"The world I have created is full of grief and strife, and all for naught. Just a petty game by a monster, with man's lives as the chits he bets," Gaius said, voice as soft and steady as it always is. The tightness in his muscles betray him, but he tries to force them relax -- only so successful. "I have furthered their goals, conquered nations, betrayed my country twice over to stop them, if once unknowingly. My life is forfeit; Garlemald will hang me if I am fortunate. Eorzea's claim in my head is known. Ala Mhigo will bury me up to my neck in the sand and leave me to slowly desiccate if they claim their right to justice. At least Valdeaulin gives me the time to see this last thing done before I die."

The flickering of firelight reminds him of the Praetorium, burning bright and fast, scores upon scores of men dead in the ruins. Livia, who he called his own, dead. Rhitatyn, slain at his Castrum. Nero fled, ever self-centered. There is nothing left but the hunt now.

"If I succeed, I will count my debts to the future paid, and die at peace."