The Fell King, the King of Liberation, the man called Nemesis – he towers like a god unto himself, expression split with a rictus of black amusement. In his hand, the glow from the false Sword of the Creator seems to devour all other light. Felix has awaited this moment, has yearned for the conclusion of this damn war even as his warrior spirit burned all the brighter for it. And yet he can’t help but wonder if he will die here, fighting against a fairytale villain so powerful that hope seems impossibly faint.

Blood streams down his left temple from a head wound. Felix calls out for a healer in between the mad dance of death that dark magic and living weapons bring; no one responds, otherwise occupied or dead. Cursing, he manages to bring up his sword in time to parry an all-too-familiar lance aimed for his chest. For a moment, it seems as though the ghost of Sylvain fights him, wielding the Lance of Ruin with murderous intent. But even when the memory of Sylvain fades, the lance’s dark twin remains real. Too real. The commander, Gautier, knocks Felix off his feet with a blow that rattles his teeth. As he scrambles beyond the reach of a follow-up attack, Felix hears the sound of laughter – Nemesis’ laughter – in the distance. Grim determination gives him a second wind, despite his injuries and despite his exhaustion. If they don’t finish this, here and now, all of Fódlan will fall.

Snarling, he readjusts his grip on the sword and charges back into the fray.