• Published 31st Aug 2018
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SAPR - Scipio Smith



Sunset, Jaune, Pyrrha and Ruby are Team SAPR, and together they fight to defeat the malice of Salem, uncover the truth about Ruby's past and fill the emptiness within their souls.

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The Pride of Mistral, Part Two (Rewritten)

The Pride of Mistral, Part Two

“In the spirit of consultation and cooperation,” Tempest said, sounding as though the words were being yanked out of her throat with a pair of forceps in much the same way that Cinder sometimes wished to pull out her tongue, “I think that we should begin recalling the grimm away from the various outlying settlements around which they are dispersed and concentrate them for the assault on Vale.”

Cinder and Tempest stood on opposite sides of the table in the Portchester Manor dining room, a long room with room for many more than just the two of them, had they wished for there to be anyone present, which they did not. The table that divided them was near as long as the room itself, with space enough to seat one hundred guests — or more, perhaps — at one of the great banquets thrown by the lords of this great house in days long gone. Dust covered most of the table, the chandeliers above were lightless, listing, and neither of them wished to stand directly underneath one in case it fell. Table and chairs alike were riddled with woodworm, some of them might crumble if you nudged one with your foot.

Nevertheless, here they stood, with the table and much else dividing them, and a map of Vale, a detailed map of the city, excluding the surrounding regions, sitting on said table between them. Marks in red pen indicated areas where the grimm cultists would strike when the moment came: infrastructure and areas of large public gatherings.

That had been Cinder’s plan, after she had been exposed and chased out of Beacon, after she had had to assume that her virus, with which she had planned to infect General Ironwood’s androids and turn them against his soldiers, had been discovered and neutralised. Her revised plan had called for the deluded worshippers of the grimm to stage attacks — or at least what might seem to be attacks — on various points across the city at the height of the Vytal Festival. If they could cause blackouts, losses of communication, and the like, then, with emotions already running high thanks to the tournament, then people would panic; with the feelings stirred up in them by Sonata Dusk and her siren song, they would blame the faunus, they would blame Atlas, chaos and confusion would reign over the city.

And all that panic, that chaos, that confusion, all those negative emotions swirling around would bring the grimm down upon Vale for the second time.

And all the huntsmen, all the students, Sunset and Pyrrha and Blake Belladonna and all those gallant hearts of Beacon and Atlas and Haven would rush to the defences so there would be no one, no one at all, to stop her from waltzing into Beacon and taking the Relic.

Assuming, of course, that she could find it.

And when I do find it, Salem will order Tempest Shadow to terminate me.

She did not know that for certain, although until fairly recently, she had been certain of it. After the duel, after Salem’s reaction to the duel, after it had been made clear to her that she was only surviving her mistress’ displeasure because she was the Fall Maiden, or part of it, she had thought, she had believed, she had been unable to come to any other conclusion that as soon as Salem was relieved of the necessity of having a Fall Maiden to retrieve the Relic of Choice, so, too, she would relieve herself of Cinder. After all, she could have Tempest become the Spring Maiden, if she could find her, or Lightning Dust if she were feeling stupid. Cinder was not indispensable to her, except in as far as she held half the power of the Fall Maiden, and only the Fall Maiden could retrieve Beacon’s Relic.

At least, she could if she knew where it was.

As things stood now, however, Cinder was not so certain that her fate would be sealed along with Beacon itself. She had clawed back some ground with her actions in the Merlot incident — strange though that might be to say, considering it had involved another act of disobedience. But it was disobedience that had been successful, and moreover, Cinder had convinced Salem that it was Tempest whose judgement had been at fault, driven by malice rather than forethought, guilty of putting her own agenda ahead of the will of Salem.

The sun shone not so bright on Tempest now, while Cinder stood a little less in shadow.

In any event, whether Cinder was marked for death or not, such had been her plan; if Tempest had sought to kill her, then Cinder would not have gone meekly to the grave, not at the hands of Tempest Shadow. She had meant to kill Watts’ protégé, leave the Relic with Sonata with which to purchase her freedom, and seek out Pyrrha for one final combat.

A third time that would pay for all, in which either Pyrrha would win a second time and there would be no intervention on Cinder’s behalf, or Cinder would triumph at the last — and not long outlive her triumph, as Sunset took her revenge.

Such, indeed, had been her plan. Had been her plan. Now…

“Let the grimm remain where they are,” she said.

Tempest glanced up from the map to look at Cinder. “I know there is a risk to concentrating our forces too early; the Valish huntsmen may return to Vale, but it was never our intent to destroy Vale with the grimm, only—”

“Only to draw the defenders away from Beacon,” Cinder interrupted her. “Yes, I know the plan; I devised it, if you will recall. But you misunderstand me. I no longer believe there is a need for a grimm attack.”

Tempest stared at her, face impassive. “Would you mind repeating yourself? I may have misheard you.”

Cinder smiled with one corner of her mouth, a mocking smile full of contempt. “I don’t see the need for a grimm attack,” she repeated, more slowly this time, as if she were speaking to a child, and a stupid one at that.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Cinder said, “yes, it is.”

Tempest leaned upon the map and table, pressing both firsts down upon Vale’s agricultural district. “I see,” she said, with great softness in her voice. “And … why not?”

“Because it is unnecessary,” Cinder said. “The efforts of the cultists, combined with the work of Sonata, will be sufficient to sow confusion—”

“Confusion, yes,” Tempest said, cutting Cinder off, “but that confusion alone will not be sufficient to draw the huntsmen out of Beacon. Ozpin will keep the students safe in the school and let the police and—”

“The police, the Valish military, Ironwood’s forces, they will all be part of the problem,” Cinder declared. “Paralysed, uncertain, running around chasing their tails, not knowing what is happening, jumping at shadows, blaming each other. And the mere threat of a grimm attack under those circumstances will compel Ozpin to send out the students as the only people capable of defending Vale.”

“Until he realises that such a grimm attack is not coming,” Tempest replied. “And recalls the students to the school, where the real effort will fall. Ozpin is no fool; he will soon realise that the anticipated assault has not materialised, which is why a real grimm attack is necessary to keep the huntsmen — and everyone else — pinned on the Green Line, or the Red.” She paused. “Unless you want to keep the students safe in the school.”

Cinder snorted. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and your obsession with one half of Team Sapphire,” Tempest said, her lip curling into a sneer. “Sunset Shimmer, Pyrrha Nikos, they make you weak. They cloud your judgement. Need I remind you—?”

“No,” Cinder said. “You need not. I need no reminders from you, no instruction, no wise counsel for my own benefit.”

“Why do you not want to launch an assault with the grimm?” Tempest asked.

“I have told you once already; were you too dull-witted to comprehend?”

“Why does it matter whether it is necessary or not?” demanded Tempest. “Send them in anyway, why not? Why rely on the threat of an attack that isn’t coming when you can launch an attack that is?”

“Because I do not wish to throw away the lives of the grimm like so much cannon fodder, to use them as though their lives have no purpose but to end for my purposes—”

“For Salem’s purposes,” Tempest corrected her. “We are all servants of a greater mistress here.”

“I know it well enough,” Cinder muttered.

“Then to what end do the grimm exist but to die for Salem, at her will and by her command? What are they, that you should be squeamish at the thought of their destruction?”

They are myself, and I am one of them, Cinder thought. I thought myself superior to them, set apart, set above; even after I became partly one of them, I thought … I mistook a place at Salem’s table for an exalted state, for true importance. But we are all servants, no, more than that, we are all slaves to her, and there is no slave, no matter how trusted, no matter how highly placed, no matter how important, who cannot one day be thrown aside to achieve some greater purpose.

Salem herself revealed that to me after the duel. I wonder if she would appreciate the irony that, in schooling me upon my proper place, she has bred in me greater consideration for those beneath me.

Those whom I can now embrace as kin to me and, as my kin, abhor their slaughter in ways that I did not before.

“Do you think that there will never come a day when Salem will tire of you?” Cinder asked. “Do you think that you will continue to be useful to her always, never disappointing, never failing, never doing ought to fall out of her favour?”

“Doctor Watts—”

“Will not always remain in her favour either, perhaps,” Cinder murmured.

Tempest’s eyes narrowed. “If Salem could hear you speak, she might call this treachery.”

“Have you no more self-respect than this? Is to threaten me with Salem’s displeasure, to play the informant lurking beneath the windowsill, the only argument which you possess?” Cinder demanded. “Gods, you are a feeble wretch.”

She turned away, turning her back on Tempest as she walked to the dining room wall, placing her fingers upon the faded, mildewed, mouldy wallpaper. “You have nothing that was not given to you, and one day, it will be taken back.”

“What do you have that was not given to you?” Tempest retorted.

“I have enough pride not to go running to complain that the bad girl is saying mean things,” Cinder snapped.

“And where has your pride gotten you?” Tempest asked in a voice that was soft and sharp. She paused. “The answer to your question is that I have no fears of such, for I do not intend to fail.”

Cinder snorted. “Then you are a fool. Even if you win every battle, even if you do everything that is asked of you without fault, eventually, you will become old and tired and unable to serve, unable to keep up with the new young proteges of Ozpin or whoever succeeds him after he is dead. The aged stag can win a hundred battles, but eventually, some young buck will prove the stronger, the faster, with all the vigour and vitality of youth that has deserted the old king. And what do you think Salem will do with you then?”

“If you believe that, then why are you still here?” Tempest asked.

“Because I am not a turncoat, for all my faults,” Cinder said, turning to face Tempest once again. Because I have nowhere else to go. Because I am not fit for the company of heroes. Because I have been made for shadows now; I cannot bear the light for too long.

Because death and inexorable destiny is waiting for me; I have nothing else.

“I will fight for Salem, I will fulfil my obligations to her, I will honour her the good services that she has done for me, I will place the Relic of Choice in her hands and any other Relics she bids me fetch for her, but I am under no illusions: she is not a good lord who will keep and care for me when I am old and tired; she is not my mother. I am an instrument, as we all are, and like all tools, we will be replaced for superior models when the time comes. It does not change where my allegiance lies, but it does mean that I wish to take some care with the other tools and not break hammers pounding on a wall. In truth, I regret the Breach now, such a slaughter of beowolves and ursai and all the rest and all—”

“And all for the plan,” Tempest said. “Something like the Breach was necessary; what would you have done otherwise?”

Cinder shrugged. “Let the White Fang shoot their shot unharried by the grimm? It would have struck a blow for faunus rights, to be sure, if not the one that Adam was expecting. Or perhaps not. I would have thought of something.”

Tempest stared at Cinder, eyes boring into her, as if trying to ferret Cinder’s truth out of her heart. “And that is your only reason?”

My only reason? You have no idea, none at all.

I told Emerald that I did not wish to see Vale destroyed, and loosing even more grimm upon the city would make me seem disingenuous in her eyes.

And then there were those two members of Team SAPR, those who Tempest claimed weakened her in her obsession.

She had no idea.

Sunset was willing to give up everything for me, turn her back upon her friends, her dreams, her … everything. And Pyrrha … Pyrrha dealt with me honourably. When Ruby wanted to kill me, Pyrrha would have none of it because we had made a bargain, and she would see that bargain honoured to the last, though it would have been wiser to have cut me down while my back was turned.

How can I repay kindness and honour with more battles, with the risk of dishonourable death in the maws of the grimm, with more danger looming over Vale? Would it not prove Ruby right about me?

That would be, not the very worst possible thing, perhaps, but I would fain indeed prove that self-righteous little madam to have been correct.

I would be better than she thinks, than they all think, save only Sunset. No, even Sunset does not think I have goodness in me, not really. I would be better than they think.

The great Pyrrha once gave Juturna’s body back to her mother and father and let them have twelve days of peace to host the funeral games.

I would be as noble as a warrior princess of old and let them have their games in peace.

“That is the only reason that need concern you,” Cinder declared.

Tempest’s face twitched. “Salem may not be so concerned with the lives of the grimm as you.”

“Your place in Salem’s affections has already passed its zenith,” Cinder informed her. “The little moment when she would hear you with eager ears and think the worst of me has passed already.” She could not resist a smirk. “You threw your lofty perch aside when you put your spiteful desire to be rid of Emerald over your duty to Salem. Now she will hear us both equally.”

“And you will tell her that you can win a victory without the loss of grimm?”

“I will tell her that I can bring back the Relic of Choice without any fuss or bother.”

“I understood that Beacon Tower was to fall and Ozpin with it,” Tempest replied. “A great victory to—”

“To what?” Cinder asked. “To rouse the world in arms against this menace? To inspire heroes to rise up and resist her? What does a queen of shadows, veiled in darkness, need with a statement or a great victory? As for Ozpin, he will die, and he will tell me where he has stowed the Relic before he dies, but the tower? It is not worth the cost, and Salem will see that if you force me to persuade her of it.”

The doorhandle rattled, and there was the sound of a stuck door thumping as someone tried to open it from without.

“The door’s stuck again,” Emerald opined from the other side, because that was another issue with this old house; not all of the doors opened and closed smoothly any more.

“Put your shoulder to it,” Cinder called back to her.

“That hardly seems ladylike,” Emerald replied, putting a little more affectation into her accent as she said it.

Cinder snorted. “True enough, but even ladies must make exception to avoid being trapped in rooms.”

There was a pause, then a heavy crashing thud, and then another, and then a third as the door burst open and Emerald half staggered in.

Cinder was reminded that Emerald could really do with a wardrobe change; no lady would show that much stomach after all, although showing legs was perfectly acceptable for daywear nowadays.

So it goes, after all, until in the end, anything goes.

“What is it?” Tempest demanded.

Emerald straightened up, raising her chin in an attempt to look down at Tempest despite the difference in their heights.

She didn’t quite manage it, but she’d get there.

“The Mistralian ships have arrived,” she said. “You can see them passing over if you go outside.”

Cinder smiled. “Well then, we should get some sun, shouldn’t we?”

And without another word to Tempest, she walked away, down the long dining room table, joining Emerald as they swept out of the dining room, leaving Tempest to follow in their wake.

Tempest did follow, and the three of them swiftly made it out of the house and into the decaying gardens of the house that once must have been not only large but bright and beautiful and well tended to as well.

All gone now, of course, nothing left but decay.

Still, at least turning her eyes upwards to the sky afforded Cinder some distraction from it.

The Mistralian ships were passing overhead, directly overhead, blotting out the sun and casting long shadows over the overgrown and weed-infested grass as they made their sluggish, lumbering way towards Vale.

They were large ships, to be sure, and being large, there was something viscerally impressive about them: such length, so much metal, so many guns.

Cinder doubted their effectiveness, however; if ships of this size and design were that good, then the Atlesians would build them that way. The fact that they had gone in a radically different direction suggested that these flying fortresses might not be so secure as they might seem.

Luckily, neither Vale nor Mistral will have to find out.

“Quite a sight, aren’t they?” Emerald asked.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Cinder replied. “If only because there is so very much to see.”

Emerald frowned. “It must take a big crew to man a ship that size.”

“Also undoubtedly, although that doesn’t mean the Mistralians brought more than a skeleton crew with them.”

“Do you think?”

“I have no proof either way, but they came to deliver the ships, not fight with them,” Cinder said. “Of course, if they did bring the vessels fully-crewed, that makes things rather interesting, doesn’t it?” She turned to Tempest. “Chaos, confusion, and the opportunity for all sorts of misplaced blame. Just as I said. And no need whatsoever for a grimm attack.”

Tempest did not reply.


Ironwood stood on the bridge of the Valiant, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed upon the image displayed in front of him as the Mistralian ships arrived in the skies over Vale.

There were five of them: two large battleships, the two ships that the Valish had purchased from Mistral; and three civilian skyliners, one of which had been converted to a carrier from which a wing of airships had just taken off.

The airships that emerged from the carrier were undoubtedly the most modern thing about this small Mistralian flotilla: they were the latest MARS designs, unless he was much mistaken, and as much as he thought that they were a little over-engineered, what with the way that a part of the fuselage seemed to have been cut away in the centre to make room for a rotor blade which formed part of the VTL, they were undoubtedly very good at what they did, perhaps an equal to the Atlesian Skydarts.

Was that what Mistral had paid for with the profits of their sale of the two battleships? They obviously hadn’t spent the lien on a carrier, which was very obviously a civilian airship that had hastily been turned into an ad hoc space to store the airships for the journey over here.

And then there were two airships which simply looked like skyliners, no more, no less. There were no visible weapons present of any kind on either of them.

Which was more than could be said for the two battleships, the things that had brought the Mistralians to Vale — although why they had come to Vale city was, at the moment, leaving him a little perplexed.

In any case, they were here: two battleships and their attendant escorts moving slowly over Vale, heading towards Beacon.

The battleships themselves were certainly well-armed, making up for the lack of armaments present on the skyliners, bristling with guns set in turrets and barbettes all along every side of the sloping, almost egg-shaped hull. The guns varied greatly in size, from the great guns in their twin turrets fore and aft, to the large, but not quite so large single turrets mounted on the sides of the hull — from what he could see, Ironwood would put the main guns at 15 inches and the smaller at 9.2 inches — and then to smaller secondary guns making up a vast broadside on every side of the two airships.

The Mistralian fighters had formed a screen in front of the two capital ships, but the Mistralians were paying — or appeared to be paying — little attention to the Courageous and Resolution moving in on their left, or to the Gallant and Vigilant coming in on their right, or, indeed, to the various Atlesian airships that were either supporting the cruisers or making flybys of the Mistralian ships in order to get a better look at them.

There was nothing to suggest that the Mistralians had come here looking to pick a fight, but if they had, then they wouldn’t catch the Atlesians unprepared.

“Schnee,” he said, “what’s your opinion?”

Winter was standing on his right and just behind him. She came to attention before she said, “I’d like to know who’s in those airships, sir.”

“They could be empty, or mostly empty,” Fitzjames suggested from his chair. “After all, the men who flew those two behemoths here have to get home somehow. It would be rather cold to expect them to pay for their own passage back to Mistral.”

“Perhaps,” Schnee acknowledged. “Although that makes me wonder why the Valish didn’t send crews over to Mistral to pick them up.”

“Because then they wouldn’t have arrived over Vale flying Mistralian colours,” Ironwood said. “This is about power projection, Schnee.”

“A concept you’re familiar with, Major Schnee, I’m sure,” Fitzjames said.

Winter did not reply, although Ironwood could sense her stiffening behind him without him having to turn and look at her. This business with her family — or with the SDC, rather, but the Schnee Dust Company was so indelibly associated with the Schnee family for obvious reasons that it was hard to separate the two — had made things difficult for her. Belladonna and Dash had done the right thing, of course, but nevertheless, it had made things difficult for Winter, as it had no doubt made things difficult for her sister too.

It wasn’t talked about, obviously. It wasn’t mentioned ever, nobody discussed it over dinner in the officers’ mess, that was not the done thing at all, but you could feel people thinking about it, you could hear it under the words they said, or in what they did not say, in the glances they shot her way.

Unfortunately, there was very little he could do to protect Schnee from it; not that she had asked for his protection, nor would she. She would bear this on her own, or try to.

He just hoped that, if she could not bear it, she would come to him before it was too late.

“Focus, Fitzjames,” Ironwood said with a slight growl in his voice. “Eyes on the Mistralians.”

Fitzjames sat up a little straighter in his chair. “Aye, sir.”

“Eighty years since the Great War,” Winter said, “and now, they decide that they want to get back on the world stage. Why?”

“Because they always wanted to, and this is the first opportunity they’ve had,” Fitzjames offered.

“Or because it took this long, and this opportunity, for those that always did to convince a majority to think their way,” Ironwood said. “Or the Breach acted a shock to the system and convinced them that they needed to strengthen their defences.”

“If defence was their intent they would have kept their ships at home and in their ownership,” Winter murmured.

“The trip was well worth it if they persuaded the Valish to part with lien for those,” Fitzjames declared. “Their salesmen must have honey on their tongues.”

“Mistral is the home of MARS, after all,” Winter reminded them.

“Those ships weren’t built by MARS,” Fitzjames replied.

“As far as I’m aware, MARS doesn’t build capital ships, or large airships of any kind,” Ironwood said, “but even if they did, government contracts often go to the lowest bidder, not the best.”

There was a collective wordless murmur of acknowledgement from both Schnee and Fitzjames, who had both been in the military long enough to learn that particular truth of the Atlesian service. It was why so much of their equipment was made by the SDC. It was also why the service was blessed with the famous Marigold Foods Plum and Apple Jam, which contained no trace of either plum or apple when tasted.

Ironwood went on, “So, Fitzjames, you don’t rate the ships?”

“No, sir.”

“Schnee?”

“I can see Major Fitzjames’ point,” Winter said. “They don’t look very manoeuvrable, and those engines at the back are a definite vulnerability. But, on the other hand, I wouldn’t like to take a volley from all those guns.”

“Projectile cannons,” Fitzjames said. “Not a laser or a missile in sight.”

“They’ll still hurt if they hit,” Winter said.

“All the same, putting those weapons on airships went out of date years ago, decades,” Fitzjames said. “Who still uses twelve-inch guns on an airship these days?”

“They’re sixteen-inch guns,” Winter corrected him. “I take your point, but note that the Valish are still using eight-inch guns on their destroyers.”

“That isn’t a recommendation for either, Major,” Fitzjames said. He paused for a moment. “Those are twelve-inch guns; there’s no way they were able to mount sixteens.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because if they could fit sixteen-inch guns, they’d know better than to use guns,” Fitzjames said.

“I see,” Winter murmured. “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree. Unless you’d like to wager on it?”

“How much do you have in mind, Major?”

“Fifty lien?”

“Deal.”

“Focus, children,” Ironwood said dryly.

Winter cleared her throat. “Apologies, sir.”

“You both have good points,” Ironwood said. “The designs of these ships may be suboptimal, but it doesn’t follow that they’re not dangerous. At least to cruisers. Irving, get me Spitfire.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Lieutenant Irving said. “Spitfire, this is Valiant, I have Actual requesting to speak with you.”

Valiant Actual, this is Spitfire, reading you loud and clear.”

“What’s it look like from where you are, Spitfire?” Ironwood asked.

“Sir, if you were wondering how the Mistralians were able to come up with an airship wing so fast, the answer is 'they bought one,'” Spitfire said, “Can you see the airships on your screen?”

“I can, Spitfire.”

“Then keep your eyes on them, Actual, and watch this,” Spitfire said.

Ironwood didn’t need to wait long to find out what he was supposed to be watching: an Atlesian Skydart, with the markings of the Wonderbolt squadron — a yellow lightning bolt upon a blue shield — on the wings, descending upon the Mistralian airships from above.

As Ironwood watched, the airship flipped, so that it was belly up and top down towards the ground, so that Spitfire could look down and see out of the cockpit roof.

And she stayed that way as she lowered closer and closer to the lead airship in the Mistralian formation, until there was a matter of mere feet separating the two cockpits.

“How in the gods’ names is she being allowed to get away with that?” Fitzjames muttered.

“I am looking straight down,” Spitfire said, “at a robot in the cockpit of this airship. They don’t have pilots; they have point and click droids programmed to fly.”

“Are you afraid of being replaced, Spitfire?” Winter asked.

“Whoever said that, I’m within spitting distance, and this piece of junk hasn’t even noticed me yet,” Spitfire said scornfully. “I’d be amazed if these things make it to a minute in a real fight. There’s some things you can’t substitute a machine for a person.”

“Spitfire, break contact before they get a software upgrade,” Ironwood instructed.

“Understood, sir,” Spitfire said, banking upwards, rolling rightside up as she did so, turning away from the Mistralian formation to rejoin her squadron.

The Mistralian airships, and the robots that piloted them, did not react at all.

“Spitfire,” Ironwood said. “Did you see what kind of robots were piloting those airships?”

“AK-200s, sir.”

“They’re not supposed to be on sale to the general public yet,” Winter muttered indignantly. “How did they get them?”

“A better question might be 'who in the SDC sold them?'” Ironwood said. “Spitfire, what’s your opinion on the capital ships, from a fighter’s perspective?”

“From a fighter’s perspective, it looks like those are manual guns, not automated,” Spitfire said, “so I doubt they could keep up with a Skydart in the air. On the other hand, there’s so many of them that I wouldn’t like to fly into that volume of fire, and I definitely wouldn’t want to risk bombers getting close to them.”

“Understood, Spitfire. Then it’s a good thing it shouldn’t come to that.”

“Sir,” Irving called out from the comms station. “The Mistralians are hailing us, a Polemarch Yeoh wishes to speak with you.”

“Spitfire, continue to monitor the Mistralians,” Ironwood said. “Valiant Actual out. Put the Mistralians on-screen, Lieutenant.”

The image of the Mistralian ships disappeared from the viewscreen, replaced by the oval-shaped face of a woman in middle-age, probably, although she had that very well-preserved quality of some Mistralian women which meant they scarcely seemed to age at all between twenty and sixty — they should all be so lucky.

She had coal-black hair, worn loose down below her shoulders, with dark brown eyes and skin of that golden-bronze tone sometimes found in Mistral. Although only her head and shoulders were visible, from the shoulders, it looked as though she was wearing a blue uniform, with gold detailing around the tight collar and upon her epaulettes.

"Polemarch Yeoh, I presume," Ironwood said.

"Indeed, General," Yeoh replied. "It is good to meet you again."

"Have we met before?"

"Not personally, I admit," Yeoh said, "but we fought together at the Valley of Tombs. I was with the Black Band at the time."

"That was a few years ago now," Ironwood said.

He had been a colonel at the time, commanding the Sixth Squadron based in Vacuo, serving the two masters of the Headmaster of Shade and the SDC's Vice-President of Vacuan Operations. A settlement by the name of Bauxite had been threatened by a grimm horde, and as Vacuans usually did, the inhabitants had attempted to retreat to safety, escorted by a mercenary company originally from Mistral. But not only had the grimm pursued them, but another group of grimm had come down in front of them, trapping them in the Valley of Tombs, where the ancient kings and queens of Vacuo had been laid to rest. Ironwood had taken his ships, and his men, and gone to their aid, sending one ship and one company of infantry to check the advance of the southern grimm while blasting his way through the northern horde with the bulk of his forces.

"And yet, I still remember the sight of your ships flying overhead, dispensing destruction to the grimm below," Yeoh replied. "It is my great hope that, one day, Mistralian ships will stir the hearts of men below in just the same way."

"Speaking of Mistralian ships—"

"There was no need, General, for you to order your cruisers to form a pincer movement," Yeoh informed him. "I am not here as an enemy; I am merely making delivery of a legal purchase of our two battleships to Vale."

"But I hope you won't blame me for being cautious," Ironwood replied.

"I would be a little disappointed if you weren't," Yeoh admitted.

"May I ask, Polemarch, why someone with what I recognise as a senior rank if my history is holding up is running a delivery?" Ironwood asked. "And also why you are delivering these ships here and not to the yards in Alexandria?"

"The answer to your second question is that the Valish wanted the ships here," Yeoh replied, "and the customer is always right, are they not? As for your first question, I thought that this little expedition might be just the thing to season the new recruits to my nascent force, and so, with the permission of the Valish Council, I have brought the First Cohort of the Common Army to take part in joint exercises with the Valish Defence Force."

"I see," Ironwood said blandly. He had not been informed of this, but then, the Valish no doubt took the view that he was obliged to keep them informed of everything but not the other way around. Plus, he could hardly complain about a Valish lack of forthcomingness at this point, with everything he had failed to tell Councillor Aris this past year. "May I ask what kind of exercises?"

"Drill, some Opposing Force out beyond the Green Line," Yeoh said. "I understand grimm numbers have been weakened around Vale, so we might go out hunting some; it will be good for the men to get some kills under their belts and learn that the grimm can be killed."

"But they are not to be trifled with, all the same," Ironwood said. "Be careful; estimates of grimm numbers can turn out to be inaccurate."

"I am always careful, General," Yeoh said, "but if I get in trouble, I expect you to rescue me again, just as you did at Valley of Tombs."

Ironwood snorted. "I'll do my best," he said, "but with good fortune, you'll find your time in Vale to be tedious and dull."

Yeoh chuckled. "Whatever else happens, we will be here for the Vytal Festival, and in my experience, the Vytal Festival is never dull. Disappointing for a Mistralian, frequently, but never dull."

"Are you telling me that you flew all this way so that you could watch the matches personally?" Ironwood asked.

"No, General, but it was a welcome bonus," Yeoh admitted. "As one patriot to another, I don't suppose I can interest you in a wager on the relative performance of Mistralian and Atlesian students?"

"Atlesian and Mistralian, or Atlas and Haven students?"

"Either," Yeoh replied. "Both, if you wish; we can have more than one bet."

"As a teacher," Ironwood declared, "I shouldn't indulge in gambling; it sets a bad example to the students. And to my subordinate officers."

"You sound like my daughter, General, protecting her children from the threat of vice," Yeoh said. "A threat which, to hear her, you would believe to be ever-present in the dystopian cesspit of Mistral. Where is the harm in a gentleman's wager?"

"As my students are reminded, it may start with a gentleman's wager, but it doesn't always end there," Ironwood said. "I'm sorry, Polemarch."

"No matter; I will simply have to settle for bragging rights," Yeoh replied.

"You're very confident, considering that Haven's history in the tournament is … underwhelming," Ironwood said.

Yeoh smiled. "Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling this year may be different."

"Well, in any case," Ironwood said. "I wish you good hunting, if you decide to do any, and a welcome stay in Mistral."

"And I wish you peace, in the skies above and on the earth below," Yeoh said. "Yeoh out."

Her image disappeared.

"The skies may be peaceful," Winter observed, "but they are getting a little crowded."


Pyrrha stood on the wide balcony overlooking the city, watching the Mistralian airships glide to a stately halt in the midst of what was becoming an ever more crowded sky. In addition to General Ironwood’s airships, whose numbers had increased by a full one-third since the Breach, bringing the total number of cruisers up to twelve, had previously been added two Valish destroyers, and now, these Mistralian battleships and their escorts.

And the great Amity Arena, the airborne colosseum where the Vytal Tournament would be held, had not even arrived from Solitas yet; when it did, would there be any room for it to float without a ship bumping into it?

Yes, in all likelihood there would — the sky was a large place, after all — but even so, it would add to the sense of congestion up above.

When the Atlesian fleet departed, it would seem very strange to be able to look up and not see them there.

Strange, disconcerting, possibly a little worrying at first.

In any case, the Mistralian airships were continuing to slow down and would, Pyrrha guessed, stop before they passed over the cliffs.

A modest crowd had gathered on the balcony to watch their arrival, not only Pyrrha but Ruby too, and Penny, and Yang, Arslan, Rainbow Dash, Ciel, and Blake, all of them standing at the wrought iron railings that separated them from the long drop down, all of them with their heads and eyes turned skywards as the ships came in.

The Mistralian battleships were queens of the sky in size terms; they were certainly much larger than any of General Ironwood’s cruisers, or even of his larger carriers, though it might be a little much to say that they dwarfed them. Certainly, they looked as though they could smash through any Altesian ship simply by flying into it, although as slow as they were, it was an open question whether they could hit anything before it got out of the way.

Certainly, they made the Valish warships seem very small by comparison, and undergunned also; whatever questions might have been raised about the state of these two ships — old as they were, mothballed as they had been — from appearances alone, one could very well see why the Valish had desired them to augment their air fleet.

If one looked past all of the guns — and that was somewhat difficult, as there were a great many guns — the Mistralian battleships somewhat resembled whales: they were rounded, slightly bulbous shapes, widening out from the tip and then narrowing in at the back, although not to the extent of any whale that Pyrrha knew of. They even had two immense, fin-like wings at the front, beating up and down, up and down, although instead of a tail fin, there looked to be a substantial engine block mounted at the rear of the two ships, and another pair of wings just ahead of the stern, beating in time with the first.

The whale shape was disguised by the sheer amount of weaponry protruding out of the rounded hull, from the great gun turrets fore and aft to the smaller turrets and barbette guns set into the hull itself. These two ships would have truly formidable broadsides if they ever had cause to fire in anger, but whether a broadside would be as effective against the grimm as against another ship of similar size and build as this, Pyrrha had doubts. After all, nevermores were not slow creatures; they would not sit and wait to take such fire.

Although, with such a volume of fire, how could they avoid it?

Nevertheless, Pyrrha could not shake the impression that these warships had been built more with other warships than the grimm in mind; specifically, it seemed as though the opponent they would be best matched against would be another ship very like themselves, with whom they could trade the fire of their monstrous array of guns. Against an opponent that did not match up so neatly … who could say?

Hopefully, neither they nor Vale would ever have to find out.

“They’re big, aren’t they?” Arslan said.

Yang smirked. “Did you work that out all by yourself?”

“Shut up,” Arslan muttered.

“It’s a pity about the guns,” Ruby said.

“Did you just say ‘it’s a pity about the guns’?” Yang asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ruby confirmed. “They’re cool guns, don’t get me wrong, those are fifteen inch cannon in the main turrets, and I can see 9.2 inch, 6 inch, and 5.5 inch dual-purpose guns along the hull, but the problem with using guns on a ship is—”

“What if you miss,” Rainbow said.

“Exactly,” Ruby agreed. “Lasers just kind of fizzle out, but those shells are going to hit something, even if it isn’t the target.”

“Unless they have fuses set to detonate after a certain time without contact,” Ciel suggested.

“They’d need to be really short fuses to explode high enough up in the air,” Ruby replied.

“Does it matter?” asked Arslan.

“It matters if you’re going to be dropping shells over our city, yeah,” Yang replied.

“Technically, you’ll be the ones dropping shells on your own city,” Arslan said, “with the ships that you bought from us, but if you wanted lasers, you should have bought lasers; it’s not like you didn’t know what the ships were like before you bought them.”

“We didn’t buy them,” Yang said. “The Council did.”

“I wonder why they’ve come to Vale,” Ruby said, “instead of the docks at Alexandria.”

“For the same reason the Council bought them in the first place; it’s all a big gesture,” Yang said dismissively. “‘Look at us, doing things, taking this seriously, protecting Vale. Look at our new ships, don’t they look cool, don’t you feel safe?’ They’re not here to protect Vale; they’re here to protect Councillor Emerald’s poll ratings.”

“I don’t know if they make anyone feel safe, but those things do not look cool,” Rainbow declared. “They look slow as anything, and Ruby’s right; the guns are all wrong. Guns are all wrong for airships, generally.”

“Are guns wrong for airships because Atlas doesn’t use them, or does Atlas not use them because they’re wrong for airships?” asked Blake in an ever so slightly arch tone.

“Atlas doesn’t use guns on airships because the shells move too slow to hit most flying grimm, and they don’t have tracking capacity like missiles do,” Rainbow said.

“What about point defence?” asked Blake.

“It’s the speed and reaction thing,” said Rainbow. “A manually-controlled turret can’t track the target quickly enough; you need automated systems.”

“Those turrets might be automated,” Ruby pointed out. “We don’t know.”

“I doubt it, with those ships being as old as they are,” Rainbow said. “On top of which, look how slowly they’re moving; I doubt they’ve upgraded the engines from the old models they had when it was built, and even if they had, they’ve built it so big and weighed it down with so much armour and so many guns that you’d need a dozen cruiser engines at least to get it moving.”

“Speed isn’t everything,” Penny pointed out.

“Not if you can protect yourself, I guess,” Rainbow allowed, “but who's going to protect them?”

“They are intended to protect themselves, I imagine,” Ciel said. “Hence the firepower.”

“Mmm,” Rainbow murmured. “That’s what they were hoping for, I’m sure.”

“At a certain point, with so much firepower, won’t it be basically impossible to get close to them?” asked Penny.

“There’s always a way,” Rainbow said. “You just have to be a good enough pilot, that’s all.”

“These ships aren’t here as your enemies,” Yang reminded her.

“I know,” Rainbow said. “I’m not sure everyone down in Vale does, but I know.”

“Indeed,” Ciel murmured. “This would not be so concerning if it were not for the rising tide of sentiment against us.”

“And the faunus,” Blake added.

“It’ll blow over,” Yang said. “Give it a little time, and everyone will calm down and wonder just what they were thinking. I get that I’m not a faunus, and I’m not an Atlesian, and that it’s easier for me to say ‘calm down and wait it out’ than it is for you to actually do it, but … it will blow over. It has to.”

“The festival will bring people together,” Arslan said. “There’s nothing like a festival for smoothing things over, right Pyrrha?”

Pyrrha smiled slightly. “Yes. No matter what is going on in the city, whenever there is a festival or a holiday upon us, the whole city seems to forget its troubles and be seized with a great sense of joy and celebration.”

“Do you have a lot of those?” asked Rainbow.

“Not too many, I think, but some,” Pyrrha replied. “Technically and traditionally speaking, the Mistral Regional Tournament is part of a festival to honour the gods of Victory and War for their mercy and generosity in allowing us to maintain the blessings of peace. We do battle for their entertainment that the city need not bleed for such. Then there is the midwinter Festival of the Departed, where we honour the dead and Erechthoneus, the gods of the underworld, in part by fighting in the Chtoneum under the city.”

“We don’t fight in that one,” Arslan said. “Neither Pyrrha nor me. Some fighters do both, but the Chtoneum attracts a bit of a rougher crowd in every sense. Matches go on until your aura breaks, or sometimes beyond, if the referee decides that it should.”

“So it’s more like real combat, then?” Yang said.

“If I wished to see real combat, I would do as I have done and come to a school like this,” Pyrrha pointed out. “A tournament should be a relief from that, a place of sunlight, not shadow; rules, not murder.”

“'Murder'?” Ruby repeated. “People die there?”

“Rarely,” Pyrrha allowed, “but it does happen.”

“That doesn’t seem very joyful,” Ruby said.

Pyrrha chuckled. “Joy was perhaps the wrong word in that particular case, but the whole city does come together to do honour to those that we have lost, to those that have come before us, those that wait as shades for us to join them. It is not a festival of overwhelming jubilation, but it is not unpleasant.”

“And it’s not like there’s no fun to it, either,” Arslan added. “On the first and last night of the festival, when it is said that the boundaries between the living and the dead are thinner than normal, people dress up in monster masks to ward off spirits and go around demanding candy from strangers.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What does that have to do with warding off evil spirits?” asked Yang sceptically.

“You placate them with offerings,” Pyrrha said. “Not knowing who is a real spirit and who is disguised as one. Although—”

“It’s all got a bit commercial these days; people just dress up in costumes,” Arslan said. “Great fun, though, if you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, it sounds like it,” Ruby agreed. “It’s a shame we didn’t have anything like that growing up; that would have been so cool, dressing up as monsters and going around people’s houses asking for candy.”

“And throwing eggs at them if they didn’t give you enough,” Arslan added.

“That’s just mean!” Ruby cried. “Why would you do that?”

“Because we were mean kids, probably, and we didn’t get a lot of chances to do stuff like that,” Arslan admitted. “I bet Pyrrha never did anything like that.”

“My diet did not allow me to eat candy, so I never troubled with any of that,” Pyrrha murmured.

She could have added that she spent the first and last nights of the Festival of the Dead with her mother, communing with her father’s spirit, or trying to, seeking to feel his presence from the other world. She could have, but she did not; it was personal, after all, and she feared to expose herself to ridicule for something that meant a great deal to her.

“Also you’re too good to throw eggs at someone’s house,” Arslan said.

“Well … yes, you are probably right about that,” Pyrrha murmured.

“Anyway,” Arslan said, “my point is that nothing brings people together like a public holiday, and that will be true here too. When I was a kid, we used to watch the matches at school.”

“Isn’t school out this time of year in Mistral?” asked Ruby. “It is here in Vale.”

“Technically,” Arslan said. “But, it’s a bit like how school is out, but we’re all still here anyway. Where I grew up, a lot of parents couldn’t afford to take weeks off work to look after their children — I’m talking five-year-olds, eight-year-olds, that kind of age — so the schools stay open, and there’s somewhere to go to do your holiday homework and, in the meantime, watch movies and play in the playground and stuff. And watch the Vytal Festival when it was on.”

“Every year, in Canterlot,” Rainbow said, “the Apples put up a big screen in their barn, and everyone comes around to sit on the hay bales or just on the ground and watch the fights together. Well, not everyone everyone, but a lot of folks.”

“Neon and I had a ritual,” Ciel said. “Her mother has no great care for the tournament, and so Neon would come around to my house to watch it with my family. But, while she was there, her mother would record each match. And so, we would first watch the match live in the company of all of my little brothers, and then we would go back to Neon’s place and watch it again alone together and get to appreciate it on a different level.”

“Apart from the one year when we got to go to Vale and see the final fight live,” Yang said, “we used to just watch the matches at home on TV. But it was the only time of the year when Dad would try and barbecue, something about it being the right time and the right occasion.”

Ruby grinned. “Remember that one time he almost set the garden on fire?”

“Oh, yeah, he sucked at that barbecue so much, it was ridiculous,” Yang said, covering her face with one hand. “Like, Dad, there’s a perfectly good oven in the kitchen, just grill the burgers and the hotdogs, they’ll taste fine, but no, ‘I’m a man, girls, I’ve got this. It’s in my DNA.’ N-no, Dad, no, it isn’t, and no, you don’t. And it was even worse when Uncle Qrow tried to help him.”

Ruby covered her mouth as she giggled. “Wouldn’t have been the same if they hadn’t tried, though.”

“No,” Yang agreed. “No, it wouldn’t. Just like it wouldn’t have been the same if we’d eaten off regular plates and used the knives and forks out of the drawer.”

Ciel frowned. “I can see that you ate with your hands, but was there nowhere to put anything down?”

“Paper plates,” Yang explained. “And plastic disposable cutlery.”

“But why?” Penny asked.

“Because it felt right,” Ruby said. “It made it feel like being at a fair, almost like we were there.”

Yang glanced at Pyrrha. “So, Pyrrha, any Vytal Festival traditions that you had?”

“Not particularly,” Pyrrha confessed. “I also used to watch the matches twice, once for pleasure and once for analysis of the techniques of the fighters, what they could have done differently or better.”

“I don’t have any Vytal Festival traditions,” moaned Penny dispiritedly.

“Neither do I,” Blake said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Yang frowned. “I get why Blake doesn’t have any, what with the whole White Fang thing and all, but why don’t you have any, Penny?”

“Because Penny’s father was very disapproving!” Rainbow blurted out quickly.

“Yes, he disapproved of … the Vytal Festival,” Ciel said. “He would not allow Penny to watch the tournament.”

“Sounds charming,” Yang muttered. “Who disapproves of the Vytal Festival? Everyone loves the Vytal Festival.” She grinned and gave Penny a slapped pat on the back. “But look on the bright side, Penny: you get to make whole new Vytal Festival traditions right here with all your friends!”

Penny gasped. “That’s right! Oh, that’s going to be so much fun, I can hardly wait!”

“None of us can, Penny,” Ruby assured her.

“By the time this is over, we’ll all have a bunch of awesome new memories,” Rainbow said. “We owe that to ourselves. Great fights, great friends, how can we not?”

Pyrrha’s scroll buzzed. So did Arslan’s.

“Excuse me,” Pyrrha murmured as she got out her scroll to see that she’d received a text message.

“What is it, Pyrrha?” asked Penny.

“I am invited to dine with Polemarch Yeoh tonight aboard the battleship Dingyuan,” Pyrrha announced.

“And so,” Arslan said, “am I.”


The interior of the Mistralian flagship — the Dingyuan, the name meaning ‘Eternal Peace’; Pyrrha could not help but find it a strange name for a warship — had the same faux-antique style of so much else that came out of Mistral. The floor on which Pyrrha and Arslan’s feet trod was wooden, as were the walls of the corridors down which she was shown as she was led towards the commander’s cabin. Quite what the Valish would make of this when they took possession of the vessel, she could not say.

As the two of them walked, Pyrrha smiled politely at the crewmen and soldiers she encountered on the way, waving back when they waved to her, courteously acknowledging the kind of awe in which she was regarded by some of them.

Arslan waved also, and her smile seemed a little more genuine on her face, or at least, Pyrrha could not help but see it so.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Arslan whispered out of the corner of her eye.

“How can you tell?” Pyrrha asked quietly.

“'Cause you’ve got that expo smile plastered onto your face like in the publicity; I can tell it’s fake.”

“Can anyone else tell?” asked Pyrrha anxiously.

“Nah, you’re pretty good at this; I only notice because I’ve been around you a lot.”

“Hmm,” Pyrrha murmured wordlessly, glancing around the ship at the sailors who glanced at them, smiled at them, waved to them, took their pictures as they moved through the corridors of the immense battleship. Who were they? How had they come to be here, crewing Mistral’s ships on their first and last voyage for Mistral? Sailors on civilian airships, she supposed, lured by better pay perhaps. Would they remain in uniform? It seemed as though Mistral would certainly seek to construct its own airships in the future, to build a fleet to go along with its new army, but would these men remain to crew it, or would they go back to their peaceful occupations and forsake the realer risks that would come being part of the crew of an active warship?

A part of her recognised, or at least considered, that it was no bad thing for Mistral to have an army and a navy; Atlas did, after all, and even Vale possessed a self-defence force. There were far, far worse things in the world, after all, than to have a force under arms to protect the city and the kingdom from attack. But at the same time, as she looked back at all the faces looking at her and Arslan, at the men and women in their blue overalls stained with sweat and grease, in their uniform tunics with blue and white neckerchiefs tied around their necks, in their cloth caps and berets with ‘Dingyuan’ picked out in white stitching, she could not help but wish that these men and women were not endangered, even if they had volunteered for danger. A part of her, the princess part of her perhaps, could not help but wish that she and those like her could protect the people and the realm without the need for its common folk to venture their own lives upon the hazards of the field.

“It’s a nice ship, this,” Arslan said. “It seems almost a shame to sell it.”

“A warship’s worth is not its interior,” Pyrrha murmured. “I have no doubt the new ships Mistral acquires will be much more effective and will look just as nice on the inside.”

Pyrrha and Arslan were shown into a spacious cabin, with a bed shoved up against the wall and table set for three. A variety of antique weapons — swords, bows, early and primitive guns of various types — hung on the walls, as did various kinds of lutes with an increasing variety of strings.

Polemarch Yeoh, dressed in a blue uniform with gold brocade around her wrists, smiled as the two students, each wearing her huntress attire, were ushered in. “Lady Pyrrha, Miss Altan,” she said, striding forward and holding out one hand. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

“The gratitude is mine, ma’am,” Pyrrha said as she took the older woman’s hand. The commander’s grip was firm and strong.

“And so is the honour,” Arslan added as she shook the Polemarch’s hand in turn.

“Not at all; I’m honoured to host the great champions of the arena, the heroes of Mistral,” Polemarch Yeoh said, without a trace of anything but sincerity in her voice. “In fact, I almost hate to ask, but would you mind having your picture taken? I’m afraid my granddaughter will never believe I’ve met you both without some kind of proof.”

“Oh, of course,” Pyrrha said. “We’d be glad to, wouldn’t we?”

Arslan nodded. “Always happy to pose for a picture.”

Polemarch Yeoh chuckled. “I believe your fame owes as much to the grace with which you bear it as to your respective skill at arms.”

She put her arms around their shoulders, placing herself in the middle of Pyrrha and Arslan so that they were lined up in height order, as Yeoh turned the both of them around to face the yeoman who had shown them to the room.

He had already gotten his scroll out and was wielding it like a camera.

Polemarch Yeoh drew them both a little closer to her, while she beamed delightedly.

Arslan grinned and made a peace sign with one hand.

Pyrrha smiled and waved.

“Got it,” the yeoman said.

“Excellent,” Polemarch Yeoh said. “You’ve just made Grandma look very cool.”

“Always happy to help a fan,” Arslan said.

“How old is your granddaughter?” asked Pyrrha.

“Mei is six,” Polemarch Yeoh said, “and very enamoured with you both, as so many of our people are.”

“Oh, kid fans are the best,” Arslan said. “No offence, ma’am, if you’re one of my older fans, but at your granddaughter’s age … they see you most clearly, I think. They don’t believe all the gossip magazine crap about what a horrible person you are when the lights are off.”

“Indeed,” Polemarch Yeoh said, “or that you are a traitor to Mistral and to Remnant secretly in league with your enemies, eh, Lady Pyrrha?”

Pyrrha swallowed. “The … staunch support of the young is a comfort in trying times, yes. I am blessed by all those who continue to believe in me, but Arslan is correct, the faith of the children is … gratifying.”

Polemarch Yeoh chuckled. “In as much as she can understand why some have turned against you, Mei cannot accept that someone so pretty as you could possibly have sinister motives. After all, princesses are never evil.”

“Neither I nor Arslan claimed that their loyalty was logically motivated,” Pyrrha admitted, “but it means much to me nonetheless.”

“As it should,” Polemarch Yeoh said. “After all, events have shown that the hearts of we adults can be fickle things; the faith of a child should be considered something precious and held dear while it lasts. Please, both of you, sit down. I would offer you wine, but you are still young, and I believe from your interviews that you do not partake.”

“No, I don’t touch the stuff,” Arslan said. “I’ve seen too much of the worst effects of it.”

“And my health regimen does not permit it,” Pyrrha said, “but thank you for the offer.”

“You are both very wise,” Polemarch Yeoh said. “Alcohol will be the ruin of an athletic body. May I offer you some green tea instead?”

“That would be very kind of you,” Pyrrha murmured.

Polemarch Yeoh clicked her fingers, and her yeoman bowed his head and disappeared, reappearing a very short while later with a tray on which he bore a pot of green tea and three small china cups.

Pyrrha and Arslan sat still and quiet as he set the cups in front of them and poured the tea.

“Thank you, Lin,” Polemarch Yeoh said. She raised her cup. “To you both,” she said, “and may I hope that I am joined by a future Vytal champion.”

“You honour us, ma’am,” Pyrrha said, before she drank.

“Do I exaggerate?” Polemarch Yeoh asked. “Of all the Mistralian students competing in the Vytal Festival, are there any more likely to take the laurels than the two of you?”

“It is not certain that either of us will be competing in the tournament,” Pyrrha said.

“Speak for yourself, P-money,” Arslan said. “I can secure my spot through victory. Although I don’t know why you think Professor Ozpin won’t pick your team to compete. In the first place, he owes you for sending you into Mountain Glenn, and in the second place, if he trusts you to go into Mountain Glenn, why wouldn’t he think you were good enough for the tournament?”

“All the same, I would hate to presuppose,” Pyrrha said.

“Your modesty does you credit, but I think Miss Altan speaks the truth,” Polemarch Yeoh said. “I would be astonished if you and your teams were not both placed in the thirty-two teams that will open the tournament, and once there, I think — and most of Mistral agrees with me, I’m sure — that you will both progress all the way to the final eight.”

“Unless we have the … unless we end up facing one another in the four by four round,” Pyrrha said, a slight smile pricking at the corner of her mouth.

Arslan groaned. “Don’t tempt fate, Pyrrha. I want … does it make me sound too like Cinder if I say I want to go one on one with you one last time?”

“So long as you don’t want to destroy Vale, then you are nothing like Cinder,” Pyrrha assured her.

“Low bar, but thanks,” Arslan muttered. “The point is that … whether I have a chance or not, I want to stand or fall against you without Jaune sneaking up on me from behind or anyone having the chance to say that you would have beaten me if it weren’t for my team ganging up on you or Jaune getting in your way.”

“Jaune has improved greatly,” Pyrrha declared. “He wouldn’t hinder me in the way you suggest.”

“Good for him, but not really my point,” Arslan said.

“No, you … whether or not you have a chance?” Pyrrha repeated.

“I was there for your fight against Cinder, remember?” Arslan said. “But I’ll give it my best shot, don’t you worry.”

“And then you will both retire, as has been mooted?” Polemarch Yeoh asked.

“It seems odd to speak of retirement at my age,” Pyrrha said. “I will become a huntress and give my attention to it full time.”

“Me too,” Arslan said. “It wasn’t what I originally planned, but … if I may, Polemarch, what are you doing here if not because you realised that the world was a more dangerous place than you’d thought and it needs capable people to step up and fight for it?”

“An excellent point,” Polemarch Yeoh conceded. “If rather disappointing for Mei.”

Arslan grinned. “I intend to make sure that there’s plenty to entertain Mei and others about my adventures in the field.”

“Indeed? Something to look forward to,” Polemarch Yeoh said. “Mistral will mourn, of course, the loss of its prize entertainers, but for myself … it is a worthy cause to which you commit yourself, a worthier cause than any I served when I was your age. I must admit, I envy you, to be so certain of your future course at your age and to be so committed to it that the call of fame and fortune means so little to you.”

“Well,” Arslan muttered, clearing her throat, “I wouldn’t go that far, but you have a sense of proportion, don’t you?”

“Lady Pyrrha,” Polemarch Yeoh said, “if I may ask … I do not ask what exactly happened under Mountain Glenn, but I do ask … what is going on that led to Mountain Glenn? Who is Cinder Fall, why did she conspire with the White Fang to breach Vale’s defences? Though our Common Army may be small, as the appointed Polemarch, I have, I think, a right as well as a desire to know if some such danger, this madwoman or another like her, will soon emerge to cast over Mistral next?”

Arslan leaned forwards without a word.

“I…” Pyrrha hesitated. I will keep your secrets, Professor, but the Polemarch is right; she has a right to know. “I fear that similar danger may threaten all kingdoms, yes.”

“Why?” Polemarch Yeoh demanded. “Who are these people, and what do they want?”

“Despite what has been alleged, I was not so close to Cinder as to privy to all her wants and desires,” Pyrrha replied, “but I believe that she is a sort of … grimm cultist, of a particularly dangerous sect.”

“Grimm cultists have sects?” Arslan asked. “I mean, everyone knows they can do some horrible things, but everyone also knows that they’re basically a bunch of loser freaks, meeting in basements and chanting.”

“Not this group,” Pyrrha said. “They … they aim to—”

“I think I can guess what these deluded creatures aim at, to offer up our kingdoms and our cities to the monsters they worship,” Polemarch Yeoh said.

“Um, yes,” Pyrrha said. “Yes, that is it exactly. At least, I believe it so; as I say, I have not discussed Cinder’s motivations with her in great detail.”

Polemarch Yeoh ignored that, saying, “That there are such people in the world. I suppose it would be too much to ask that you know their plans for Mistral?”

“No, Polemarch, I do not,” Pyrrha said.

Polemarch Yeoh nodded as she leaned back in her seat. “Then we must make ourselves as strong as we can and settle for that.”

“By selling our ships?” Arslan asked. “I’m sorry, but if you were that worried, wouldn’t you keep them? I may not be as well-educated as Pyrrha, but I know why a snail has a house: to live in it.”

Polemarch Yeoh was quiet for a moment, leaning back in her chair. “You are correct,” she said. “Although I am glad to know the truth about the attack on Vale, the truth is also that I do not believe there is an imminent threat to Mistral. If the attack on Vale had succeeded, that would be something else, but with the assault repulsed, the White Fang destroyed here in Vale and quiescent in Mistral, and Mistral lacking the obvious vulnerability of the Mountain Glenn tunnel … I am not too concerned. Madmen as these cultists are, they would need to be as foolish as they are mad to attempt a new assault so soon after the failure of their last. Who will help this Cinder Fall now, all her designs ending in failure? But the danger, though it is more apparent than real, is nevertheless of great use to Mistral, and to me.

“I have long been a client of the Ming family and a supporter of the Self-Strengthening faction in the Council. Why should Mistral be dependent upon Atlesian protection? Why should we have no army of our own with which to defend not only ourselves but also our neighbours? Why should we weaken ourselves to a handful of swords, content to see our brave young people enlist not under the banner of their kingdom but in a plethora of mercenary companies?”

“Or become huntsmen and huntresses,” Pyrrha murmured.

“Of course,” Polemarch Yeoh conceded. “I am not suggesting anything like the Atlesian Specialist system, but I see no reason why we should not have troops, a fleet; even the Valish can say as much, and we are a larger and a wealthier kingdom than they, more populous, rich in martial heritage—”

“Perhaps the fact that our heritage is one of warrior heroes, not of soldiers, explains our present, or until recent, lack of an army,” Pyrrha said.

Polemarch Yeoh smiled. “Very likely, that has something to do with it, but do you think that warrior heroes alone are sufficient for today’s world?”

“I … would like to,” Pyrrha replied softly, “but in all honesty, I cannot say for certain.”

Polemarch Yeoh nodded. “For too long, the Council and the people have balked at the expense of ships and men, content to leave things as they are, to keep the tax rates low, to trust in huntsmen. The Breach may not have cost many Valish lives, but it has shocked Mistral out of its complacency, and for that, I welcome it. With this threat, this shadow looming over the city, I will fashion a great instrument, a weapon such as none of the great lords of Mistral’s past dreamed of possessing, and if ever I am questioned, if ever anyone asks if so much lien may be spent, I will tell them ‘remember the Breach and think on such a sight in Mistral’s streets,’ and that will quiet them. And it all begins here, selling the Valish our antiques and using the proceeds to buy new, first-rate ships capable of standing up to any grimm or Atlesian man-of-war in battle.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” Arslan asked. “What if the danger is realer than you think?”

Polemarch Yeoh was quiet for a moment. “I hope,” she said, “it will not come to that.”

“So do we all, I think,” Pyrrha said softly. “So do we all.”

Author's Note:

I feel like a terrible tease putting this chapter up instead of the one you all want (which is coming next, I promise) but there is a reason for it: this chapter has to happen before the start of the tournament, and since the next few chapters are all going to be very preoccupied this really is the best time for it to happen.

Rewrite Notes: This chapter is a complete rewrite, with the major changes being the presence of Arslan at dinner along with Pyrrha and the scene at the beginning with Tempest and Cinder

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