Church bells rung in the belfry high overhead.

It was the day of Harmon’s ordination as a fully fledged priest of the Lassedile Church. It was the day Harmon donned the mallard robe. Harmon’s normally pallid face was rosy with life. Hope twinkled in the young cleric’s eyes, shining against his gray, ceremonial sulpice—and Geoffrey’s heart twinkled with them. It was far short of the Hummingbird Robe, but a robe was still a robe. Seeing an Athelmarch in the green skullcap and brown cassock gave Geoffrey hope.

Perhaps the curse might yet be lifted.

Perhaps the name of Athelmarch might yet be redeemed.

Harmon knelt on the polished granite floor of Lucent Duncan’s of the Meadow, along with the other freshly minted priests. Luminer Allbright stood before them, his bronze scepter shining in his hand. Silver strands entwined the scepter’s handle, and garnets and turquoise gleamed at its tip, symbolizing the sacred Sword and the sacred bird.

Geoffrey’s thoughts spilled into us, one by one.

Next to his daughter’s birth, Harmon’s ordination was the proudest day of Geoffrey’s life. This moment would be Geoffrey’s lodestar in the years to come. It would ground him, reminding him of the good he could do.

Of the good an Athelmarch could do.

Geoffrey’s life had been one long worry. He worried about his family’s honor, and his own. He worried about his brother. He worried about what his father had thought of his brother. He worried about what would happen to brother, now that the rebellion against the Mewnees was moving forward in earnest.

From the Holy City of Elpeck to the smallest hamlets, people whispered of a Third Crusade—a holy war, to oust the intruders.

Geoffrey knew there would be many challenges ahead. But, for that one moment, he could rest easy. Harmon had found his place. He’d finally come into his own. His brother who was too noble to be a noble had embraced a sacred vocation. Geoffrey had no doubt Harmon would be the greatest priest the world had ever seen. He was sure of it, as sure as the Sun would rise. Harmon had the heart, the soul, the perspicacious intellect, and—above all—the abiding patience that came with deep-seated faith.

Maybe, someday soon, he might just become Lassedite.

What a wonder that would be, Geoffrey thought.

Geoffrey looked on in astonishment from the now, fraught by agony and ecstasy in equal portions.

He clenched his fist. “Harmon mattered,” he said. “He mattered more than I ever did. He would have gone down in history. He could have redeemed House Athelmarch. The Angel would not have overlooked his noble, suffering spirit.”

I turned to Yuta. “You hear that?” I said. “You feel that?” I asked, but Yuta didn’t need to answer me. I knew he felt it.

I felt it, too.

He looked away, discomfited by the emotion.

Here, in this church of memories, you could not run away from another person’s emotions. They were as real to you as your own feelings.

“Why is the name of Athelmarch so reviled?” Yuta asked.

“I thought you knew Trenton history,” I said—even though I knew he didn’t.

“I know your scripture, and the tenets of your religion,” Yuta said. “I recognize Athelmarch’s name from some of the later writings, but they never went into detail beyond vague denunciations of his pride.”

So, I told Yuta about the 176th Lassedite.

“It’s believed Lassedite Athelmarch lost the Sword. And, though its status as doctrine varies depending on who you ask, there’s a widespread belief that Darkpox came into existence as a punishment for Eadric’s abuse of the Sword’s powers.”

Geoffrey flinched at every word. “This is what you don’t understand,” he said, barely above a whisper. “No one but an Athelmarch can.” He looked us in the eyes.

“The story is wrong,” Geoffrey muttered. “The truth goes deeper than anyone knows. My father passed it down to me, as did his father before him, all the way back to Karl himself.”

“Karl?” I asked.

Geoffrey nodded. “Karl Athelmarch, the Lassedite’s younger brother. He accompanied him on the Crusade. He was there when it happened.”

“When what happened?” Brand asked.

“The window in the air,” Geoffrey said, quietly. “The Lass was not the only one to work miracles with the Sword. Once in a generation, a soul would be born capable of harnessing the Sword’s powers like Enille had. Eadric was one of these Chosen. He had the power.”

Geoffrey closed his eyes and exhaled. “They say darkpox was Eadric’s sin, but it was not. It was the Church’s. For centuries, the Lassedites had used the Sword’s power for selfish ends. Eadric used the Sword for the people. With its powers, his soldiers came out of battle unscathed. He led the army to make the world safe for Lassedicy.” Geoffrey shook his head. “But it was too late. The Lassedites that came before him had done something to the Sword. It… malfunctioned. Karl saw it with his own eyes, as did so many others. The Sword opened a window in the air—a passageway to somewhere… different. Demons stepped out of the window, sick with Darkpox. Eadric slew them, but, by then… it was already too late. Everyone fell sick. Eadric succumbed, but Karl recovered. By the time Karl returned to Trenton, the plague had already reached the holy land. Eadric died trying to save his ailing soldiers. He was a hero, Dr. Howle—yet, no one believes it.”

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Obviously, this revelation left Brand and I stunned.

Geoffrey looked away. “Even as a child, I could not leave home without facing vitriol and contempt. When you look at me, Lord Uramaru, you see a man, but when my countrymen look at me, they see a demon, a Nighttouched soul. Harmon had to renounce his lineage to join the priesthood, and even that was not enough. Every smile had to be fought for. Every morsel of praise. But Harmon persevered; that is why he matters! If he could win the people’s praises, then, perhaps, so could I.”

He swallowed hard. “Or so I thought.”

Yuta said nothing in response, but, again, he didn’t need to. His thoughts were turning inward, to his son, Uzé.

And to Ichigo.

The next thing we knew, the church melted away, leaving us standing in the middle of a large military encampment, surrounded by Munine troops and tools of war. The fortification had been hurriedly built. Its only protection was a fangsome wooden palisade on its perimeter. Unlit paper lanterns hung in simple stables, above the horses. The animals munched on hay in the heat of the day.

Yuta stood behind his son, who was facing off against a burlap dummy, stuffed with straw. Uzé was a young man, now, strapping and lithe. He had his father’s strength, and his mother’s kindness. His skin was a shade darker than his father’s; unlike Yuta, Uzé could have almost passed for a pure-blooded Costranak, were it not for his angular eyes and brow.

Then and now, Yuta wished Mayumi had been alive to see it. The pain of her death echoed through us all.

As usual, father and son were practicing their swordsmanship together. Their lightweight, pale blue haoris allowed for great flexibility of motion; the bandanas wrapped around their foreheads kept their hair and sweat at bay. Up above, the Trenton sun shone bright.

Yuta gently grasped his son by the waist. “Do you feel that?” he asked.

Uzé looked over his shoulder, still holding the katana in his hands. “You bet I do.”

“Your core is loose,” Yuta told him. “You must properly anchor your stance, or you won’t be able to put your full strength into your strikes. Your stance determines how force passes through your body. It must be perfectly aligned.” Yuta let go and stepped back. “Son, every detail matters, from the tips of your fingers to the socks on your toes. If even one piece of your body is misaligned, your whole strike falls apart.”

“I’m trying to build upper body strength,” Uzé said. “You’re stronger than me.”

Yuta crossed his arms. “Only because I’m older. With age comes experience, and with experience comes practice. The more you have done, the more you can do.”

One of Geoffrey’s regrets was that the war had kept him from being the father to Elaine that she deserved.

Now, he’d never see her again.

We could feel Geoffrey’s thoughts pickle as he mused about how happy his wife would be at the news of his disappearance. Mariett had only agreed to wed him because her family needed the money.

Geoffrey took on envy as he watched Yuta’s repartée with Uzé. Yet with it, there came a shred of respect.

Or, perhaps, more than a shred.

He’s a good father, Geoffrey thought.

I crossed my fingers, hoping this meant progress.

Yuta resisted me slightly as I pulled up the next memory.

Must you? he thought-asked.

I want Geoffrey to see you for who you are, I thought-answered. A person is more than just a gaze’s estimate.

A thunderbolt shattered the blue afternoon. The sunny day exploded into black and rainy Night. Yuta ran through the woods, through scents of water sap and earth, guided by the light from the covered lantern in his hand. Its metal hinge creaked as it swung from his movements. Stormclouds had smothered the Moon, leaving the forest hair, feathers, and teeth in the dark of the Night.

But Yuta was not alone. At Sakuragi’s behest, Governor Yamamoto had deployed reinforcements. They traveled with Yuta, their lanterns like wandering moons, casting shadows on the shadows.

“Uzé!” Yuta yelled.

Yuta dashed into a clearing. It wasn’t the least bit clear. Mail and mêlée clanged all around him. Rifle fire spat ineffectually, briefly illuminating silhouettes and limbs before the rain smothered them.

A village was burning.

The Costranak laborers were in open revolt. Perhaps they’d fallen prey to the Rasudito and his teachings, or perhaps they simply thirsted for revenge.

Naginatas clashed with halberds. Axes bit katanas. Templar mail bumped against samurai armor.

Of course, the Tsurento were helping the Costranaks. They’d do anything to oppose Munine rule.

Somewhere in the chaos, a lantern fell. By its light, Yuta finally found the one face he’d been looking for.

He screamed. “Uzé!”

He had fallen.

Yuta ran to him with a determination brighter than the brightest lantern, elbowing a Tsurentu rifleman in the chest, pushing him aside, slicing his sword clean through a club-wielding Costranak’s neck, and then stabbing a Templar in the gut. The Costranak had been wearing tattered Munine armor.

“Dad!”.

Uzé was on the ground, in a muddy trench overflowing with water. As he struggled to stand, a hand reached out and pulled him up.

A Costranak hand.

“In the faint light,” Yuta said, in the now, “one of the rebels had mistaken Uzé for one of their own.”

But in the memory, Yuta didn’t even have a chance to scream. By the time the words had left his mouth, a Munine soldier had impaled Uzé and the Costranak with a naginata.

Having dealt with so many ghosts, I was getting used to this kind of pain. I was used to sharing the agony a soul felt as they watched their loved ones’ lives get snuffed out.

But Geoffrey wasn’t. He wasn’t prepared for it. While Yuta’s spirit stared, silent and unmoving, Geoffrey fell to his knees. He didn’t want to weep, but he couldn’t stop himself.

It just hurt too much.

Meanwhile, the Yuta of the memory did the only thing he could do.

He acted out.

“War is endlessly cruel,” Yuta said, in the now. “Even the soldiers suffer. There is no time for grief, not in the thick of combat. You have to fight for your life, and for your comrades, even when you feel like you have nothing left to live for.”

Memory Yuta doled out death with an almost mechanical perfection. Mud, blood, and gore sprayed out again and again as he marched through the torches and the rain. He slashed. He stabbed. When a spear tore off a chunk of his layered armor, Yuta ripped off the rest, fighting unprotected, at twice the speed. If they begged for mercy, he cut off the hands that held their weapons, though most only begged near the end. By the battle’s end, the surviving Tsurento rebels had fled in terror, having abandoned all hopes of benefiting from the Costranak laborers’ short-lived uprising. Then and only then was it safe to weep. Yuta tore his shirt in two and sank to his knees, letting his tears mix with the rain.

“I killed three-dozen men that night,” Yuta said. “I went from an unknown mercenary to a celebrated warrior. And to think,” he added, bitterly, “all it cost me was the life of my son.”

“You’ve both lost so much,” I said. “Can’t you see that there isn’t any point in fighting? It’ll only cause more harm.”

Yuta looked me in the eyes. “Only one of us has killed a family, Dr. Howle.”

Geoffrey didn’t even react. He kept quiet, muted by pain and shame.

“You’re…” I shook my head. “You’re not wrong, Yuta, but…” I sighed. “There’s more to this story than you know.”

The next memory was Geoffrey’s. It practically offered itself up to me. Geoffrey couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It wasn’t hard to see why.