appeared a couple of times, but not always when I wanted it to. But Hal seemed to recognise it.”

“That dragon was Ifrit’s worldly form, back when he was still alive,” Mavell says. “Ifrit was the dragon that roamed the skies, keeping law and order, amongst the people of Ruk’vahn. Ifrit was single-handedly the strongest warrior that existed. Well, second to Ignis, I would say.”

“But Gridel and everyone has always been saying that Ifrit was weak, and that Ren shouldn’t have chosen it,” Penny says. “But if Ifrit was the strongest, then…”

“Perhaps… Ifrit chose to conceal his strength,” Mavell says. “Things become different when after death, when you become a spirit.”

“So, it’s not Ren that’s strong, but Ifrit this whole time?”

Mavell hums. “Yes. That appears to be the case.”

“Then why me?” Ren asks. “Why choose me? I’m not the strongest out there. I’m not Gridel, or Vane, or some other warrior. I’ve never fought—”

“Strength is not the only attribute that a spirit in a weapon looks for in choosing a warrior,” Mavell says. “The spirit of a weapon chooses the person that is most compatible with it.”

Ren tilts his head. “So, I’m most compatible with Ifrit?”

Mavell shifts in his seat. “That seems to be the case.”

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you,” Penny says. “If Ifrit used to be Ignis’ right-hand man, then… who are Mira, Claymore and Aerius?”

“They, with Ifrit, are the three warriors of lore, though they are certainly more human-looking than he. They each led a campaign against the four Horsemen, though none of them returned, not even their men,” Mavell says. “No one has seen them since they left, and it is likely that they have all perished in the attempt.”

Well, considering that their weapons are literally the bodies of these spirits now… yeah, Ren can say for sure that they did die. And the Four Horsemen still roaming the skies? Definitely did not succeed.

“People had hope, at the start,” Mavell says. “They waited for the warriors to return. But as time went on, it became increasingly clear that none of them were coming back. We learned to live with the Horseman. At least, the ones that govern the regions in which we live.”

Penny fidgets with the hem of her sleeve. “Could it be that they failed because they… weren’t the Luminaries?”

Mavell shakes his head. “They led the campaigns because they were the Luminaries. Well, according to the documents in the archives, in any case. Aerius was the one who was tasked to slay the Horseman of Pestilence, and it was she who claimed that she was a chosen one, one of the Luminaries.”

“Wait, how many Luminaries were there?” Ren asks. “Only two, right? And we’re the second batch of Luminaries or something?”

“From what I could gather, there were four Luminaries,” Mavell says. “They were to meet each other at Ruk’vahn once they slew their respective Horseman, and ascend to Pandora’s Citadel to topple it once and for all.”

“So, they were Mira, Claymore, Ifrit, and Aerius…” Penny mumbles.

“We have an archive here in under the Clocktower. Most of what I told you, I gleaned from the tomes there.” Mavell stands, and he shuffles to the door. “If there is one person who knows more than I, it is Hal. He spent most of his time reading the scriptures, the history books, the documents.”

“Then why did you—” Penny starts, but Mavell sighs, and shakes his head.

“Because I wanted to know what had happened to Hal, and why he suddenly decided to side with the Horseman,” Mavell says. “I assumed that he read something that changed his mindset in the archives, but… so far, I haven’t found any evidence of it. Not that the Horseman could be good in any way, or that—”

“Have you considered the possibility that worshipping the Horseman might have been a better option?”

Mavell raises a brow at Ren’s question. Ren meets his gaze evenly, and Mavell narrows his eyes.

“What are you talking about? That Horseman has the ability to sicken any individual he meets. Bringing yourself closer to the Horseman can’t—”

“Maybe there’s something scarier than the Horseman out there,” Ren says, without missing a beat. “Maybe the Horseman can provide them protection that they can’t get here.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Tiv is evidence itself that staying with the Horseman can promise him a roof over his head, and food, as long as he works hard,” Ren says. “He was thrown out onto the streets when his parents died from the plague, and he was provided no support at all.”

“What? That boy was… originally Bevillian? But there were no missing persons reports…”

“There wouldn’t be. Not if the person missing had no one to report them.”

At that, Mavell drops his head. Something tells Ren that the Captain of the Guard didn’t know anything about this. “So, all those children…”

“Probably used to be Bevillian citizens,” Ren concludes. “Forsaken by their own community. Hal could have made a pact with the Horseman, to keep the plague away from them, while ensuring that no one dares touch his palace. It was a win-win situation on both sides.”

“Then answer me this: what’s the point of stealing the Duskbells?” Mavell asks. “If the Horseman could have kept—”

Ren shrugs. “Revenge, probably. They weren’t keeping the Duskbells for themselves.” Technically, they were using it for their purification ritual… “They were keeping it out of your hands.”

Ren can’t say he agrees with their methods, or their ideas, but he can still see where they’re coming from. Clearly, the Bevillians shouldn’t have to suffer just because of one person’s mistakes, but…

“I see. Unfortunately, there is nothing that I can do,” Mavell says. “After all, I manage only the soldiers and our military strength, and everything else is settled by Minister Berg.”

Minister Berg, a name that’s come up more than once since yesterday. Tiv was the first to have mentioned her, the minister who came knocking on his door after his parents perished to evict him, and to force him onto the streets. What gives her so much power over this city? Just what is her deal?

“Now, if you’d excuse me,” Mavell says. “I must get going now. There are things that I must attend to.”

“Wait,” Penny calls, and Mavell pauses, but Ren sees his shoulders sag. “I have one last question.”

“And what is that?”

“Where is Sylph?” Penny asks. “The spirit of the winds?”

“That, I don’t know. The spirit that is Sylph cannot be found in this city.”

And before they can speak anymore, he leaves the office. The door shuts behind him with a quiet click, but that click is louder than ever in the silence of the room. It looks like that’s their cue to leave.

For now, they should regroup, and figure out what their next move is. But before that, there are several things that Ren needs to do…

*

“Hey, you shouldn’t be moving about right now!”

When Ren enters the hospital, all he sees is a muscular brute trying to break free from the desperate grasp of three doctors. He hurries over to Vane’s bedside, and the man stops when he sees Ren.

“Master Ren. Where have you gone? Why am I being restrained?”

If this were any other situation, Ren would have laughed. Vane’s crimson face and gritted teeth looks like they would have belonged on a frustrated bulldog.

“Well, we went to get your medicine. Drasil Mountain, over in the distance”

Vane huffs, turning away and settling back down on the bed. The doctors let go of him, and they breathe a collective sigh of relief. Vane lowers his gaze and folds his arms. “I pray that you forgive the unsightly display. After awakening and finding myself in an unfamiliar environment, naturally, I was—”

“Worried. Concerned. Yeah, I get it,” Ren says with a smile. “In any case, you’re looking a lot better.”

“He’s free to go, actually,” one of the doctors—a short and petite woman—says. “The symptoms have long since subsided, but you should still monitor his health closely, in case the disease comes back.”

Ren salutes him. “Will do. Also, how much is the cost for the medicine?”

“Captain Mavell has waived all expenses for Mr Vane of Gravelle colony’s treatment,” the doctor says. She bows, and Ren and Vane leave the premises.

“I have many questions,” Vane asks, shivering visibly in the chill of dry Beville air. “First—”

“Let’s save them for later. For now, I need to go and pick up your sword,” Ren says. Vane purses his lips.

“That was one of my questions. Where did Claymore go?”

“I took it to Ripwael. This is Beville, after all.”

“Ripwael?” Vane’s eyes widen, but only for a fraction of a second, before he steels his expression once more. “You found the blacksmith?”

“Yeah. He told us to come back in two days to collect it. And it’s already been two days,” Ren says. “So, we’re going to go get it.”

Vane nods. “I offer you my thanks from the bottom of my heart, Master Ren.”

“Yeah, you should thank me after we get your sword back. Ripwael may not have been able to fix it either,” Ren says. Vane purses his lips, but he says nothing. Together, the two of them stride down the high street, headed towards the shop at the very end of the street.

*

“Hey, you’re back. And who’s the fella with you?”

“Oh, he’s Vane, my friend,” Ren says, and Ripwael bursts out laughing.

“Sorry, lad. I don’t have a mirror for you.”

Vane frowns. “I… don’t need a mirror?”

Ripwael waves dismissively. “Ah, just an old-timer telling terrible jokes. You here for your sword, aren’t you?”

Ren nods. Ripwael reaches for the sword beside him, and he holds it out to them. That blade, that hilt, that grip—there’s no mistaking it. That’s Claymore, all right. Good as new. Vane is the one to take it, and he weighs it in his hands.

“Go on,” Ripwael says. “Give it a good swing.”

Vane does, bringing the sword down in a diagonal slash. He stares at his blade, looking somewhat impressed.

“Well, I’ll say that it was probably one of the most fun things I’ve done for a while,” Ripwael says. “You’re lucky I have mithril on hand, or else it’d be a whole different story.”

Vane bows. “I appreciate your efforts, and I offer my utmost thanks.”

“Bah. Just don’t break it again, you hear? The next round’s going to cost you double. I barely managed to save the spirit inside it too.” Yeah, no, they definitely do not have three hundred gold pieces to spare.

And also, the spirit. Claymore, one of the warriors of lore, as Mavell told them. Does Vane know about the heritage of the spirit in his sword? Ren’s never heard him mention it, and Vane doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d keep it a secret. Maybe there just wasn’t anything on Claymore in Gravelle’s archives?

“Master Ren? Are you all right?”

Ren shakes his musings from his mind, and turns back to Vane, who’s moved to the door. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Vane doesn’t look like he believes him, but it’s not like Ren cares too much about what he thinks. With a swift move, Vane pushes the door open, and the cold winter air blows in. It’s time to head back to their loaned house, and for them to get a good night’s rest.