Agares

'If a beast takes on the memories of a human, is it still just a beast, or is it now human?'

From the ashes of slaves condemned as kindling rose a shadow chancellor, the one who steered the Carrelle nobles toward reform. Upon achieving victory, he turned to the Tempus Church, ascending through the ranks to become Bell Ringer No. II—Agares Brennholt. Tales of his eccentric feats and enigmatic persona drifted across the cities of the continent, carried like the scent of wine through back alleys and crowded squares.

Yet despite these rumors, few have ever seen the man himself. Perhaps his power was so absolute that all who beheld him were reduced to ash. Or perhaps he simply preferred to remain idle, tucked away in seclusion, gazing past even the great Cathedral.

Except this time.

Vice-Commander Nefertari voiced her doubt, why now, of all times, had Lord Brennholt chosen to preside over this heretic's trial himself?

'One must stir from time to time. Lest they wither into dry kindling, unfit to bear witness to the grace of Aeon.'

'Hurried traveler... why not slow your steps and hear a tale or two? Seven stories await—each woven around the Church's enigmatic figure, Bell Ringer Agares Brennholt.' Brennholt... the one who cast me into the flames. Fitting, then, that he became the start of this frantic odyssey. The aged voice pressed on: 'One cradle built from bone and breath, a corpse gave life, then slept in death. Two hearts beat in cursed accord, his flesh—the curse he can't afford.' My feet stopped. From the shadows, a hunched elder emerged, cradling a weathered wine flask. 'Care to hear the rest? There are still five more to go. One tale... one cup of wine.'

'Care to hear a tale or two? Of what Bell Ringer Agares did... after.' I still don't know how this old man slips past the Church's grasp, nor why he always finds me—at just the right time, in just the right place.

Unfortunately, I only drink wine when I must—when blood is scarce. I have no taste for it otherwise, and no intention of paying for it in exchange for stories. But the old man ignored my refusal. His hoarse voice droned on: 'Three siblings gone before their prime, devoured—his mourning etched in time. Four names he wore in borrowed skin, his shame engraved beneath his grin.'

It seems... this cup of wine is not the one I get to refuse.

'Who exactly are you?' As expected... I ran into the old man again. 'A wandering spirit. An old friend. Someone who knows Agares's tales.'

'Someone... just like you.' As he spoke, he lifted his face—no longer an old man, but 'me.' Silver hair. Crimson eyes. He went on, in a voice that mirrored mine: 'Five decrees to break the throne, his vow of vengeance sealed in stone. 'Six wings fell with fire and blade, his fate in slaughter darkly laid.' I still couldn't grasp the full meaning behind his tale and I asked: 'Why did you take my form?' 'Ask Agares. He'll give you the answer—and make sure he pays for the wine.'