An unexpected scene waited for Ailn as he made his way through the Blancs' Playground. He'd been heading toward the amphitheater, but before he ever got there he ran into some acquaintances.

A whole host of them.

"We finally meet, Ailn eum-Creid," Isolde called out, her smirk quiet yet triumphant.

Princess Isolde was there. Bags under her eyes, it seemed she and the Order of the White Knights had ridden through the night to catch them.

The White Knights looked like they'd been through the thick of it. They'd already detained the remaining members of the Argent Guard—the ones who'd presumably been holed up in the fortress. That couldn't have been easy. And Ailn wouldn't be surprised if they'd sustained losses in doing so.

Guess riding through the valley wasn't a worry anymore, though. In fact, it seemed the White Knights had taken the liberty of emptying the fortress's stables. Ailn recognized his, Camille's and Sigurd's horses.

Unfortunately, there were more familiar faces in shackles. Both Alera and Camille stared at the ground, pale as ghosts.

"I'd been told you went chasing phantoms rather than meet me," Isolde drawled. She gestured toward the captured Argent Guard. "Well, we've caught them. I do hate to be kept waiting."

Walking up to Ailn, she pulled what looked like a ceremonial rapier from its sheath and pointed it at his neck.

"Would you care to explain those charming little phrases of high treason?" Isolde asked, her voice almost a purr.

"There was a voice conjuror," Ailn said, resisting the urge to shrug. "You must have heard the screams, if you were anywhere near the forest."

"We did, indeed," a familiar voice rang out dryly, as Ashton ark-Chelon walked out from the ranks of the White Knights. "Though, to make the leap from those unholy screams to someone imitating your voice to make a threat takes… some logical inference."

He had his usual genial, shiver-inducing smile. But there was also a certain weariness in his eyes, as if he were urging Ailn to make this easy for the both of them. "If you could be so kind as to produce this conjuror for us, then the matter resolves itself cleanly."

"...I can't," Ailn said, eyes looking away. "The conjuror's dead."

"Then take us to their body," Ashton said.

"Their body disappeared," Ailn said.

"What do you mean 'disappeared'?" Ashton asked, voice clipping.

"You heard screams from hell. But a vanishing corpse is where you'll draw the line?" Ailn asked, genuinely baffled.

"I—I heard the voice of a dead man!" Camille blurted. "Aldous Ferme! And the conjuror used Duke eum-Creid's voice too—taunting us, mocking us, playing tricks!"

"...And you, Dame Alera?" Ashton asked, the tension in his jaw apparent. "Can you attest to witnessing conjured voices?"

"Er…" Alera's face went still. Her gaze swept the space as if searching for an answer, before finally settling on her liege. "Indeed, I did. I heard… the voice of my late grandmother. Gone for many seasons, now. It was… very emotional. Then I heard the duke's voice, telling me… that I should take the life of Dame Camille. Ahem."

She cleared her throat, eyes flitting away. How was she so bad at lying?

"And what weight do the words of a runaway knight carry?" Isolde asked, sweet venom in her voice. Her grip on her rapier tightened. "I've a simple solution for you, Ailn eum-Creid."

Her smirk curled, and her eyes dilated. A giggle slipped past her lips, sharp yet a touch rehearsed. "Give me the key to The Dragon's Promise."

It was a soft command with a feral, slithering whisper beneath it—as if a snake had learned to growl.

It was powerful. It grated on the mind. It made Ailn's head throb, just hearing it.

"That's way too important a decision to make on no sleep," Ailn muttered, pressing a hand to his temple. "Let's take a raincheck for now."

Isolde's eyes shook. The blade in her hand trembled. Something about what he just said seemed to have upset her.

"Give me the key!" Isolde repeated, vexed.

"I—what? Why would my answer change?" Ailn replied, wincing as his headache got worse.

"Kneel, Ailn eum-Creid!" Isolde snarled. "Or your life is forfeit!"

Everyone but him dropped to one knee, some slower than others, as if pressed down by an unseen force, compelled to obey a command not even meant for them.

Seeing that Ailn had not kneeled, however, a twitch ran through Isolde's jaw, as if she were stunned that he could refuse—and insulted that he'd dared.

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Ailn gave her a brief, studying glance, then turned to Ashton who seemed to be struggling.

"Those… of our station… kneel to the emperor himself. Not his kin," Ashton gritted out, unable to force himself upright. "Nor… can even Princess Isolde escape unscathed, taking a duke's life on such muddled grounds."

"Perhaps not," Isolde said, her eyes manically widening with her curling smirk, darting toward Camille and Alera. "But making an example of a handful of knights is far from beyond my esteemed grasp."

She seemed really desperate for this.

Ailn sighed, reaching into his trenchcoat, and producing his third of the mythril key.

"Suit yourself. I'll give you my fragment," Ailn said. "You'll have to get the rest yourself."

But as Isolde reached for it, he pulled it back at the last moment.

"In return, could we have our horses back?" Ailn asked, casting a glance toward the White Knights. "I'd like to get out of here."

"Take your wretched beasts!" Isolde snapped, snatching the shell-like key fragment from him. Once it was in her grasp, she drew back protectively, raising it to the sun to appraise it.

It seemed she was convinced of its authenticity. The longer she stared, the more her eyes gleamed, shining just as bright as the mythril's shimmer.

Camille flinched at the sight.

Isolde didn't bother to linger. With Ashton and the White Knights—Alera included—in tow, she left for Calum just as swiftly as she'd come.

That left Ailn and Camille pulling horses along toward the palace, where they finally caught sight of the others.

"Looks like everyone made it through the night alive," Ailn muttered. He let out a relieved, yet exhausted sigh.

Camille's sigh followed a beat later, equally tired. "An incredible miracle. Truly."

"Uncle Ailn! Aunt Camille!" Bea called out from her father's arms as they approached.

"Looks like you found your papa after all, Bea," Ailn said, smiling faintly. He reached out to ruffle her hair, before giving said papa a hesitant glance. "Ah."

Sigurd made for a grim sight. His armor torn, wounds and blood all over, the knight commander looked even worse off than they did. The small child in his arms only made it all the more incongruous.

"Ailn," Sigurd nodded.

"Sigurd," Ailn returned his nod. "Glad to see you're alive."

He wasn't sure what else to say.

"It gladdens me to see you both unharmed," Sigurd said, his eyes flitting momentarily toward Camille. "I owe you both a debt I'll never be able to repay."

A moment passed before he spoke again. "Thank you."

"Well, that's—" Ailn began, but his voice trailed off. A muddled feeling rose in his chest, as he considered the weight of his words. "That's what family's for, I guess."

Lacking their usual grievances, the two brothers who so often came to verbal blows found they had little left to say.

"Everyone worked hard to save papa," Bea said, quiet and happy.

Something occurred to Sigurd at that moment. A complicated expression crossed his face, as he gently met his daughter's gaze.

"By what means did you find your way to Amière?" Sigurd asked. "Were you and your mother taken?"

Bea's eyes went wide, as if she'd been caught. "I went to… I followed…"

"Sir Voltus took her," Ciel answered for Bea as she drew near, her hand absentmindedly stroking her daughter's hair. Her expression was no less troubled than Sigurd's. "Though… it seems that Bea found him first. She's a resourceful little girl."

Both Ciel and Sigurd looked at Ailn, who coughed and looked away.

"I—I wanted to save you papa…" Bea whispered, biting her lip.

"To save me…?" Sigurd murmured blankly.

From his perspective, he'd come to Amière to save them. By now, Sigurd understood he'd been caught in Gerhardt's trap, lured by the voice conjuror's deceit. The others, then, had trailed him here to rescue him from his folly.

That much, at least, made sense to Sigurd.

And yet he couldn't help but feel there was something more tying it all together. A thread which ran through all of the night's remarkable coincidences—every little miracle they'd needed just to make it to dawn.

Faced with a puzzle missing half its pieces, Sigurd had no means of knowing the full truth of his daughter's gift. But his heart grasped what his mind couldn't: that the little girl in his arms had ventured far from home to this desolate city, pulling and tugging at fate itself to save the father she'd never met.

"When we get home, Bea," Ciel began, her voice gentle yet firm, "mama's going to talk to you about what you did."

"Okay, mama…" Bea said, her eyes downcast.

Despite himself, Sigurd laughed.

"Perhaps you could go easy on her, Ciel…" Sigurd said, a faint smile breaking through. "She saved my life after all."

It was time to go back home.

Or back to Calum at least. With the Argent Guard captured, they passed through the valley none of them had been able to cross going in.

Passing beneath the looming fortress, flanked by twin mountain chains, they at last rode through the gates of the west—leaving Amière, the ruined city of the Blancs, behind. Strange, twisted little world that it was.

Bea rode sitting in her mother's lap, laying against her stomach. She didn't know her mother could ride a horse.

Afraid that she'd fall off, Bea didn't want to fall asleep. But she was getting dozy. She'd never stayed up until morning before. The soft blues and bright pinks of the sky looked like cotton candy.

But even with the beautiful sight, and the happiness of meeting her father…

Bea was sniffling. She'd remembered something horrible she said, just after she fell from the bell tower.

"Bea, what's wrong?" Ciel asked softly, wishing she could take her hands off the reins to stroke her daughter's hair.

"I hurt my friend, mama…" Bea said in a wobbling voice. "I don't know… if they want to talk to me anymore."

Then her voice quieted into a sad whisper. "...I don't know if they can talk anymore at all."

Ciel lowered her head, nuzzling against Bea's, embracing her in her arms. "Perhaps you need only apologize, Bea. Sometimes, silence is just hurt waiting for a hug."

At just that moment, the sylphs flew by above them. And Bea recognized the one that had met her at the bell tower.

"It's Miss Sylph…!" Bea cried, bouncing a little in the saddle, her teary eyes glinting. "She helped save papa!"

Most of the sylphs waved. But Sorelle, gliding just overhead, gave a salute which the little girl returned.

"Thank you…" Bea said softly. The sylphs were far away, but she believed it would reach them all the same.

Then, to the whisper in the back of her mind, who she hoped was still listening…

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I won't talk to you like that… ever again."

And in the hush that followed, she heard it say it forgave her, gentle as a breath.

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