Crimson Wind (A Fire Emblem: 3 Houses AU)

Vocalist · Aug 4, 2022

Kostas was a tough man, a stubborn man, who tended to bull through life's challenges by running straight at them, screaming and waving an axe. Unfortunately, his normal problem-solving strategy was failing him, and that put him in a bad mood.

"Are you listening to me?" he said to the creepy masked man who had hired him for his most recent job – the one that had gone tits up. "We can't hide out in the canyon forever. The Knights of Seiros are on our trail, and when they catch up, I don't like our chances!" He shook the heavy bag of gold that was just handed to him, the agreed-upon payment. Normally it would please him greatly to be holding such a thing, but not now: "I can't spend this if I'm dead!"

"That seems like a big problem for you," his employer agreed. His face was hidden, but Kostas had the uncomfortable feeling he was being laughed at. He fought the urge to punch him. The man wore a belted tunic in eye-searing white and stupid-looking poofy trousers, but a gleaming breastplate was visible beneath the tunic's neckline, and Kostas had to assume that the rest of him was armored, too. Plus, they weren't alone – to his employer's left was a white wyvern, a stubby little thing but still big enough to bite a man's hand off, and to his right, a warrior in heavy armor that gleamed with the unhealthy light of sorcery. Black armor, though. Clearly, this one was rebelling against the color scheme set by his two companions.

"Is that all you're going to say?" Kostas asked, frustrated. "You hire me to kill a bunch of noble brats without saying anything about their guard detail – not to mention the damned Blade Breaker being camped a few miles over. Me and my men had to run away with our tails between our legs, and now you're just going to hand me the gold and say, 'Have fun, try not to die!'" Kostas had fully expected his employer to make himself scarce after their failure (not that it was really their fault, considering how wretchedly bad their information had been) or perhaps show up to berate them self-importantly. But he hardly seemed displeased at all!

"Mm, I think I know why you're confused. The thing is, Kostas, I told you a lot of lies." One gloved hand absentmindedly scratched the wyvern where its velvet-covered antlers were beginning to grow in. It quirked its head to lean into its master's touch, but kept its beady little eyes focused on Kostas. He glared at it in return. "I did lie to you about the students being unguarded – oh, but the Breaker's Band was a surprise to me too. Complete coincidence that they were there. I also lied about the reason I hired you. Sure, you completely failed to kill anyone, but that wasn't the point. I only wanted you to scare off one or two of the more battle-shy professors so that I could get my own people into the empty spots."

"What?" said Kostas.

"What I'm saying, friend, is that you did a very good job! Professor Lysander quit because of you! Sure, the Archbishop decided to replace him with one of the mercenaries, instead of any of my candidates, but that's not at all your fault."

For the first time, the black knight beside him spoke up: "A pity, that. I was looking forward to taking on the role of a teacher." The voice coming from beneath that blank helm was unmistakably female. Surprised, Kostas revised his assumptions.

"If you're getting bored running errands for your current liege," the man in white said to her, "I'm sure I can find something fun for you to do in the coming months. But we shouldn't ignore Kostas; he's just getting angrier. Now, as I said, I'm actually pleased with your performance. In fact, you managed to keep a surprising number of your men alive for someone on a suicide mission. I've given you a little bonus, for that."

As he surmised, Kostas was only getting angrier the more he heard. "What is this condescending bullshit? You set me up to die! And you still haven't given me a way to escape the knights!"

"Yeah, you're probably going to die," he said casually. "But who knows? Fortune turns in strange ways, and you've already shown a talent for running away from a superior force. If you survive, you'll really have earned that gold. Maybe you should use it to set yourself up in a less dangerous profession."

This pretentious schemer had as good as killed him and all his men, and he had no apology, just smug advice. All the gold in the world couldn't buy him back into Kostas's good graces. "I'll get you back for this! When the Knights of Seiros come, they'll hear of you, and how you hired men to attack them. Even if I die, you'll be next!"

"By the Lord of Wisdom, you've got me!" he replied, with exaggerated shock. "Dame knight, what should we do?"

"My lord, we are both concealing our faces, and we travelled here under careful stealth. I do not believe these ruffians could tell the Church anything that would lead to the discovery of our true identities." Kostas could hear the laughter in her voice.

"Well, there you have it, then. Hold a grudge if you must, friend, but there is nothing you can do to hurt me."

The bandit leader snapped. Unhooking his axe in a single motion, he swung it at the man in white – aiming for the vulnerable joint between shoulder and neck, where any armor would be weak. His roar echoed over the weathered stones of Zanado.

His swing, and his cry, were cut short by a horrible dull clang. Faster that Kostas believed possible, the black knight interspersed her armored arm between him and her master, taking the full force of his blow with only a shift of her weight. Even worse, his axe was stuck into a gap between the plates. Where his axe pushed the armor plates apart, no chainmail layer or padded undergarment was visible – only an eerie violet glow. "How sloppy. How uncontrolled," she chided him, like a disappointed teacher. "Some of you truly are beasts." And then, with a kick to the gut, she sent Kostas skidding to the rocky canyon wall. Stones and grit scraped against his leather armor, and the final impact stopped him with a painful thud.

All the while, the masked man in white never moved a muscle. "As I said. There is nothing you can do to hurt me. Let's go…actually, wait." His knight stopped doing some gesture with her hands – a spell? Kostas's vision was blurry from pain. "I swore by the Lord of Wisdom, didn't I? Damn it, I need to work on that habit."

"I did not bring it up, because that would only have made him more likely to remember, but yes. Try 'By the Goddess!' instead. Or 'By Cichol's hat!' Or 'Cethleann's tits and Cichol's spear,' if you're being vulgar."

He chuckled. "I'm not sure I can use that last one in polite company, but it is funny. Anyway, thanks to my indiscretion, our friend here has heard too much. Kill him, Hypatia."

Kostas's heart thudded as he scrambled to his feet. "You'll have to work for it!" he spit out, lunging for his fallen axe.

A sonorous sigh echoed from beneath the black knight's helm. "I wish that were so." She produced a staff, made of the same matte-black metal as her armor. In her hands it extended to the height of a man, a blade springing out through Goddess-knows-what mechanism. She wielded the enormous scythe as if it were light as a woodaxe. With unbelievable swiftness, it swept over him. The blade crackled with violet lightning that stung like a nest of wasps, and its strange metal parted his armor with ease.

"No," he gasped, feeling something warm and heavy spilling out over his belly. His legs could barely hold him upright. "This isn't fair…"

Barely listening, the knight dealt another blow.

"Morning, Teach! Are you feeling ready for your first day as a professor?" Claude von Riegan sauntered into his classroom with a surprising amount of energy, given the early hour. His short, dark hair was smoothly combed, and he wore the uniform of the Golden Deer's house leader with poise and confidence. Byleth Eisner could admire that. Then she thought back to the last time she'd heard the clock tower's bells.

"Claude. Class doesn't start for another hour."

"I'm aware. But I thought I'd check up on you, see if you needed any help preparing. It's a class leader's job to make sure everything goes smoothly. Not as the dictator ordering students around – that's your prerogative, heh – but as a facilitator. A liaison." He sidled up to Byleth's desk and, flipping the papers around, started reading through her notes.

Well, I can certainly admire his enthusiasm. You must admit, you need all the help you can get! Those words came from Sothis, the green-haired gremlin who lived in Byleth's head now. Gremlin? GREMLIN? Why, I –

"Not so loud, please," Byleth muttered under her breath.

"Did you say something?" asked Claude.

While it can be amusing to watch you stumble through your conversations, I suspect this particular joke will wear out its welcome before long. So I'll remind you that you need not talk out loud for me to hear you. But you'll get naught else from me today! A gremlin, of all things. I saved your life… Sothis's voice faded away, to the quiet place behind consciousness where she stayed when not inserting herself directly into Byleth's thoughts.

Byleth was pleased. Listening to two people at once was really hard. "Don't worry about it," Byleth told Claude. "Anyway, my idea for today was to spend time getting to know all the students. I'd ask them about their strengths, weaknesses, and goals. Then we'd pair off in sparring matches outside so I could get an idea of their current expertise. What do you think?"

He shrugged ambiguously. "That sounds like a good plan, if your class is going to be mostly about learning practical skills. I guess I'm not surprised that's what you'd focus on, as a former mercenary."

"I don't have much education. I can't really lecture to you about history or theology or…" Byleth struggled to think of another subject that future lords and knights would like to learn. Any ideas, Sothis? No, still sulking. "…tea ceremonies. That is, I like drinking tea, but I wouldn't be able to tell you the proper etiquette."

Claude chuckled, as if she'd said something funny. "I suppose we have to work with what life gives us. It's not exactly what I expected from the Officer's Academy, but I don't mind the idea of improving my combat skills. I'll just have to make up for the rest by studying independently."

Byleth knew she was probably not the best fit for this position. It would be a shame, though, for these kids to miss learning things they really needed, or to take on an extra burden of work, in order to cover for her own deficiencies. Perhaps she could ask Hanneman and Manuela what the Officer's Academy usually taught.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Claude was looking though her notes again. "You have great handwriting for someone who's never set foot in a classroom before. Very sparse notes, though. How am I supposed to be able to rifle through your papers and learn your secrets?"

"I can give you my lesson plans ahead of time if you want," Byleth told him. "They're not a secret. And I write well because I've handled the mercenary company's finances for years. My father cannot be trusted with money." A worrying thought occurred to her, and the tiniest furrow creased her brow. "As captain, is he responsible for the Knights' budget now?"

Claude raised his eyebrows. "He probably has a lot of discretion, but I wouldn't know exactly. What kind of –"

"He drinks," Byleth said darkly.

"So the legendary Blade Breaker is a drunkard, huh?" Claude let out a sigh. "They say to never meet your heroes."

"No. He doesn't get drunk. He just drinks." In response to her student's confused look, she explained, "Most men have to stop eventually, even if it's because they've fallen unconscious. My father doesn't have those limits."

"Uh, how?"

Byleth shrugged. "He says it's his Crest of Seiros. The Archbishop has one too, right? Have you ever seen her get drunk?"

"No, but now I'm curious…"

After getting sidetracked by a discussion of Crests (Claude swore that his Minor Crest of Riegan gave him better night vision; he was shocked to hear about her own, and disappointed that she had never managed to identify it) the two managed to get back on track long enough for Claude to give Byleth a quick description of each of her students, and a copy of his own notes on them. She supposed it made sense for a house leader as diligent as Claude to keep dossiers on all his classmates. As the clock tower rang out the eighth hour of the morning, the rest of the Golden Deer arrived. With Claude's help, Byleth was successfully able to place a name to every face.

The earliest to arrive (besides Claude) was orange-haired Leonie Pinelli, a commoner who was apparently hoping to become a mercenary. Byleth recalled her talking to her father; she thought this one would be quite easy to teach.

Next was Lorenz – uh, she had to check her papers again – Hellman Gloucester, heir to Gloucester. In all caps, Claude had written VERY PROUD OF NOBLE STATUS. He had also gone on a worrying digression about how his family and Lorenz's family were rivals over something, and if he ended up suspiciously dead this year the Gloucesters should be her first suspects. Byleth truly hoped he was just being paranoid.

Two more nobles, Maegelle von Ordelia and Marianne von Maurice, paused just outside the door to finish up a giggling conversation. Claude had pegged Marianne as a particularly shy girl, but it seemed the vivacious Maegelle ("Oh, call me Mae, professor!") had been able to draw her in.

"Oh, thank the Goddess we're not late!" yelped Ignatz Victor. "Raphael, we need to eat more quickly next time!" Behind him, Raphael Kirsten entered, still munching on a piece of fruit.

Lorenz was not pleased. "Professor Eisner, is eating food allowed in this classroom?"

"If you don't make a mess," she replied, as the last peals of the bell faded away. "We're still missing a student."

"We might as well start without her," suggested Leonie. "If she doesn't care enough to be on time for the first day of class, she deserves to miss out."

"Um, I wouldn't mind waiting a few more minutes," piped up Marianne. "She might have gotten lost. We shouldn't judge someone without knowing their whole situation…"

"Well, as someone who does know Hilda, I think she probably overslept," Claude declared. "I can run over and—"

His idea turned out to be unnecessary. At that very moment, glaring as if she disagreed with the concept of time itself, Hilda Valentine Goneril, Duchess Goneril and Keeper of Fódlan's Locket, wielder of the fearsome Freikugel, one of the five voting members of the Alliance Roundtable, stumbled into the classroom, her uniform askew and her snow-white hair sticking out everywhere.

"All right," said Byleth. "Let's begin."

Vocalist · Aug 5, 2022

Garreg Mach Monastery laid claim to beautiful, sprawling grounds – but given its location high in the mountains, it was all rather steep and wild. There was exactly one broad, flat field monastery residents could access without going all the way down the mountain, and it had been artificially smoothed out at great expense by one of the early Archbishops. Nevertheless, all agreed her efforts had been worth it. The Knights of Seiros and the Officer's Academy used it for maneuver exercises, squires learned to ride there, and on festival days it filled with musicians, food stalls, and pilgrims.

Today, it would be serving yet another purpose, as the site of a mock battle between the Academy's three houses. Just a little something to kick off the school year – this field was far too small to host something like the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. A good thing, that, Jeralt thought, noticing the unpracticed way most of the students held their training weapons. He fought the urge to bark corrections at them. In their current state, if these brats were handed battalions, ballistae, and live steel, he didn't doubt that some of them would manage to get themselves killed.

On the rise where he stood to watch – no, preside, he was the Captain here again – a sizable crowd was gathered. Not just Academy staff, but inhabitants of the monastery and its town; he heard them sharing gossip about this year's students and the sudden arrival of a new professor.

"…crown prince and the heir to Riegan, so every family with a child of the right age has sent them to the Academy for schmoozing this year…"

"…another princess. No, I don't remember her name. The Emperor has far too many…"

"Honestly, Lysander never struck me as someone who liked teaching. I was surprised when he stayed on for another year…"

"…obviously throwing Eisner a bone by putting his daughter in the position. He must be a hard bargainer…"

None of it troubled Jeralt. He'd lived long enough that petty gossip just rolled off him, like water off a pegasus's wings. What mattered was what he did, and worthwhile people would judge him based on that. Anyone who got taken in by rumors was an idiot, and could be ignored. He'd check with the kid later, make sure no one was giving her a hard time – but Byleth generally cared even less than him. Her inhuman stoicism still worried him sometimes, but he'd learned to appreciate his daughter and her unique strengths. Like the fact that she gave no shits what anyone thought about her.

That said, listening to the crowd did give him one idea. "Hey. Alois," he said. "Someone here must be taking bets, right?"

"You're not wrong, Captain! For the past few years, Anton the night porter has been handling that kind of thing. He's a swell guy, even if he does some, heh, shady business." Alois responded to everything he said with such sincere affection and enthusiasm that it was almost painful. It was like having a puppy around that got ready to play fetch every time he lifted his hand – and he always had to explain that no, there was no stick or ball, he was just adjusting his hair. Down, boy.

Alois hadn't been like this as a squire, Jeralt was certain. Had he missed his old mentor that much? If so, he could only hope that the shine of Captain Jeralt's return would wear off with time.

"Can I assume that you want to put some gold on the Golden Deer, Captain?"

"Damn straight." He dug out a few coins and handed them to Alois without bothering to count.

The other man did bother to count. "This is enough to buy a good horse, Captain."

Jeralt shrugged. "Well, you can put some money on her, too. Or whoever you want – I'm not about to tell you who you can root for."

Alois chuckled, saying, "Oh, I'm not about to bet against anyone that you've trained! I'll just…go see Anton now." Jeralt saw Alois give the coins a worried look as he walked away, which made him roll his eyes a little. He was getting paid a salary again, right? He'd have more money soon.

From a hill overlooking the field, Captain Jeralt's gruff voice was audible: "The first mock battle of the year is about to begin. Ready yourselves. Last house standing is the winner. And just in case it's not obvious, this is a mock battle. Don't actually kill or maim anyone. Am I missing anything? Okay, begin."

Next to his professor, Claude looked over the battlefield with a hungry smile. "All right. I see Mercedes waiting by that tree right there – she looks vulnerable, but there's someone else, hiding in the branches. Probably an archer."

"Sharp eyes," Byleth complimented him. "The Blue Lions seem to be holding defensive positions for now. Let's focus on—"

"To me, my Black Eagles!" The cry was loud enough to be heard from halfway across the field. Its source was the red-caped house leader, one Ferdinand von Aegir, whom Claude had described to her as "basically Lorenz but Adrestian." Behind him, several of his classmates were struggling to catch up to his reckless charge.

Isolated on open ground? A fatal mistake, on the battlefield. "Mae, Claude. Bombard him," Byleth ordered.

"Oh, with pleasure," said Maegelle, her smile turning momentarily vicious. A magical sigil appeared before her, and crackling lightning began to condense from the air. Meanwhile, Claude loosed an arrow with admirable speed – he clearly had years of practice behind him.

However, while reaching for a second arrow, he hesitated. Another figure was racing across the field, getting dangerously close to their target. A violet-haired figure.

"Aha! Ferdinand von Aegir, it is an honor to meet you on the field of battle. No doubt you will learn much today, after I defeat you utterly!" Turning back around, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester yelled at them: "Distract him with your projectiles while I take him apart!"

"You were right, Claude," Byleth observed. "They are very similar."

Claude sighed through gritted teeth.

"Uh," Maegelle said, sweating from the effort of keeping her spell in check, "I'm not sure I can be accurate enough to—"

"Then do it now, before they get stuck together in melee," Byleth ordered.

Maegelle was off-balance, or perhaps just unlucky – her spell missed, scoring a harmless burn in the grass. Lorenz and Ferdinand met, trading blows with wooden lances. More Black Eagles were coming. Byleth looked over at her remaining troops: Ignatz, Hilda, and Leonie were positioned to guard against the Blue Lions – could she afford to move one of them?

A high-pitched scream from Black Eagles territory interrupted her thoughts, and one of their attackers turned around, distracted. "That was Bernadetta! Ferdinand, listen – I think the Lions are attacking us!"

Ferdinand could not respond, but Byleth could. "Leonie, Hilda, get down to help Lorenz! Ignatz, you raise the alarm at the first sight of any Blue Lions. Claude, Mae, give us cover, but I want you ready to help Ignatz!" Readying her sword, Byleth advanced to join her students in battle for the first time.

"Look at that Adrestian with the braids," Jeralt commented to another knight. "You can tell she knows her way around a sword." Seeing them in action, he had to raise his opinion of this crop of students – a little. Some of them were clearly terrified of their own weapons. Most of the rest handled themselves like typical noble brats: plenty of tutoring but no actual experience. Their form looked fine as long as they were standing still, but in the chaos of battle they froze up or made stupid mistakes. And then there were those who actually knew a thing or two, who could keep their cool and keep moving. Hilda Goneril, who made full use of her Crest-granted strength when swinging her axe. Two skinny boys from the Blue Lions who successfully ambushed the Black Eagles' reserves. And that girl with the braids, who had dispatched one of them in return.

"She's Brigidian, actually," replied the knight. What was her name again? Shamir, right. Goddess, so many new faces to memorize. Only a few knights remained from his previous stint in the Knights of Seiros. "Is she the last of the Eagles? Good. I have money on the Lions." A razor-thin smile cracked Shamir's face as the other two houses overran Black Eagles territory. Surrounded and overwhelmed, the Brigidian girl surrendered.

On Jeralt's other side, Alois gave him a grinning thumbs up.

As the last Black Eagle sighed her way off the field, the Blue Lions and Golden Deer found themselves frozen in a moment of uncertainty. Their mutual enemy was gone, but remnants of their unspoken truce held them still. Should they retreat and refortify themselves, or press onward to a new foe?

Against such wavering opponents, Byleth bet on an aggressive approach. "All in, Deer!" she screamed. "Attack!"

And the field fell to chaos. Dimitri of the Blue Lions sagged back from one of Hilda's bruising blows, only for one of his classmates to shield him from her follow-up. Raphael was being ganged up on by two enemies at once. Ignatz fled from the lance of a red-headed Faerghan boy, while Claude tried to ignore the chaos and line up a clean shot on Professor Manuela, who was assisting with her healing magic.

This is a mess! complained Sothis. It's a dozen duels, not a battle!

Yes, it was a mess. But this was a mock battle. At the end, all the fallen would get back up again, no harm done. So all she needed to do was ensure that at least one of her students remained standing.

A poor policy! You cannot afford to be so cavalier with the lives of those under your command. In a real battle…Are you listening?

Byleth was not listening; she was running to Ignatz's aid. The red-haired student saw her coming and braced. One, two, three, his lance parried her sword. Then a thunderbolt tore into his shoulder; one arm paralyzed, his lance faltered and fell. Using the flat of her blade, Byleth gave him a neat whack on the head.

"I got him!" cheered Maegelle.

"Ow," her enemy agreed. "I guess I'm out of the fight now. Well, at least it was two beautiful ladies who did me in."

"Your impression of a dead man's not very good, Sylvain," remarked another Blue Lion, with lavender hair – Byleth tried to remember his name. Something very Faerghan-sounding. He was coming her way with a freshly-healed Dimitri. "Do you really think any woman would want to get with a corpse?"

"I'm using artistic license, Yuri," Sylvain informed him.

"Sylvain, you need not pretend to be dead. Just get out of the way!" said Prince Dimitri, and then the two opponents were upon her.

The first time her sword deflected Dimitri's lance, it sent a bone-aching impact all the way to her shoulder. A still-growing teenager should not have that kind of strength. It had to be a Crest. Byleth grit her teeth and revised her strategy.

She sparred with her father all the time, and he'd taught her how to deal with Crest-bearers. If your opponent had crushing, supernatural strength, then you had to avoid getting hit. His partner made that easier said than done, though. While Dimitri commanded her attention, Yuri floated at the sides, falsely-innocent eyes searching for vulnerability. When she dodged away from Dimitri's deadly lance, Yuri's sword was in her path. They must be used to working together, she thought. They were too good. She couldn't defend everywhere at once.

Aggression. She'd bet it all on aggression, on being the only one here who wouldn't falter. She pushed herself forward, turned her dodge into a charge – past Yuri's sword, into his reach. Her shoulder slammed into the slim boy, sending him off his feet. They tumbled to the ground, tangled together. Byleth kept hold of her sword, but reached out with her other hand to get control of his arms.

Yuri hissed like a cat. He writhed underneath her, boneless, trying to escape. Byleth made a fist and punched him, hoping desperately that Dimitri wouldn't come to tear her away before she could knock him out. His lavender eyes were narrowed to hateful slits. One hand slipped free to claw at her face and she realized that those glossy nails were deliberately cut long as blood started to well in the scratches. He didn't let up, even when she let go of her sword to punch him again. Instead of slick warmth, the blood on her face was chilling. Yuri's nails groped, dug into the corner of her eye, and her vision went blank with pain. Almost possessed by animal instinct, one last thought remained in Byleth's head – We're killing each other.

Get off him! Get off him! He's not going to give up – you have to do it! begged Sothis.

Gasping, Byleth rolled away. She curled her body half-upright, cupping her ruined eye. The sounds of battle continued, but not nearby.

She heard Dimitri's voice: "Yuri! How are you? Oh no. Oh no. Professor…"

There were frost crystals in the blood. How could that be? Had someone cast magic at her? As they melted, once-numbed skin bloomed with renewed pain. Byleth moaned.

I think…I think he gouged out most of your eye…

"Professor Manuela! We need healing! Please!"

Healers couldn't replace eyes. Too complicated.

"I didn't mean to, I just – I panicked, Dima—"

A member of the Breaker's Band who lost an eye on duty was entitled to 200 gold pieces and continued employment in a role they could still perform. A right arm, 600; a left arm, 500. Fingers were 100 each. The numbers swam in her head; she'd memorized them as soon as she could read.

"They're going to expel you for this, street rat."

"Ingrid! You're not helping!"

Would there still be a professorship for her? Or just a pouch of coin and an early retirement? And what of poor Yuri?

Byleth, I know you are in shock, but you are not dead yet! So look alive!

"Sothis," she said, "I don't even know what you mean…"

The air shattered like glass; the skin of the world was flayed open. Colors bloomed backwards through the nonexistent atmosphere. All was still save for the decorated gremlin, who floated beside her host.

Did you forget I could do this?

With no air, no sound, and no movement, Byleth could not speak. So she willed Sothis to understand her.

My thoughts exactly! But if you get yourself maimed again today, I will truly be cross. Turning back time is not effortless, you know!

It looked effortless when she did it. Sothis strolled backward through time like a musician strumming across her lute, each moment a note bleeding into the next. She never took a step, but the world itself moved to carry her destination to her. Byleth moved too, a rider on time's vehicle – flashing through moments of pain, adrenaline, tension – until her injury was just a phantasmal ache. She looked out of both eyes, at the figures of Yuri and Dimitri. At Maegelle, preparing another thunderbolt. At Ignatz, bow in hand, catching his breath.

So she'd made the same mistake as Lorenz, in the end. How embarrassing.

Life, breath, and movement resumed. "Sylvain, you need not pretend to be dead. Just get out of the way!"

The advice was not meant for her, but Byleth took it. Her feet pounded the grass, and she marvelled at how not-injured she felt. Yuri and Dimitri followed after her, eager to catch up to an opponent they knew they could take down together. Their plan blinded them to Maegelle's thunderbolt, which scorched quite a bit of Dimitri's hair.

"Don't worry, your Highness," she called chirpily, "If you have to chop it all off, I think your appearance would actually improve!"

That struck a nerve, apparently. "You seem to have a lot of breath for chatting, Ordelia," Dimitri said, advancing on her. Yuri, well-trained, disengaged to follow him – but there was already distance between them.

With Dimitri too far away to cover his classmate, Byleth struck.

"See?" Jeralt commented. "She's letting the kids cover her while she takes down the Lions, one by one." Byleth was fighting smartly, as a mercenary ought – though he still thought she could take them all single-handedly.

"We get it, Captain. You're very proud of your daughter," Shamir said wearily.

"Brilliant job, Teach," Claude crowed, bouncing on his feet with the high of victory. "So we didn't even need to slip anything into their food!" In the supplies room, the Golden Deer were chattering amongst themselves while they set training weapons back onto racks or stripped off sweaty armor.

Byleth looked at him suspiciously. "Did you, Claude? I specifically forbade that."

"Of course not!" he claimed. "What's with that stern look on your face? You're not smiling at all! Come on, at a time like this, we should all be happy!"

"I am happy." She especially appreciated having her eye back.

"Well, you sure don't show it." He looked at her, a little uncertain, before stepping close: "Look. I know as a mercenary, you're used to taking battles seriously, as life-or-death things. But no one's supposed to die here. The next year is going to be…pretty frivolous, actually. Making friends and making enemies in pointless house rivalries. Running errands for the Archbishop. If we'd lost that battle just now, there wouldn't have been any real consequences." He ran his fingers nervously through his hair. "And I…would have still had fun. It's nice to be here, in the sun, doing frivolous things." For a moment, something raw and emotional was visible in his green eyes. Then they crystallized again. "I know you were upset when I brought up the possibility of me being assassinated. I think, yeah, that was too paranoid of me. So I'll make you a deal. I'll try to take all this less seriously, if you do too."

Byleth appreciated his concern, but it was truly unnecessary. "I will take your deal, but believe me when I say I am happy." She tried to put some emotion in her voice, but it only came out as emphasis. "I just don't smile. Ever. Ask my dad."

"If you say so, Teach." Claude looked skeptical, but that expression was quickly wiped away by a smile. In contrast to her, a knowing smirk seemed to be his default expression. "Hey, Deer! I think a celebratory feast is called for! What say you?"

"That sounds like a great way to celebrate!" agreed Raphael, perfectly cheery despite the impressive collection of bruises he'd acquired.

"I'm not sure it'll be that special, though, if we're just eating in the dining hall with everyone else," fretted Ignatz. Byleth was beginning to mark him as something of a pessimist. He was best friends with Raphael, though. They must balance each other out.

"If I can get space in the kitchen, I could make us a delicious dessert!" said Maegelle.

"I know how to cook too," said Marianne.

Claude smugly said, "No need. I already bribed the kitchen staff to make us something special, so we just have to show up."

Leonie put her hands on her hips. "And just what were you going to do with that food if we hadn't won?"

"Well, in that case, we would have eaten it anyway, to cheer ourselves back up!"

"Ah, that's an Almyran tradition," Lorenz said knowingly. The way he avoided putting weight on his just-healed leg made him look like a purple flamingo. "Feasting in victory, and in defeat."

Claude ignored him to talk to Byleth. "Will you join us, Teach? It was your leadership that led us to victory, so you deserve to celebrate too."

"That sounds nice, but my father already invited me out. He and some of his knights won a lot betting on the Golden Deer, apparently. They're going out on the town."

Claude raised his eyebrows. "And you don't want to leave him unsupervised, right? I understand. No hard feelings." A thought occurred to him. "Actually, was one of the betters – did you see a Leicesterian man, messy dark hair, doesn't believe in shirts?"

"Yep."

Claude sucked in a long, painful breath. "Okay, um. Yeah. They are going to need a responsible adult tonight. Please go. Don't worry about us."

It had been twenty years since Jeralt had last lived in Garreg Mach, but its steep, narrow streets were unchanged. His feet found themselves tracing familiar paths, worn into his memory over an uncountable number of days. He led his companions to a tavern that stood right where he'd left it; a grey and withered (but still alive) version of the woman he remembered was manning the counter. Her eyes met him and flashed with recognition. As she stepped forward to greet them, Jeralt thought the Goddess was being kind today.

Then he felt the old lady's finger jabbing him in the chest, and realized that she didn't actually look happy to see him.

"Jeralt Reus Eisner," she growled. "Somehow, I always knew you'd be back."

"Evening, Agnes," he replied. "How's, uh, how's Bertrand doing?" He hoped he was remembering her son's name right.

"Save your pleasantries. If you want to drink here, you'll pay off all you owe, first."

"What are you talking about?" He towered over the aged woman, but she refused to stop blocking their passage into her business. "I gave Alois money and instructions to pay off my debts in town. We've been square for twenty years." He shot his former squire a look. Alois had always been trustworthy for that kind of thing, but right now he was looking uncomfortable.

"It wasn't enough!" Agnes insisted. "Do you see that counter, there?" She waved her arm at the wooden bar, with its Alliance-style tiled top. "Twenty years ago, it had to be rebuilt! Because you threw a man into it so hard it broke in half!"

Jeralt blinked. While that sounded like something he could have possibly done, he had absolutely no memory…

"Did my dad actually do that?" he heard Byleth asking.

"I'm afraid it's true," Alois replied. "It was an embarrassing night. I'd never seen him so drunk before."

Oh. Now he knew what must have happened. While Jeralt's Crest granted him enormous resistance to alcohol (and poison of all types, which had come in handy during the last House Vestra succession crisis), it wasn't actually impossible for him to get shitfaced if he put in the effort.

The last time he had bothered was in the days after Sitri's death. When he tried to look back on them now, they were all a haze of grief, anger, and intoxication. Some pink embarrassment stained his cheeks as he asked, "Ah, was the guy okay?"

"No." Agnes took a sizable portion of his winnings and warned him that he would absolutely not be allowed to run a tab before finally allowing him into her establishment. He thanked every single saint that his daughter wasn't pressing him for more details of the incident; instead, she was distracted as one of their companions, Balthus von Albrecht, told a long story about his own history with bars and property damage.

"…and the magistrate ruled we were both equally at fault, but I'd already skipped town by then so I didn't actually have to pay any fines!" he said, as if it were a new and innovative trick for saving money. "Well, until last year – the Academy wasn't willing to hire someone who was technically a lawbreaker, so I had to scrape together some gold and learn on noble friends to get the rest dropped." He mumbled that last part into his drink; Jeralt got the sense that it hurt his pride quite a bit.

"So you work for the Academy, Balthus?" Byleth asked. "Not the knights?"

"Yeah, but I'm just a humble weapons instructor. Not a full professor like you. I do swords, axes, archery, a little bit of hand-to-hand…"

"The new professor might be taking over some of your normal workload, Balthus," Alois suggested.

Byleth shook her head. "I can't do everything myself. In fact, you seem to have a very broad set of specialties. I'm sure I'll be referring students to you."

"…Thanks," Balthus said. "If I'm being honest, I kind of hoped I'd be tapped to cover the Golden Deer after Rhea's first choice quit. I'm not saying I have any hard feelings about you being here, just…well, if you ever need any help, I hope you'll think of me. Homeland pride, you know? I know some of those kids." The burly Leicesterian smiled wistfully into his ale.

"That brings to mind an interesting question!" Alois piped up. "Byleth! Which of the three nations were you born in?"

His daughter shrugged. "Dunno. Dad?"

Jeralt rubbed his face, pretending to search his memory. "It was…on the border, between Faerghus and Adrestia. We were travelling, so I can't say exactly where."

Byleth accepted this with her usual nonchalance, but Alois made a pained face. "Giving birth on the road? That must have been rough on her poor mother!"

Fucking saints. No one ever asked questions like these when hiring him for mercenary work; it was all just "can you kill things?" and "is it okay if I pay you in bear hides?" So perhaps Jeralt was less composed than he really should have been as he said, "Well, she was – really tough. Not a fragile woman. Anyway, that's all in the past – you said you have kids now, Alois?"

Alois beamed, and launched into a story about his own daughter. Internally, Jeralt breathed a sigh of relief. He could finally enjoy Agnes's whiskey, which was just as good as he remembered it.

Meanwhile, his daughter was already taking Balthus up on his offer of advice: "I've noticed something going on between Lorenz and Claude. They don't like each other, and I think it has something to do with Alliance politics?"

Balthus raised his eyebrows. "Sharp of you. Yeah, I'm not one for politics, but even I know about this one. So the Alliance is ruled by a council of lords, with the Sovereign Duke being the one in charge. That's usually Duke Reigan, but it doesn't have to be. About five years ago, Duke Oswald von Reigan's son was killed and it looked like the house had no more heirs with the Crest, so a bunch of other lords started competing to be the next leader."

She nodded. "I remember the Alliance infighting being worse than usual back then. Lots of work for us."

"Yeah, I'm sure you mercenaries lined your pockets on it. Last year, though, Claude turned up, and Duke Reigan made him his heir as fast as he could. Everyone else who thought they had a chance at the top spot is holding a grudge now, the Gloucesters most of all."

Jeralt listened to this with more and more of his attention. It was his important to his daughter, after all. And noble drama could actually be entertaining – in small doses.

"He 'turned up?'" asked Byleth. "Are you saying House Reigan lost track of some of its members?"

Balthus chuckled, but his eyes were pained. "That's pretty much what happened. Tiana von Reigan, Goddess keep her soul, ran away from home years ago. She wound up in Almyra, where she married a sellsword – and then died in the civil war. No one this side of the mountains had any idea, until the Hero of Daphnel tracked down her last surviving kid and dragged him out of that hellhole." Byleth listened and sipped her ale, her face unreadable; as usual, not even Jeralt could tell what she was thinking.

It was probably something like, 'poor kid', though. The Breaker's Band operated in Fódlan, but their members came from all over, including a smattering of Almyrans. Jeralt was always happy to grab a skilled wyvern rider – and there were more of them in Fódlan than ever before. As the once-strong nation of Almyra continued burning in the flames of war, many of her people sought better lives across the border. Jeralt had heard terrible stories from his Almyran friends, of villages razed and streams choked with bodies. For any kid to come of age there was a genuine tragedy.

"So that explains why Lorenz has been bringing up Almyra so much," was all Byleth said.

Balthus grunted. "If you see Gloucester or anyone else give that kid a hard time for being half-Almyran…let me know. I'll give them extra-special attention in the training yard."

Vocalist · Aug 6, 2022

The Archbishop received most guests in her audience chamber, sitting on her throne. However, she had stood up to greet Byleth, and did not seem to be sitting back down. Byleth wondered if that had special etiquette implications or something.

It means she's treating you with especial respect, Byleth, Sothis lectured. Hmm, I wonder whom else she does this for…

"Professor. As I do not believe I have done so already, I would like to extend my congratulations for your victory in the mock battle last week." Archbishop Rhea had eyes like cool mint tea and a voice just as soothing. She never fumbled her words or spoke too quickly; her hands, when not making a poignant gesture, were clasped as if in prayer; her tiny steps never wrinkled her cloud-white skirts. She seemed the perfect image of a benevolent authority figure, more like a character in a story than a flesh-and-blood person. Byleth wondered how long she had been Archbishop, if her father had served under her. Perhaps her amazing poise simply came from long experience.

"Thank you. People have been quite impressed with that. If battle tactics are so important at the Officer's Academy, perhaps you should consider hiring more mercenaries as professors," said Byleth, who had expected struggle and failure her first week teaching, not the admiration of the entire monastery.

At that, Rhea raised her mint-green eyebrows – putting the lie to the impression that her face was an exquisitely-carved piece of marble. "Well, folk of all backgrounds have served at Garreg Mach; I consider it a goal of the Officer's Academy to expose the future lords of Fódlan to people and perspectives they never would have encountered at home. That said, few of the professors in recent years have been of a martial inclination. That is not necessarily a bad thing. We are living through a time of peace, are we not?"

Byleth shrugged. "Relatively. There was that rebellion in the Kingdom a few years back." And the infighting of the Alliance lords, the occupation of Ordelia, the entire Brigid-Dagda war… Sure, none of the three nations were about to go to war with each other. But there was still plenty to keep a mercenary busy.

"Perhaps your arrival is a message…that the wheel is turning, and these peaceful days will soon end. That the children of this land will need to arm themselves and prepare for strife," the Archbishop mused.

Oh come now! Sothis was rolling her eyes. This Rhea woman was the one who hired you! She cannot claim to read omens of the Goddess's will in actions she took deliberately. Look, I'm spinning! Her normal leisurely drift turned into a tight spin, her festive ribbons flying out from the force. When she stopped, it was abrupt, wobbly. Sothis bobbed as if dizzy. That too was a sign. Clearly, great turmoil is coming! Oh, one of my hairclips fell off…

Byleth did not disagree, but she reminded her headmate that this woman interpreted the will of the Goddess as her profession, and might well know something they didn't.

"At any rate," continued Rhea, "I have summoned you to deliver your mission for the month."

"I'm going to be assigned missions?" Byleth asked. "Like one of the knights?" Wouldn't that interfere with her teaching job?

"Yes and no. This is a mission for your entire class – for the students to grow through service to the Church and the people of Fódlan. You may think of it as a class project, if you wish." An indulgent smile; this was probably the closest Rhea ever got to cracking a joke. "This Harpstring Moon, the Golden Deer will be charged with dispatching the bandits who attacked previously – the ones you drove back at Remire." Rhea's face turned serious as she announced, "In an effort to evade pursuit, these knaves have taken shelter in Zanado, the Red Canyon."

Byleth nodded. "I've never been there. Is that close by?"

"…Your father truly taught you little of Seiros's work. The Red Canyon is a holy place, where the Goddess alighted to bring life to this world. It is where Seiros first heard Her voice. And yes, it is close by," Rhea sighed. "It is also forbidden to all who do not have special dispensation from myself. This band of bandits is polluting the Goddess's home with their sin. You and your class will be bringing Her judgment down upon them."

"With our swords. Lethally?"

"Correct. But," a sudden smile broke out on Rhea's face, and she reached forward with a warm, entreating hand to cup the professor's face, "I do hope that you will also take some time in Zanado to…listen for the voice of the Goddess. A visit there is a precious opportunity for any of the faithful, even myself. I usually retreat there for meditation every five years, and always I return awed and restored."

Uncomfortable at the sudden contact, Byleth backed away. Smoothly, as if nothing were amiss, Rhea returned her hands to their prayerful clasp.

"So, you're gonna need nine horses total," said the bored-looking stablehand with the dark red hair. "Minus, uh, did any of you bring mounts of your own? I know you did, Mari – I have Dorte right here already."

Byleth, Claude, Ignatz, and Raphel were the only ones who didn't, apparently, forcing them to borrow mounts from the monastery. As the stablehand gently led horse after horse out to the yard and the students made last-minute checks of their luggage, Lorenz started chiding: "Claude, I am surprised you do not own a mount of your own. Horsemanship is one of most useful noble arts, in war and in peace."

"Relax, Lorenz. I know how to ride." Claude leapt easily into the saddle, proving his words. "I just figured it wasn't worth the hassle. One horse is about the same as another, to me."

"Only a man who knows nothing about horses would say that," Leonie said, patting the gray mare that had come with her from Sauin.

"I'm not sure why we need them. The canyon's close enough that we can walk," said Raphael. The stablehand looked at him cautiously, before bringing out an enormous animal that looked more suited to plowing fields than carrying riders. "Nice horsey! I'm Raphael."

"It means reaching our goal in one day rather than two. I don't want you all to miss too much class time," said Byleth.

Maegelle sighed. "You're a bit of a slave driver, professor."

Fairly sure that her comment was said in jest, Byleth ignored it. From atop her horse, she scanned the hustling students. "Final preparations, everyone! Claude, where's Hilda?"

"Forgot to pack underwear. She'll be back in a jiffy."

A few of the students had a giggle at that. Lorenz, however, started pawing through his saddlebags with a furrowed brow. "Ugh, how could I have…Professor! I need to go back for my hair pomade!"

"Is it really that important, Lorenz?" asked Leonie, who had saddled her horse quickly and professionally, and by now was getting quite impatient with those lagging behind. "I don't want to wait here while you go back for fripperies."

Lorenz bristled to his full pointiness, which was a head taller than Leonie. However, Byleth had never seen her intimidated by this when they were face-to-face, and doubted it would work when Leonie was mounted and he was on the ground. "Frippery? Do you even know what pomade is?"

"I've never heard of it, which is why I think you can probably do without, Lorenz!"

Byleth stepped in. "Just go, if there's something you think you need. But be quick about it. And remember, we are trying to travel light!" At that, every other student started looking in their bags pensively, and Byleth let out a miniscule sigh.

Hilda and Lorenz's return was welcome, and as the Golden Deer finally set off, a certain amount of tension drained out of everyone. The road to Zanado was sunny and scenic, down slopes too rocky to support thick vegetation. So there was nothing to block their view of the Oghma Mountains, clustered around the monastery and the canyon as if to protect Fódlan's sacred heart. Veins of green clung bravely to life on peaks that soared to the heavens, spearpoints hunting the sun in the sky.

Byleth had never thought about it much, but she supposed that she liked travelling all over Fódlan for mercenary work. She liked seeing new vistas and picking new flowers and buying new food from the markets. Would she miss it, as a professor tied to the monastery? Would Garreg Mach and its mountains become bland and ordinary before the school year was up?

Well, she'd deal with that if it happened. For now, they were quite nice.

Your lack of inner turmoil is amazing, mused Sothis. You know there are people who agonize over the past and future constantly?

That sounded rough. Maybe they could benefit from Sothis's time powers.

On the contrary! I like that you mostly accept events as they come. A more anxious personality would wish to reset time after every little mistake, and pester me to madness!

Being pestered to madness? How terrible. Byleth didn't know anyone willing to do that…

Hmph. So it seems you are capable of sarcasm to some degree. While I may "pester", it is entirely for your own good!

They descended into Zanado on a road that had once been paved and flanked by pillars. Time and neglect, however, had shattered all the craft here, and left pieces large and small for the horses to step over.

Ignatz made a disappointed sound. "I think these pillars had designs carved on them, but they're sandstone. They haven't weathered erosion well at all."

"Maybe things are more preserved deeper in," Raphael suggested. "Better sheltered from the weather? We've got a whole day to explore tomorrow." Ahead of them, Zanado was taking shape as a cleft in the mountains, strangely bare of vegetation, sheltered by yellow-brown rock walls. Lumps of the same yellow-brown stone arose from the canyon floor, shaped into steps and spires and mesas. A curtain of dust hung over the landscape, further blurring outlines softened by time, but Byleth thought they might…

Yes, those are buildings! And roads, and agricultural terraces – these are the ruins of a city, Byleth! She had never heard Sothis so excited.

"Why is this place called the Red Canyon? It's not red at all," said Claude.

"Perhaps we need to see it in a different light," offered Ignatz.

"I need you all to focus," said Byleth, quieting the children around her. "The report from the knights says our quarry is taking shelter in the ruins. We dismount now and continue on foot. Even you, Lorenz. You don't have enough practice fighting on horseback, and the terrain here is rough." They obeyed without a fuss (even Lorenz). No one spoke as the Golden Deer readied weapons for their first real battle.

They crawled down the treacherous slope, trying their best to stay together. Byleth looked, worried, at the gaping, gutted stone gatehouse that stood at the entrance to the city. Assuming the top story was still accessible, that was exactly where she would put a lookout, if she were defending this place.

A loud whistle confirmed her theory. "Run to the gatehouse! NOW!" Arrows started coming their way, as the Deer pushed themselves to make it to the inner range of the lookout's bow. Was it just one? Byleth couldn't measure the rate of fire to make sure – she had to look back at each student, make sure they were okay. Raphael, the slowest, was the last to make it to the shelter of the archway, clutching a bloody wound on his shoulder.

"Ah, Marianne, could you," he wheezed, "I think I can still fight, but…"

As Marianne summoned the glow of healing magic, Byleth glared at the dusty staircase that seemed to lead up to the gatehouse's second floor. "We can't have this guy at our backs. Hilda, go up and deal with him." She turned her gaze to the plaza before them, where a ragged crew of opponents was forming up. They crept forward, with fast-decreasing caution.

"Hey, where are the knights?" one called out. "All I see are a bunch of kids!"

"The knights of Seiros have underestimated us," said another. "Big mistake!"

Leonie cleaned the last of the bandit blood off her lance, then gave it a quick burnishing with an oily rag. Satisfied with the way it gleamed in the setting sun, she set it down against one of Zanado's plentiful walls – and found herself suddenly at a loss for something to do. Their chosen campsite was a building intact enough that the professor had told them not to bother setting up their tents. Maegelle had already managed to build a fire (with more magical explosions than Leonie would have used, but she couldn't argue with the results). And now Raphael was stewing millet and cured meat into a porridge for their dinner.

There just wasn't any work left for her. A lot of the other students had already zipped off to explore. Hilda was stretched out on the remains of an old stone bench, sunning herself like a cat. Raphael was busy with dinner. And Ignatz was staring into the fire, clutching his knees, brow furrowed like he was studying for the most important exam of the school year.

All right, fine. Leonie squatted next to Ignatz, barely drawing a reaction from him. "Hey. What's up with you? You seemed really excited about exploring these ruins earlier."

"Oh, Leonie. Hi." He sighed and uncurled a bit, sitting up. "I just had to…think. About the battle."

"What about it?"

"Well, it was my first battle, and it was…a lot. Even though it was actually over very quickly. And I didn't get wounded, so, uh…" Ignatz rambled.

"Are you just feeling overwhelmed?" Leonie asked.

"No, that's not exactly – I mean, I am, but – oh, let me start over. I killed people, Leonie. I shot at them, and they died. Sometimes it was someone else who dealt the killing blow, and sometimes me, but I don't feel like that makes any difference. It doesn't feel good, either way! I just…am I the only one who's worried about this? Is it so strange that I don't want to kill people?" Ignatz's voice rose, the most strident she'd ever heard him. Words poured out that he'd clearly been turning over and over in his mind.

She had to take a moment to consider her response. Something he'd put so much thought into deserved some thought from her in return. "I don't think any of us want to kill people. But how much it bothers you, that depends on the person."

"It's not just you, buddy," Raphael piped up. "Marianne's gone over to spend time with the horses like she does when she's sad. And she brought an icon to pray to."

Leonie sighed. "I'll be honest with you, Ignatz. I want to be a mercenary; it's my dream. And I know that in that line of work, I'll be killing a lot. So when I killed someone for the first time today, I tried not to let it bother me." She thought of her lance, every cranny scrupulously stripped of blood and then polished to a gleaming finish. "I don't think," but there she was, doubting herself, "that makes me heartless. There's a difference between being proud of your skills with a weapon and being happy to kill people."

"But if all weapons are good for is killing, is that really something to be proud of?" Ignatz said dolefully.

Leonie narrowed her eyes, but forced herself to think through his point before getting defensive. "No, that's not all they're good for. Weapons kill for a lot of different reasons, Ignatz. When my village was being extorted, we were close to starving or being forced to move. Captain Jeralt saved us then. You know, he didn't actually have to kill that many of them – once they figured out that our territory was being guarded by a bunch of well-trained mercenaries, they knew they didn't have a chance and left. Maybe they went back to being bandits somewhere else, I don't know, but my home's been safe ever since. That's what I want to be able to do: protect people and support my home. Violence is just…what I'll use to do that."

Ignatz gave no response, just sighed and curled his arms around his knees again.

"You're here to become a knight, right?" Leonie asked. He mumbled an affirmative. "Well, you're going to have to find some way to cope. Knights aren't too different from mercenaries in that respect."

A new voice chimed in: "Have you tried dehumanizing the enemy?" Leonie, Ignatz, and Raphael looked over in surprise. Hilda was stretching herself with the artful flexibility of a cat, squeezing the sleep out of her muscles. "Claude says it works wonders."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Hilda barely talked in class and only seemed to be friends with Claude – not even the other Alliance nobles – so Leonie thought this might be their first real conversation.

"So, humans don't like hurting other humans. That's just a general principle." Hilda got up off her bench to stretch more, still talking. "That's why we can walk around, like, trusting people not to be mean for no reason. That said, if you can pretend to yourself that someone isn't human – that they're just 'a criminal' or 'a barbarian' or 'a beast' – you can do whatever you want to them without feeling guilty. De-human-ization. Making someone not human. Get it?"

Ignatz looked concerned. "Uh, that seems a little bit…wrong? Like it could be used to justify so many evil things."

Hilda smirked down at them in a way that made Leonie bristle. "Never said it wasn't. If you really want to keep your hands clean, Ignatz, you shouldn't become a knight."

"That's not a choice for me, Hilda. My family paid a lot for me to enter the Academy. I can't betray them and waste everything they've invested in me." No one missed the pained look in his eyes as he said this.

"Is it just about money?" Hilda scrutinized him. "I bet you don't want to tell your parents 'no', either. Well, the fees here are pocket change for me. Let me know if you feel like leaving, and I'll reimburse your family."

That took everyone aback. Leonie wondered how some people could be so disgustingly rich that a price that had taken all the hard currency in her entire village would amount to mere "pocket change".

"That's real generous of you, Hilda!" said Raphael.

Ignatz stammered incoherently.

"You're a nice guy, Ignatz," Hilda said in response to his poorly-articulated question. "You deserve the chance to do something you actually want to do. Don't stay here and torment yourself, if you hate battle that much." She shrugged, and this time her smile was something softer. "It's up to you, okay? Think about it. Anyway, is dinner almost ready? That smell is making me hungry!"

The other students and the professor soon arrived, summoned by Raphael's booming voice. No one turned up their nose at his cooking, and soon after sunset they were all asleep, tired by a long day of travelling.

Oh, hurry up, you slow-poke! Why must I be forced to experience the day at your laggardly pace? Had I a body of my own, I would already be outside! Sothis yammered to her host as she straightened her uniform, pinned her cape and combed her hair. It was the next morning, and Byleth would probably have been in a bad mood if she were not so good at ignoring annoying sounds.

Something about Zanado had Sothis in a complete tizzy. It was tickling at her missing memories, she claimed. Thus, last evening she had had Byleth running from place to place, haphazardly inspecting the ruins in the hope that this empty vista, eroded carving, or piece of broken masonry would be the thing to unveil her mysteries. It seemed that she intended to spend today the same way. Byleth didn't mind exploring, but she did wish that Sothis would calm down. How was she supposed to quiet her mind and listen for the voice of the Goddess, as Rhea had asked, when there was an excitable little gremlin in there?

She stepped outside, to be greeted by a, "Morning, Teach!" The class leader was up long before her, as usual.

Byleth stopped to take the bread Claude offered her for breakfast, though Sothis raged at the delay. She was getting a lot better at mentally managing two conversations at once, though it was still hard to interact comfortably with Claude with Sothis yelling at her.

"I'm glad you're awake. I was up early, and I found the place where the bandits must have been sleeping. Now, I hope you don't have strong feelings about going through the possessions of the dead, because I already did that." He held up a heavy-looking purse. "You would not believe the amount of money I found."

Byleth gestured, and he handed it over. She drew it open and swished her fingers through a pond of golden coins. "Did you count these?" she asked.

"One hundred twenty Leicester half-suns."

She raised one to the morning light, inspecting its designs. Then she gave it an inquisitive bite. It deformed, soft and pure. "Genuine. The purse is good leather, too. Quiet, I'm thinking."

"I didn't say anything," said Claude.

"This isn't their war chest; that would be mixed currencies. And they must have gotten it extremely recently, since it hasn't been distributed among them or spent. From my experience with such men, they ought to have gone right to drunken partying after stealing a windfall like this, instead of going back to steal more." Byleth's eyes narrowed just the tiniest fraction. "The night we met, they were being paid to attack you."

Claude raised his eyebrows. "You sure about that, Teach?"

"I just explained my logic. There's no way to be certain, but it's the most likely possibility. As I said, I am familiar with such men." As the quarry she hunted for hire, as business rivals, and as occasional allies – the line between a group of marauding bandits and a rowdy, undisciplined band of mercenaries was thin indeed, and she had seen men slip across it in both directions.

Her student let out a short, simple sigh. "Well, I think I have to agree with you. Damn, though... If we assume the goal was an assassination, half the noble heirs of Fódlan were there that night. It would be easier to figure out who couldn't have benefited from this scheme. Kind of a pity we killed them all, right?"

He was right. They had no more leads, her students might well still have a murderer after them, and it amazed her how terrible that made her feel. "Rhea will need to hear about this," declared Byleth. "Whoever was behind these bandits might send someone to attack you again."

"But you're not making us leave right away, are you Teach?" Claude asked, making eyes like a hurt puppy.

Listen to him! We still have so much to explore in this place!

"A clean assassination takes a while to arrange. We should be safe for now."

If your enemy sends assailants of the same caliber, why, you and your little ones should be able to dispatch them without a problem!

Byleth massaged her temples, trying to break apart the beginnings of a headache. "We will stay here one more day as planned," she ground out. "Claude, tell the other students and then go back to the bandits' campsite to check for more clues. Otherwise, you have a free day. Get me if something happens – but I need some quiet right now."

Sothis, thankfully, took the hint.

Vocalist · Aug 7, 2022

Neither of them could sleep, so they huddled together by the oasis pool, a blanket their shield against the night air. After so long in a place where their only comfort was each other, they refused to be apart. Fingers constantly reaching out to brush familiar skin, and the bones under the skin, and to interlace when they met each other. They marveled at the wind, at the stars, at the water that pooled here so cool and so sweet – not the sour stuff that dripped from stones or hot and stale from metal bowls.

Khalid still remembered the names of the stars as his mother and father had taught him. With a magician's hand, he traced constellations and told her their stories – she didn't know how much he was making up on the spot, but it was all fine. She loved that he could lie, lie that he could protect her, that he could ensure they survived another day, that they would be free someday – lie until it became the truth.

"And that line, crowned by all those bright stars, is Mitra's torch. They were the very first stars to be put in the sky, so that the people could have light even at night. Of course, after he had that idea, every yazata wanted their own constellation in the sky, and it became filled up. In Fódlan they call it Saint Cichol's spear. His spear, ah—"

"The Spear of Assal."

"Right. It has these little wings on each side of the tip, see the stars make two triangles, one-two-three one-two-three. He was the father of the land, who taught men of Fódlan how to sow and harvest."

"Who was it who did that in Almyra?"

"Anahita of the Waters. Those stars are her river, which stretches from heaven to earth and back again…"

They whispered, so as not to wake their rescuers – escorts? Captors? Who knew? Who knew if they were who they said they were, if they were really taking them back home. Hilda and Khalid had long since stopped trusting the future. They could be going to the most horrible dungeon yet.

Even so, these people were pretending to be nice to them and giving them a chance to see the stars, which made it possible to dream that things would be okay.

"Hilda…Hilda…you lazybones, wake up!" Hilda felt hands infiltrate her sleeping nest, threatening to grab away her blankets. She held on with stubborn strength and growled.

Behind her, a different blanket was stolen away. Her eyes shot open at exposure to the cold morning air, and she let out a cry of betrayal. "Claude!" If it had been anyone else, she might have bit them for this attack – but, of course, no one else would have dared. She hugged her remaining blankets to her. "You'll need to rip these apart if you want to take them away from me!"

"Will you still want them after I empty a waterskin on your head?" asked Claude, who did indeed seem ready to do what he was threatening to. Hilda threw the rest of her bedding at his stupid face.

Prideful in defeat, she kept her back to him as she stalked over to her bag and got out a set of clothes for the day. "This is our free day, Claude. It doesn't matter what time we get up." This was the sort of thing she expected from Ferdinand of the Black Eagles – she heard him crowing like a rooster at the door of her neighbor Edelgard – but not Claude.

"You're not wrong, but, first of all, it's an hour after classes normally start, so I figured you'd gotten enough. Secondly," a quick scan to make sure the room was clear, "I have news you need to hear."

Hilda did her own check, out of habit. This long, low building might have been a hospital or a brothel or absolutely anything, but for now the Golden Deer were using it as an improvised dormitory. Bedrolls and packs spotted the floor in rows, little six-pace units of personal space, neat or messy as the owner was inclined. Hilda's was the messiest right now, but that could be blamed on her and Claude's little fight with the bedding. And, as usual, she was the last to get up, so she and Claude were alone.

"I went digging through the campsite of the previous tenants and found…a sum of money," Claude explained. Still wary of possible eavesdroppers, the exasperating paranoiac. "Teach has concluded that they must have been hired as part of a plot to assassinate one or more of the students at Garreg Mach."

"Oh no," Hilda drawled. "Assassins? I sure hope whoever hired that gang doesn't send any more assassins against you or me or the other Golden Deer." She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly popped out of their sockets. "You woke me up for this?" Done listening to his 'news', she grabbed the waterskin Claude had threatened her with earlier and filled a bowl to wash her face.

"I didn't want the news to surprise you, okay?" She could hear the pout in his voice. "Give you a chance to compose yourself." He meant that she should at least try to look a little concerned in front of the other students, as if that weren't a bag of her own money Claude had just handed over to their professor.

She'd kind of hoped she would get to recover it, actually. Being Duchess Goneril gave her control over a significant fortune, but she and Claude had a lot of projects to fund. Too-competent-to-replace stewards giving her a hard time over poorly-documented "charitable donations" were the bane of her life right now.

"I'm sure our professor can keep us safe from hypothetical harm," she said, pulling on her student uniform. Claude looked away politely, not that she cared. He was the one person in the world she felt comfortable showing her uncovered body. She could be sure he was only averting his gaze out of politeness, rather than disgust.

"I actually thought Teach was pretty impressive. I didn't give her any hints, you realize? She just stared into space for half a minute and announced, 'They were being paid to attack you.'" Claude's impression of Professor Byleth was grim, but high-pitched. It was a hilarious combination. "She's smart. In a very worldly way. She can fight, she can command, she can keep her cool amazingly well—"

"You know people aren't supposed to be that cool all the time? She has eyes like a dead fish." Hilda considered it her job to dump cold water on the conversation when Claude got too excited about one of his little ideas. "I agree that we're going to learn a lot from her…"

"I have in mind more than that." She had not finished dressing, but Claude turned halfway to her – revealing a single gleaming eye and his I've-just-had-a-brilliant-idea grin. "She's spent her whole life as a mercenary. Poaching her from the Church shouldn't be that hard."

"Spend some more time evaluating her first. Actually, Claude, didn't you say this year was our chance to just be kids again? You're running too many projects." Her white cravat was the last part of the outfit to go on, smooth and tight to make sure not a single scar was visible. Finally, she grabbed a comb and began straightening her short-chopped white hair.

Claude turned back around fully. "Isn't it a little difficult to get neat hair if you don't use a mirror?"

"I've been doing it successfully for years."

"Uh, not really. Trust me, I've been able to see the results. Unlike you."

Hilda fought the temptation to throw her comb at him. "You know I can't stand mirrors. I'll never be pretty, so why bother?"

"I don't think there's anything wrong with the way you look," he said, like an excellent liar.

This time she did throw the comb at him. "Your teasing is relentless this morning. Go bother someone else."

Claude made one last push: "Are you sure you don't want to explore the ruins with me? Ignatz says he found a mosaic somewhere. We're going to dust it off and take a look at the design."

"Vacation day. I get to do what I want, which is napping in the sun and sewing a cute felt hedgehog, not working up a sweat in dusty ruins. Enjoy your archaeology."

Byleth had convinced Sothis to adopt a less haphazard approach to their search today. They would be investigating only the most important and unique sites in Zanado. Surely those would evoke more in Sothis than a shattered pot or common dwelling.

The first step: looking up. The buildings of Zanado were largely one-story rectangles, with flat roofs. But a few structures poked above the dull skyline: stepped pyramids, terraces built into the canyon walls (where the inhabitants had grown their food, claimed Sothis), and a single blocky spire. This spire was not quite the same yellow-brown color as everything else, and for that reason Byleth chose to go see it first.

She picked her way through the streets. Sothis was out, darting here and there to look at things, but always following her like a kite on a string. The gremlin stayed quiet, and with the fresh morning air Byleth's headache began to subside. It was not hard to find her way to the spire: Zanado's streets were straight and wide as the greatest thoroughfares of the Imperial Capital. Even when a building had collapsed, spilling rubble into the street, there was always room to skirt it and keep going.

Before long she reached the broad empty plaza that surrounded the spire – further evidence that it had been something important. A temple, perhaps? A palace? But it seemed a little too small for that – not a lot of room to house people.

Well, it has a few underground levels too, Sothis said, before freezing. How did I know that? Get closer! Your idea is working! No, wait. Stop!

Byleth stopped. Ahead of them, the mysterious structure waited, rising higher and narrower in blocky stages until the very top was just a needle pointed at the sun.

This plaza is circular, but the spire is not in the center. There is a reason for that. It has something to do with the design in the paving stones. Please, Byleth.

Those stones were covered with years and centuries of fine yellow grit. Sothis could not touch them, so Byleth knelt, brushing the dust away until it was worked into her nails. Then she took her waterskin and poured a libation onto the ground of this vanished civilization. The water splashed the parched stones, instantly darkening them, and made clear what she had uncovered: An eight-pointed star, black against a white background.

The stars, Sothis said wistfully. This plaza is a map of the night sky in winter, and the spire takes the position of my…the Blue Sea Star, I believe you call it. The architect was so proud of her cleverness when she told me. Why can't I remember her name?

"It seems that you are remembering plenty already," Byleth said, moving forward. The spire awaited. The steps leading up to it were brown sandstone, but the structure itself was something else: waxy and cool to the touch, perhaps stone or perhaps metal. Underneath the omnipresent dust, it was colored a deep green. The portal beckoned, its doors long since vanished.

Inside, the light was so much less. Byleth looked up, seeing no sign of a window. "How did they get light in this place?" she muttered, waiting for her eyes to adjust. With only the illumination from the entrance, she shuffled forward. Indecipherable green shapes rose up from the floor – plinths and pillars and tables, many with dark fragments of metal and glass embedded in them. Debris poked into her feet: pieces of tarnished, patina-coated metal, smashed apart so it was impossible to tell what clever shapes they had once been part of; shards of glass, sharpness ground away by the dusty wind. Byleth could see the pattern on the floor, where the wind blew in a new layer of dirt every year.

Small and quiet, Sothis hung in the air. When she wasn't moving, her limp ribbons stretched all the way to the ground. What happened here? It shouldn't be like this.

"It seems like someone came in at some point and smashed a lot of stuff." Concerned, Byleth kept her eyes on Sothis. Was this melancholy? An emotion she had never seen from the little gremlin.

I don't remember that happening. Her face changed; a new emotion arose. The ribbons began to flutter again, violently. Who would do that? Who came in here and destroyed my things? This was – this was my – this was a special place! I – I did things here! Made things here! I was trying to help people! Sothis jabbed a finger at one of the raised plinths of stone, a cylinder crowned by a ring of broken glass. I always had something growing in that tube! Did they just kill it?

Emotion this strong was pretty much foreign to Byleth, and she'd always let her dad deal with the diplomacy. But now, faced with a friend literally no one else could help, she had to do something. Goddess help her, though, she had no idea what.

There should be running water here! There should be gardens, not this denuded dustbowl! There should be human emissaries! There should be people living here! Where did they all go? What happened to my home? Sothis was screaming, far, far too loud. The sound filled up her head, pressing out thought. Byleth felt her headache return with a vengeance. Her skin felt hot, feverish. Her legs trembled.

"…I know you said this blue figure was a dragonfly, but look at its tail. I think it might be a four-winged bird. Have you ever heard of a creature like that?" Ignatz chattered, tracing his fingers over the ancient mosaic.

Claude drew in a sharp breath, interrupting him. "Do you hear something? It sounded like someone was…screaming?"

Ignatz gave him a puzzled look. In the corner, where she was maintaining a simple spell to give them light, a bored Maegelle shook her head.

"Um. All right." Unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, he poked his head outside. "Marianne?" he called. "Are you all right out here?"

"I am, thank you," his blue-haired classmate replied. "I thought I heard something like the cry of animal in pain. I would like to help, but I can't figure out where it came from…"

Hilda knelt on the ground, shaking. What the hell? She'd gotten up to stretch, a break from sewing. She'd been musing about getting a snack. Then…she'd felt her skin grow hot, a stabbing pain in her head. Distantly, a voice screamed in incandescent rage...

"Sothis. Sothis!" So rare for her to raise her voice. But Sothis stopped, for the moment. She glared at Byleth as if demanding an explanation. Eyes burning, hands clawed. The hair trailing behind her seemed, in flashes, to be something more like green fire. Byleth struggled to find her words. But if she kept talking, it would keep Sothis from doing – she didn't know what Sothis could do, but she was scared of it. "You're just angry, right? You found a place that was important to you once, but all the people and things you cared about there are gone and you don't know what happened to them."

That's correct. And it is frustrating!

Byleth nodded. "You still don't remember what happened here."

Someone must have deliberately destroyed this place. But I have no idea who! I dearly want to take vengeance, to find the rest of my people. But they're all vanished! Clues swallowed up in this damnable dust!

"Sothis, I don't know how long ago this place was abandoned. But I think it's been long enough that you're not going to find any of the people you knew. Or the enemies who drove them away."

Byleth could see the moment her rage broke. The glow faded out of her eyes and her very form seemed to diminish. If you are correct, and all my kin are long since deceased…what am I, then? How did I come to be living in a future era, bound to you?

Byleth could only shrug. "Sothis, you told me that I'm abnormally good at not worrying about the past and future. So maybe this advice won't work for you. You seem a little high-strung, to be honest. But in my life, the most important day has always been today. The most important year is this year, and the most important job is the current job. And since you awakened a month ago, I've appreciated having you around. I have no idea where you come from, but that honestly doesn't bother me at all. You give me advice on talking to people and planning lessons and your time powers have saved me twice now."

Her green eyebrows knit, in a mixture of tenderness and exasperation. Oh, Byleth. You've never given a speech in your life, have you?

"You also criticize me constantly, which can be annoying," she continued. "The point is that, if you want to keep on looking for answers about your past, I'm willing to help you. But I think we've been doing pretty well together. So…if you feel like you have nothing, that's not true."

The words were awkward and stiff. But they were enough to draw out a weak smile. Thank you. I will have to think on my next goal, but…oh, I think I have tired myself out. Sothis might have said something else. But the extremely close roar of a Demonic Beast drowned her out.

What the--! Oh, that resonance. I see. Sothis muttered a few arcane formulae to herself as Byleth drew her sword and peered out the door. I, ah, believe I called that thing here. Accidentally. It is probably in a lot of pain right now. Not enough to disable it, but certainly enough to enrage it. Very careless of me, I admit. I believe I understand enough now to avoid doing that ever again.

Byleth yanked her head back inside. "Can you rewind time so you didn't do it?" she said, in a tone that, from anyone else, would bespeak mild concern.

The ground was beginning to shake in time with the creature's steps.

Well, the thing about quantum vibrations is that, when they originate from an atemporal source—

"Sothis. I do not want to fight this thing by myself."

I can't undo it! I'm sorry!

Breathing deeply and deliberately, Hilda dabbed her face with cool water and tried to think about what had just happened. Those no-eyed butchers had warned her about potential problems with her body, right? "Unpredictable entropic interactions" or something like that. Well, 'warned' was putting it generously – more like they'd smugly congratulated themselves, in front of her, for sharply reducing her life expectancy. She'd never experienced an attack like this before, but it was most likely the beginning of her body's inevitable breakdown.

She curled her lip in disgust. Fuckers had said she'd live to thirty at least. Even their alleged successes were shoddy.

Her recovery was interrupted by a bone-shivering screech. Nerves twanging like violin strings, Hilda tried to pinpoint the source of the sound. Could it be a wild animal?

Another cry came, louder. Ugh. Wild, yes. Animal, not quite. Somehow a Demonic Beast had wandered near their campground, and something was enraging it. It occurred to Hilda that the target of its wrath was most likely one of her classmates. Furthermore, she was the only one who had stayed at their campsite instead of going out to explore.

Their campsite. Where the weapons were.

Hilda swore loudly, leaping back inside. In the space of a breath, she grabbed Freikugel, her family's Relic. She didn't even take time to marvel at how creepy the damn thing was as it shuddered awake – its Crest Stone rolling about like a questing eye and its spines glowing burnt-orange in response to the Crest of Goneril in her blood. She hated Freikugel, hated that she had to wield it and not Father or Holst, and she imagined sometimes that it hated her too (because, come on, it was clearly alive somehow). But when overwhelming force was needed, there was no better option than its apocalyptic flame.

Who are we killing today, Hilda? she imagined it saying.

Just a beast. Calm down.

There was no room for further conversation. As she darted outside, listening for a third cry so she could figure out where the hell to go, she felt a shadow from above. Two birds, great demon-blooded vulture things, were soaring past. They gave their own cries, calling out to distant brethren that a feast was imminent. They may have been demons, but there was still enough of nature in them that they followed a vulture's instincts. Wherever blood was spilt, they arrived to scavenge.

The monsters' giant wings carried them at incredible speed. Gritting her teeth, Hilda reached for the forbidden power in her blood. A sigil began to form in the air before her – Goneril's Wheel and something else – but she didn't bother to let it complete before dashing through. It scattered into motes of light, far behind her already. Hilda's blood burned, invigorating, crushing. Even with both her Crests active, she was only a little faster. But she was able to pound through the streets of Zanado without running out of breath. When a building loomed in her path, she was able to leap forward, crack a handhold in the stone with her fingers, and pull herself up and over. Then she was able to keep running, charting a new path on the city's rooftops.

Who needed to breathe? The fire within was enough. It drove her, sustained her – rebuilt her, even as the delicate mechanisms of her body were pulverized by the power flowing through them. Joints cracked, membranes burst, blood evaporated; all replaced before it could stop her. That was the power of the Wheel of Fortune, Goneril's Crest: endless circular renewal.

Time is endless. Humans are not.

Shut up, Freikugel. But it was correct. Already the pain was beginning to build up, a full-body burn that she could only ignore by guzzling more power. Beneath her skin, veins were glowing the same burnt-orange as her axe. She knew she could only keep doing this up to a certain point.

She wouldn't reach that point today.

Ahead of her a broken plaza stretched empty of buildings, save for an important-looking central spire. The Demonic Beast loomed before it – a frightful thing, lizard-like and covered in armored scales. It was taller than a house but squat in proportions, like a turtle. Its stubby tail quivered as it butted its head up against the too-small entrance and roared. Venomous purple slime dripped from its fangs. Above, the two great birds wheeled and waited. Hilda could hear more of them calling in the distance – and perhaps the howl of a giant wolf, too. Was every monster in the Oghma Mountains converging on this location? She could not take them all. The only option was to finish this one quickly, and then run.

Part of her wondered what the point was, if she was dying anyway. But on the day she became Duchess Hilda had made a promise to a boy who lied about his name. He lied as a way of life, but she believed him when he told her his true goals, she believed him when he promised her revenge, and she believed in his capabilities. She'd hoard the years of her life, however many remained to her, to be spent fighting for him. Hilda took a breath she didn't need, just to scream out her rage and pain. The Beast turned, reacting to a new threat. It saw a burning comet, jumping from a roof, soaring overhead.

Bone spines gleamed hungrily before punching through the Beast's armored back. It roared, trying to shake off the vicious thorn, but Hilda had a firm hold of Freikugel and refused to let go. She'd been aiming for the neck, actually – thinner armor there – but this was fine. She could reach the neck from here anyway.

Wedging her feet into gaps between the scales, Hilda pried her axe free and brought it down again. Blood spurted out, a stream in proportion to the Beast's size. It flecked her grin red. "Pierce through, Freikugel!" she exhorted. Fed by her flaring power, the axe came down like an executioner's sword. The spokes broke what armor remained, then the main blade cut the rest. Behind the Beast's head was now a huge slice of open meat.

It pitched forward, shaking its head in agony. This movement dislodged Hilda where others had failed. She yelped, trying to absorb the fall and only partially succeeding. Rolling back to her feet and ignoring the scrapes, she dared not take her eyes off the enemy. Already, it was growling, rising upright, starting to rear back its head in a motion that she knew presaged its poison breath.

That was the trouble with Demonic Beasts. In addition to their giant size and unnatural viciousness, they would keep fighting through any injury until you hacked them to pieces.

Hilda's mind flicked through her options. With its attention focused squarely on her, there was no way to run away or distract it, was there? Fine then. While its lifeblood poured out a gaping wound and it gathered up the strength for its greatest attack, she charged forward. Freikugel swept across the bottom of its throat, tearing through delicate scales – still thick as plate armor – releasing a mix of blood and dark venom. The Beast screamed and slammed its head down, vomiting a spray of violet fluid that evaporated quickly to mist. Hilda had no way to avoid being soaked. Despite herself, she wailed. It burned all over her skin and attacked her eyes with vicious, blinding pain. She struck out blindly and hit nothing.

The Beast screamed anyway. Hilda heard someone calling her name.

"Get clear, Hilda! To your right! The others will show up soon!" It was the professor. Hilda stumbled away, before cracking a teary eye to see what was going on.

Armed with only a steel sword, Byleth Eisner darted in to slash at the Beast's wounds, before dodging back from the bite of its enormous teeth. Hilda noted with some satisfaction that its attacks were slower and weaker. She and Freikugel had done some good.

"Hilda! Teach!" came Claude's voice. "There are other monsters coming! We have to get out of here, now!" Hilda tried to run in his direction. Her vision still swam and burned. Even worse, the aftereffects of her earlier exertion were beginning to make themselves known. Her lungs felt like they were melting. It was a relief when Claude stopped his horse and, seeing her condition, helped her mount behind him.

The professor was running their way too – her own surcoat now dripping the Beast's poison. It followed, still stubbornly alive.

"Hey!" Claude called out to blurry figures she assumed must be their classmates. "Can any of you help get this thing off our tail?" His horse's hooves pounded to the edge of the plaza, past Maegelle and Marianne, grimly preparing their spells. As soon as they'd reached the back lines, he turned around to look at her. "Hilda. Hey, eyes open. How hard did you push yourself?"

"As hard as I could," she huffed. It still hurt to breathe, to speak. Her skin still burned from the venom. She wondered if Marianne could spare a healing spell.

"Use this, okay?" He handed her a bottle of antitoxin. Bless him and his paranoia – he never went anywhere without one, though, as he loved to point out, there were plenty of common poisons it couldn't help with. Hilda splashed the stuff on her face, neck and arms before taking several gulps for good measure. She breathed a sigh of relief as the enchanted serum did its work, cooling the pain internal and external. Her vision cleared enough that she could see Claude wrinkling his nose at the amount she was using of his expensive potion. But as soon as he saw her recovering, he reached for his bow and turned back to the fight.

The Demonic Beast was still coming their way. It bore the marks of lightning and ice; a truly disgusting amount of blood painted the plaza behind it; and yet it was still coming. Claude's arrow sank into its hissing, drooling mouth. It kept coming.

"This thing isn't that fast," someone said frantically. Leonie. Hilda could see empty hands clenching anxiously and realized she had rushed here without a weapon. "If we're all on horseback, we can outrun it. It's got to bleed to death eventually, right?"

"Teach isn't on horseback," Claude said, loosing another arrow. "If she can make it to us ahead of the Beast…" She wouldn't, Hilda could see that. They were just about keeping pace with each other. "Fucking Mitra – I mean Cichol. If any of us could actually fight from a moving horse, this would be the time to do hit and run attacks. But all we can do is hit or run." One more of Marianne's blizzard spells climbed up the Beast's foreleg, an attempt to slow it. Claude clenched his teeth. "Who here has the fastest horse? Lorenz. But we couldn't find him. So it's me. I'll stay. Hilda, mount up with Mae. I need you all ready to move." Her tired body obeyed, slipping off the horse, even as she argued:

"Claude, that's a stupid risk. I have Freikugel. I can still fight—"

"You have burst blood vessels in both eyes, Hilda! You're not using your Crest any more today!"

She lingered on the ground, shaking. Feeling useless.

How is it that you bear such power, and yet cannot end a simple beast?

Claude spoke to her, softly. "Hey. This is a fight we weren't prepared for. We held it off as best we could, but there's no shame in leaving to—"

From another entrance to the plaza, a few streets over, they all heard it: the unmistakable battle cry of a man who insisted on shouting his own name so that even unintelligent monsters might know whom they faced.

"In the name of House Gloucester! Begone from my sight, foul creature!" Hefting a lance like he was riding at tourney, Lorenz emerged into the field. Byleth and Beast alike turned to stare at him – the former, thankfully, had the presence of mind to redouble her pace while the Demonic Beast was distracted.

It decided to deal with this new threat in its customary manner: by rearing up and gurgling a fountain of poison. Lorenz's gleaming charger continued, undaunted. The flat ground of the plaza was as perfect as any training field, and his classmates all watched as he executed a textbook cavalry pass, ripping through the Beast's exposed throat with his lance. Blood and venom poured out in a vile tide that he easily outpaced. Wailing through its torn throat, the Demonic Beast collapsed, never to finish its final attack.

The Golden Deer were stunned still. In the distance, they could hear Lorenz crowing, as well as the giant wolves and the gleefully descending vultures, reminding them that this place was still not safe. But no one could move quite yet.

Numbly, Hilda accepted Claude's help back onto his horse. "He took advantage of another wound I already made in the same place," she told him. Claude nodded soothingly.

Meanwhile, Lorenz was graciously helping their professor onto his own mount. "Cethleann's tits," Leonie quietly swore. "He's going to be insufferable."

Vocalist · Aug 9, 2022

The spring sun bathed the Golden Deer in its honey-warm glow as they trooped into the training yard. Though it was normally free at this time, Byleth saw Professor Balthus sparring with what looked like an unusually frustrated Caspar von Bergliez (at this point, she could just about remember all the students' names, and Sothis would prompt her if she forgot).

I should stop giving you the help, though. You have been teaching here for a month now. If you forget a student's name, you deserve to bear the consequences!

Her students all paired off to work on their usual subjects (Claude and Ignatz on archery, Leonie and Lorenz on lances, et cetera). None of them needed help to do their warmup drills, and Byleth was able to simply watch, chatting idly with Sothis about this and that.

A shout took her attention – not from one of her own students, though. "I don't get it! I just don't get it!" Caspar yelled.

"Okay, buddy, I think it's time we took a break. Get some water, yeah?" Giving his student an encouraging pat on the back, Balthus made his way over to the water barrels, where Byleth was standing.

Caspar was grumbling something about stupid tall people and Linhardt, but he perked up immediately once he saw Byleth. "Oh, hey Professor! Claude had the wildest story the other day. Is it true that Hilda saved your life from an entire pack of Demonic Beasts?"

Now it was Balthus's turn to look grumpy. "You'd better tell me the kid was exaggerating."

"It's a little complicated," Byleth replied. "There was one Demonic Beast. And a pack of giant wolves. And some giant birds." Two pairs of eyebrows raised before she clarified: "We only fought the big one and ran away from the rest. Everyone got involved, although Hilda had to hold it off on her own for a while. And, yeah, I would have been in pretty big trouble without her."

"Aw, when Claude told it, it was way more exciting," Caspar whined. "How do you make life-or-death battles sound like you were shopping for vegetables?"

Byleth shrugged.

Ah, Caspar. You simply need to learn to read her micro-expressions.

Balthus still had a dark expression. "That's worse than I thought. I've never heard of a monster attack that bad in the Oghma Mountains before."

Byleth shrugged at that, too. "I think I triggered some sort of alarm while I was exploring. There was this screaming sound, and then all the monsters started coming for my location. A bunch of the students heard it too." That was the theory Claude had floated after gathering everyone's stories, and Byleth saw no point in contradicting him. Sothis was still reluctant to reveal herself (and also, embarrassed at putting everyone in danger).

Caspar, who was still stuck on his own vision of events, said, "I can't believe you guys got to fight bandits and monsters on your first mission. All we got to do was practice bouts with the knights. And I'm not complaining – your father is seriously cool, Professor – okay, maybe I am complaining a little bit…"

"If it helps," Byleth said to Caspar, "teacher gossip has it that the Black Eagles will be getting the bandit mission this moon. And," she said to Balthus, "Seteth had a pretty similar reaction to you. He said he'd make sure we get a non-combat mission." This managed to satisfy Caspar, who soon zoomed off to attend a lecture. Balthus, however, still looked pensive. When he volunteered to help her students with practice, she accepted. Byleth was several minutes into a sword drill with Claude, who constantly needed his grip corrected (he was clearly more used to an axe) when the sound of shouting brought practice to a screeching halt.

"Dammit, Hilda! I never would have told you those stories about Holst if I knew it would make you run off trying to be just like him!"

"I know I'll never be like Holst! But you can't stop me from trying, Balthus!"

Belatedly, Byleth realized that their argument had been escalating for some time. She'd just been too good at tuning it out.

I have been listening, but I am afraid I have no idea who 'Holst' is. So I cannot explain much.

Balthus was a big man, deep-voiced, broad-chested. He had muscles that were exceptional even to the eyes of Byleth, who had spent her life around mercenaries who lived by the strength of their sword arm. Without his normal joviality, his sheer size was enough to activate threat alarms in the human brain. Like running into a bear in the forest that suddenly decided to rear up at you.

When she was angry, Hilda was almost as scary. Her sweaty shirt clung to her own physique, and her short-cropped hair gave her a dangerous air. She looked at the towering weapons instructor without any awe, only a burning stubbornness that said she would challenge gods and monsters if they stood in her way.

Claude was the first to step in: "Whoa there," he said, "what's the—"

"This is your fault!" Hilda screamed at him – not limiting her anger to just one target. "Keep your mouth shut next time!"

"Hilda." Byleth made her voice as hard as iron. "That's enough."

With a frustrated cry, Hilda turned away from her classmates and threw her wooden training axe at the wall. While the splinters fell to the dirt, she stormed out.

"…Okay." Balthus took a deep breath. "Okay. Yeah, I'm gonna go too." He left – hopefully not to the same place as Hilda.

For a few moments, the yard was silent. Then came Raphael's uncertain voice: "Uh, Professor? Should we go back to training?"

"…If you wish," she decided. "But you're all excused until afternoon classes. I'll see you then."

Byleth's first instinct was to look for Hilda, but Sothis had a compelling counterargument: Balthus seemed much more in control of himself. If you get an explanation from him first, then you will be better equipped to calm your student.

So she asked the monastery's denizens if they'd seen a bare-chested giant, and followed their directions to the bridge. Most bridges crossed rivers, but this one crossed a great chasm in Garreg Mach's rocky grounds, connecting the main complex and the cathedral. Down below, rock walls descended into shadow and mist. The tops of a few conifers were all that emerged from the hidden bottom. Perhaps there was a river down there?

One could stand on the bridge's battlements and gaze down forever into the empty mist. That was what she found Balthus doing. He grunted in acknowledgement as she stepped up beside him.

After watching the mist together for an uncountable length of time, he spoke up. "Sorry about that. Shoulda had that conversation another time. Not in the middle of your class."

Byleth accepted the apology with a simple nod. "What were you arguing about?"

A sigh came out of him, roughly, as if it had been dragged up by a fishhook. "I guess…since you're her teacher, you should know. We already shouted it to half the monastery, anyway."

"I still don't know what's going on. Who's Holst?"

Balthus looks up, to the sky; the gorge suddenly not empty enough for him. "Holst Marius Goneril was Hilda's older brother. He was also my best friend. We graduated from the Academy together: Golden Deer, class of '72. He was…more than a great fighter, he was a great person. Always trying to be better than he was yesterday. Always treated everyone with respect." The words were becoming harder and harder for him to say. "And he loved his little sister. He used to say that he had to get stronger to be able to pick her up when she got big…" Balthus rubbed at his eyes. "Saints, I'm just getting more emotional here."

And yet, Hilda is the head of her House now, Sothis remarked sadly. I think I suspect what's going on here.

In the silence, Balthus took a deep breath and resumed talking. "It was a few years ago when…all the Gonerils were at the Locket. The Almyran civil war was in full swing, and a big warband hadn't attacked in a while, so…it was thought to be safe. The old Duke wanted to show his children the ropes, you know. And while they were there…a raiding party came. Snuck in under cover of darkness. Killed off their guards and made the whole family vanish. Everyone thought they'd be held for ransom, but…" His hands were clenching the balustrade as if trying to crumble the stone with his bare hands. "…there were never any demands. No one knew what happened to them.

"Not until Judith von Daphnel came to me and said she had a lead, and needed some trustworthy help to follow up on it. Past Fódlan's Throat, into the Sandhills, all the way to the Valley of the Moon. There was a fort there, nearly abandoned. That's where we found the kids." Balthus gazed out into space. Byleth waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be finished.

"You found Holst and Hilda?"

"What? No. Claude and Hilda." He let out a terrible sigh. "Holst died trying to escape, or so I heard. I'd say it was good he went out fighting, instead of…what happened to the others…but it still hurts like hell. Where was I even going with this? Right, our fight. Those two kids, they don't have any family left, you know? Sure, Claude's grandfather is still alive, but he treats his grandson with about as much affection as his fuckin' chess set. So Claude and Hilda, they need someone to look after them. Someone they can trust to be on their side, who isn't trying to use them in any fucked-up schemes. And I, you know, the disinherited brawler with a gambling problem," he chuckled darkly, "happen to be their best option."

Byleth took some time to process his story. It answered a few questions: why Claude and Hilda seemed so close; why Balthus had wanted her teaching position so much; why Hilda was a Duchess with a Hero's Relic at such a young age. "…So. Did your argument start when you tried to tell Hilda not to take on a Demonic Beast alone?"

"Pretty much," he grumbled. "Just because her brother did it once…I mean, I was right there, ready to step in if things got dicey, and even I think in hindsight it was kind of stupid. We made it, but that might only be because the Goddess decided to have mercy on our dumb asses. I don't know. Sometimes I believe we really were that awesome."

"You're more right than you know," Byleth said. "Hilda came close to dying out there."

It was a rare warrior who didn't rely on their eyes. Blinded, but still trying to fight, Hilda stepped right in the path of the Beast. It knocked her down and pinned her under its enormous foot, an attack even it seemed surprised to land.

Still, it knew how to take advantage. Though Hilda struggled, no amount of Crest-granted strength could free her from that weight, channeled through a leg like a tree trunk. The dripping crocodilian maw reached down and ripped and tore.

When she heard Claude's screams, Byleth knew the other students had arrived.

The memories were terribly sad. But Byleth knew something new about herself now. With perfect sincerity, she told Balthus: "I didn't let her, though. I'm not going to let any of my students die."

The other inspected her like a man who had been scammed before. "You really mean that, huh? I'll count on you, then. Call on me and I'll come running, but the Deer will be in your hands most of the time. Don't make me regret this."

Two weeks later, Byleth began her morning class without preamble: "I have our mission for the Garland Moon. Margrave Edmund of the Alliance, one of the five council members, has not been tithing to the Church. We will travel to his castle on the northern coast and try to convince him to resume. This is intended to be a diplomatic mission only, no combat. Any questions?"

Most of the students seemed intrigued by the chance to travel, or the prospect of an easy mission. But Hilda squashed her face against her desk and groaned like Byleth had just told them to go mining in Ailell. Without looking up, she raised her hand.

"Yes, Hilda?" She'd been glum ever since the fight with Balthus – and pushing herself harder in practice. They had forgiven each other, near as Byleth could tell, but her instincts told her something was still not quite right.

"I want to be excused," her student mumbled.

"Why?"

Claude looked ready to jump in with a clever excuse, but Hilda lifted up her head to say, "I hate Edmund. On the list of people I hate, the number one spot is for the ones who murdered my family, and the number two spot is for Margrave Beric von Edmund." She took a deep breath. "If I go there, no diplomacy is going to be happening. In fact, someone's probably going to get murdered. So the best way I can contribute to this mission is by staying home." She turns to look at Claude: "If he tries to haggle, you can promise him something from my demesne. I'll sign the papers for you."

"That's generous," Claude said, "but I think I can convince my grandfather to pay up this time – if we need to. Don't underestimate my silver tongue."

The professor spoke again, decisively. "I will not force you to go with us, Hilda. However, I would ask that you accompany one of the other houses on their mission instead. From what I recall, the Black Eagles will be hunting bandits in Nuvelle. And the Blue Lions will be providing security for a noble wedding." An excuse, Manuela had told her, for the host to have more heirs and heiresses at his event, but no one was complaining about being told to attend a party. Except for Felix, said Manuela, who hated everything. "Since the goal this month was to give you all time to recover from Zanado, I'd prefer if you went with the Blue Lions."

Hilda smiled gratefully. "I'm not a big partier, but that sounds like just what I need. Thanks, professor."

Byleth pulled out a map, getting ready to plot their route. "I'll talk to Professor Manuela for you. Are there any other questions? Marianne?"

The blue-haired girl rarely raised her hand in class, but she had seemed unusually interested when the Margrave's name came up. "Um, since we're leaving Hilda behind, would it be okay if my adoptive sister came with us? She's been there before, and she's very good with woodcraft. And, um, I don't really want to travel so far without her…"

"Where does she live?" Byleth asked. "If it's not too far out of our way…"

"Oh, right here at the monastery!" chirped Marianne. "You know Hapi the stablehand, right? Um, she was the one who gave us our horses before we left for Zanado. She's my sister."

"Your sister is a stablehand?" Claude asked, raising his eyebrows. "There must be an interesting story there."

"It bespeaks someone being derelict in their responsibility," Lorenz sneered. "For a woman to be doing manual labor while ostensibly part of a noble family is a situation I never thought to find outside a satirical play."

Marianne blushed. "She—she's doing fine! It's just that we didn't have enough money for the both of us to attend the Academy, and Hapi said she didn't really care, so—so I could…"

"I don't see how she can be 'fine' if your parents are not taking proper care of her," Lorenz interrupted.

"My parents are dead, Lorenz!" she burst out. Face red, Marianne looked down at her desk, embarrassed and angry in equal measure. "And we don't. Have. The money."

Lorenz's expression was simply extraordinary, as if he had stepped into a hot bath only to be bitten by a snapping turtle. Silence ruled.

"Hapi can come if she wishes," Byleth said evenly. "More questions? Raphael?"

"May I give Marianne a hug?"

"Ask her, not me. Anyone else?" She tapped her map with a baton. "Okay, so who can tell me what route we take to enter the Alliance from Garreg Mach?"

The route, proposed by the students with only a few necessary corrections from their professor, was to descend via the southern road to the Empire, then swing east, crossing the Great Bridge of Myrddin into Leicester. Then up well-maintained roads, passing through several large towns and even skirting Derdriu on the way to Severn Castle, the fortress guarding the prosperous port of the same name that had made Margrave Edmund the richest man in the Alliance.

They would not be spending the night in Derdriu until the journey back. Byleth was very firm on this, to her students' disappointment. It was, to her mind, simply good sense: one did not party until after the job was done.

The journey was swift and pleasant. Leicester had a temperate (if somewhat rainy) climate; its winter snows were all completely melted, and its fields were bordered with tulips and early roses. The Garland Moon was said to be the month of flowers, which was why it was one of Byleth's favorites. Her gaze always lingered on the blossoms growing by the side of the road, and when they had the chance to stay at an inn with a few flowerbeds or honeysuckle vines, she took her time outside with the bees. She picked some, when the fancy took her. They would be braided into her horse's mane or passed along as a gift to one of the students. They never stayed in her hands for long; flowers were only lovely when fresh.

Marianne, she learned, favored delicate ground flowers, like hyacinth or lily of the valley. Maegelle loved bold, bright tulips. Lorenz was so obvious about his love of roses that she never had to ask, and Claude insisted on playing a guessing game instead of simply telling her ("No, not that one, Teach! It is pretty, though."). And Hapi simply preferred nature's edible bounty instead.

With the class, but not of it; Marianne's sister would disappear in the morning and reappear at noon as if she had been right behind them the whole time, calmly asking about lunch. This shocked the others, but not Marianne, who only sighed and took up a brush to knock the leaves out of her sister's hair. Often Hapi would return with saddlebags full of fresh-picked strawberries or crabapples, and once a load of lush apricots that had obviously come from someone's orchard – though Hapi denied stealing with a face as blank as anything Byleth ever wore.

"Maybe there are a few apricot trees growing wild around here. Who knows!" Claude declared, ending the argument. "They're delicious, anyway. Do you think you'll find more?"

Like Claude, Byleth was well-disposed to Hapi from the beginning. She came recommended by a student, she was exceptionally good with horses, and she gave Byleth food: all respectable qualities. Sothis quibbled with the last two, but she neither rode horses nor ate food, so she didn't understand their importance.

As they left Riegan territory, climbing into a more sparsely-populated region of scattered forests and villages, Marianne became more wistful. "This is the way to my home," Marianne said one day, stopping at a crossroads so old it was only marked by a moss-covered stone. "I know you said we do not have time to visit, Professor, but I still wish…well. Perhaps it is for the best. My family's manor is very humble. It might not be suitable for hosting members of council houses." She sighed, and with a shift of her weight set her horse to moving again.

She always refers to her family's lands or her family's manor, Sothis observed. Never her lands.

Byleth found that interesting, and repeated it. Marianne didn't blush – just sighed again. "I suppose I still have not gotten used to it. To being Baroness Maurice."

"I've never heard you use that title before," came Claude's aghast voice from behind them, as he spurred his horse to let him join the conversation. "I didn't even know you were a baroness. And don't get the wrong idea, Marianne. I'm not annoyed at you. Just myself."

"We are not by any measurement a notable house," Marianne told him. "So please forgive yourself, Claude. My mother was a merchant of common blood, in fact."

"Did your parents marry for love?" he asked, surprisingly taken by the idea.

"I think so," she replied. "Though it cannot be denied that my mother's business made more than my father's meager lands ever did. They both worked so hard for it; travelling a great deal. I think one of the reasons they adopted Hapi was for me to have a companion during their absences." Byleth had seldom heard Marianne say so many words together. She had a lovely voice, cool and misty like winter fog; delicate and unobtrusive like the flowers she loved.

The question hung between them, unasked, like a stormcloud with a belly-full of rain. It darkened the air, though the sun was high in a clear sky.

"They disappeared on a road like this," said Marianne. "Travellers do that sometimes – lose their way in the dark, or bleed out on a brigand's knife, or become part of a…a monster's feast. Sometimes it's simply impossible to know." Her voice is a breath of winter wind as she says, "I held out hope for one full year before making funeral arrangements."

Horses' hooves scraped against the dirt road.

"I think you owe me a question now, Claude."

"I don't disagree," the house leader replied.

"When my parents died, Margrave Edmund lent his aid. He is a distant relative, you see, and my father knew him from a young age. He attended the funeral, and purchased my mother's business from me for a generous price. That is what allowed me to attend the Officer's Academy. So I wish to know: what has he done to earn such enmity from Hilda?"

Claude's usual smile was completely gone. "When was the last time you met?"

"About two years ago."

"Mm," he said, not giving any indication at all why he asked. "So, it's worth telling you at this point that I also despise him; I'm just far better at swallowing my emotions than Hilda. I am going to politely refuse to go into the details. Suffice it to say that his true face is far from the one he wears in public. If he was polite and understanding to you after the death or your parents, then I would say that he simply didn't see you as a potential victim." Claude pauses for a moment, before breaking into jarring laughter. "Whoah! I'd better stop there. Everything I just said was said in confidence, do you understand? The Margrave and I do not like each other, but we are political allies. I need his support at the council. I know that neither you nor Teach care much for politics, but…consider it a personal favor for me. Please," he said, his smile returned, less polished, more strained, "don't bring this up again. Not while we're still in his territory."

He kicked his horse, taking him farther ahead, until Marianne and Byleth were safely out of earshot of any dangerous words that might fall from his lips.

"Claude is scared of him," Byleth said.

"You may be right," said Marianne, "However, I still wish to wait and see before passing judgment."

Byleth, however, could feel herself passing judgment already. She wondered how Beric von Edmund had hurt Claude and Hilda. She wondered if she would need to stop it from happening again.

Vocalist · Aug 15, 2022

On the last day of their journey, the breeze began to blow with the scent of the sea, and they passed more and more laden carts, bound for market or export. Where the road split, those carts took the branch winding down to the city, while Byleth and the Golden Deer took the branch that climbed up to the castle above. They were welcomed there by an escort of knights and more pomp than Byleth had ever had directed at her in her life. She suspected it was mainly for Claude, though it was amusing to imagine Margrave Edmund giving such hospitality to all the merchants and mercenaries he ever met.

He is said to be the richest man in the Alliance, after all. He could afford it, snickered Sothis. Oh, look at this carpet. It's silk, Byleth!

Indeed. The carpet lining the entrance hall was masterfully woven, soft as a baby's skin, and extended the length of the entire hall. Byleth could see Ignatz staring at it, jaw open.

The rest focused on the man standing on the carpet. Of average height and build, he wore a dark green suit and waistcoat (probably in a fashionable cut, but she wouldn't know) with a few tasteful gold accents and buttons. The color complemented his teal hair and thin mustache. He carried no weapon. Overall, he looked like a merchant – the kind who had gotten rich enough to stay at home and pay others to do all the trading. Byleth had been hired by such types a dozen times.

Beric von Edmund smiled to see them. It was a businesslike smile. He might well have practiced it in the mirror that morning. The same for the handshake he gave Claude. "Young Riegan, it has been too long since your last visit. I hope you are well – and Lady Goneril, too. I notice she does not seem to be with you."

Claude chuckled, perfectly friendly. "No need to worry, Edmund. The Blue Lions requested her help with a mission this month, and after talking it over we agreed I could handle negotiations without her. She's on guard duty in Faerghus right now."

"Well, that kind of work certainly meshes better with her personality…Faerghus, you say? Would she happen to be attending the Gaspard wedding?"

Claude raised his eyebrows. "That's correct. You know of it?"

"I doubt the Kingdom will have a more notable event this year!" Edmund said. "Have you seen the guest list? At any rate, with dear Hilda there I am sure all the guests will be perfectly safe." He raised his voice to address the rest of them. "Allow me to welcome you to Castle Severn. Have the servants taken your luggage already? Please, take some time to refresh yourselves. Supper will be served in a few hours." The Golden Deer began to mill about like sheep released into pasture. As Byleth stood watching them, she saw Marianne approach their host with hesitant steps, Hapi her silent shadow. Edmund smiled blandly at them for a few moments, before recognition lit his eyes. "Ah…Marianne. So you ended up at the Academy after all. How are you and your sister finding life there?"

"The students and faculty are kind, sir," she said, curtseying. "I have few complaints."

"It's a huge place," Hapi added. "With so many people and animals living there, there's always work to do."

"We must catch up later," said Edmund, already seeming distracted. "Please make yourselves at home here." His eyes passed over Byleth, lingering for a moment – and then sliding away. Having dismissed the rest of them, he strode off.

Dinner at Castle Severn was, unsurprisingly, a luxurious experience. Swans baked in creamy sauce, asparagus rolled in thin slices of cured ham, plums stewed in rosewater. The common students did not hide their awe. Byleth filled her plate multiple times.

Though he praised the food eloquently, Byleth saw Claude eat sparingly, only a few bites at a time. She worried for him.

He's normally much more enthusiastic about food. Hmph. Well, you are eating enough for three people, so I am sure the Margrave will not notice. Do not stare at him so, Byleth! Wait for him to do something objectionable before you make him your enemy.

When they had finished with the desserts, servants cleared away the dishes and came back with tea, nuts, and a few sliced cheeses. The Margrave smiled down at them from his seat at the head of the table. "That was lovely. Now, I know the Archbishop has sent you here for a reason, but anyone who does not feel the need to attend some boring negotiations may retire. It is getting late."

Byleth spoke up, "Actually, I would like all my students to stay. This is a learning opportunity for you."

"Ah, I see. If you wish, Professor." Edmund rested his interlaced hands on the table. "Now. Does the Archbishop have something she wishes from me?"

"She wishes for you to resume your normal tithe," Byleth replied. "From what I'm told, you stopped without explanation five years ago."

"The same year you replaced Countess Daphnel on the council," Lorenz added. "It is well-known that your fortune has done nothing but grow since then. Why would you refuse to disperse any of it for the good of Fódlan, as dictated by virtue and tradition, when you were willing in your younger years?"

Unfazed, Edmund explained, "I have been using my resources for the good of Fódlan, young man. The roads, bridges, and watchtowers you saw on your way here are all my work, contributing to the safety and prosperity of all travelers. The port below this castle is the safest and cleanest in all of Fódlan. And surely you have heard of the soldiers I contribute to the defense of the Locket, working to prevent Almyran incursions such as brought the Gonerils to tragedy?"

"You will forgive me if I am not overly impressed that you maintain your own demesne and fulfill the basic obligations of a council member," Lorenz replied. "How can any of that truly be called charity?"

"Lorenz," Marianne broke in, "I do not wish this night to be one of accusations. My lord, if you explain what objections you have to the tithe, perhaps we can soothe them."

He nodded to her respectfully. "It is a question of what young Gloucester called, 'dispersing my wealth for the good of Fódlan.' Specifically, I do not believe anything I give to the Church will serve that purpose." Eyebrows were raised and brows furrowed around the table. To deny the benevolence of the Church was, well, a radical position. Byleth had seen it before, in her father, and was quite neutral on the Church herself, but all the students save for Claude and Hapi seemed some degree of scandalized. "It seems to me that the current leadership of the Church is far more interested in maintaining its own entrenched power and bloated bureaucracy. The Archbishop does not need my help to fill her coffers." With a tiny smirk, he said, "Remind me again, just how much does she have you paying her to live in her palace and run these little errands?"

The table burst into a hubbub. Lorenz and Maegelle started demanding more evidence for his claims, Ignatz was defensively listing all the benefits of the Officer's Academy, Leonie seemed to be trying to calculate sums in her head, and Hapi was suppressing giggles. The Margrave simply sat back and watched, smug.

Byleth stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing cavalier's whistle. The students quieted immediately.

"You have them well-trained," said Edmund. She couldn't tell if he was being mocking or not.

"So," Claude said, "this is a matter of principle for you." Alone among the Golden Deer, he seemed calm and unsurprised.

"It is," replied Edmund. "And since mere students, well-meaning as you may be, cannot promise any meaningful change on the Church's behalf, my objections will remain. Do not take this as an insult, but you will be disappointing the Archbishop this month."

"It's a matter of principle for the Archbishop as well," Claude said. "Having a prominent noble refusing to tithe undermines her authority. It posits an alternative order, an alternative morality, to the one determined by her." Edmund's smirk was only growing.

Stars, this is the most unorthodox form of flattery I've ever heard, but it seems to be working!

"Lady Rhea would concede a lot," he continued, "to put an end to such a threat."

"If what you say is true," oozed Edmund, "then she should send someone with the authority to negotiate those concessions. Perhaps that green-haired adjutant of hers, Seteth. Or one of her cardinals."

"I could urge for such a thing," said Claude. "But I would need some promises from you, Margrave. Some sign that all this won't be in vain, that you are willing to negotiate."

Their host suddenly chuckled, a deep and throaty sound. "What is your game here, young Riegan? Are you that eager to gain favor with the Archbishop? Or the other students of the Officer's Academy?"

Perhaps Claude had an answer, but before he could give it, Maegelle jumped in: "I fail to see how it is suspicious for our class leader to do his best to succeed at our class mission!" She snickered behind a napkin. "Besides, if you knew Claude at all, you would know how he hates to lose. He could not abide falling behind the Lions and the Eagles!" Byleth saw Claude's eyes flicker to her, crinkling in a hidden smile.

"Aw, Mae, you say that like it's some kind of flaw," he pretended to complain.

"Only when you drive the rest of us at your relentless pace!" she fired back.

Amused, the Margrave waited for the table's chuckles to die down before speaking again. "Very well. I suppose I, too, have something of a stake in the Golden Deer. It would not do for Leicester to appear weak before the other nations. You wish to challenge yourselves? You wish to prove that those acting on the Church's behalf can do some good in the world?"

"You have a challenge for us?" asked Raphael.

"I do. In the woods nearby, there lives a unique Demonic Beast, long spoken of in local legend. Supposedly, once a man, who was cursed to forever be tormented by his rage and pain – the details are not consistent, and not important. It has been more aggressive as of late, attacking travelers at its savage whim. If you can slay it, and bring its body to me – for I know scholars who would be very interested in it – I will send you back to Garreg Mach with a portion of the gold Rhea desires from me, and an invitation to further negotiations. Is that acceptable?"

"That's not nothing," Leonie said, "but it does sound like you're asking us to risk our lives in exchange for very little on your part."

The Margrave sighed. "I cannot offer more to the Archbishop without receiving anything from her. What if I offered, as a gift to your class – hm. I have a supply of alchemical elixirs of the highest quality. The sort that can bring a man back from the verge of death."

"We'll want those now," Leonie demanded. "If we're fighting a legendary beast, we will need them." Byleth caught her eye and gave her an approving nod.

The deal met with general approval, and the students soon retired. The next morning, Claude and the professor were eager to get moving. They discussed the likely places to find the Wandering Beast with Margrave Edmund, while the students double-checked weapons they had hoped not to need on this trip.

Hapi found Marianne with the horses. Not necessarily a bad sign, but she had dark circles under her eyes, and she leaned into Dorte's side like she was wishing the horse could hug her. So Hapi gave her a hug instead.

"Oh, Hapi. Good morning," she mumbled.

Hapi took up a place beside the horse, giving him a nice scratch between the ears. "What's up with you, Mari? Not enough sleep?" Hapi had found their accommodations a bit stuffy, with the exception of a truly nice feather mattress. She wondered if it would be feasible to get it shipped back to the monastery somehow.

"No," Marianne sighed. "I had a nightmare. It was…I dreamt I turned into a rampaging beast, who had to flee from the weapons of my own comrades. After I awoke, I lay in bed, petrified, not knowing if it was a dream or a memory. I decided that it had to be false, but…I still could not get back to sleep for hours."

"Yeah, that definitely never happened," Hapi confirmed. "Edmund's story must have freaked you out."

Marianne looked down. "You're not wrong. It reminded me of what my father always said. About the curse, and what it could do to us." Hapi sighed, but before she could dismiss Marianne's fears, the other girl was clinging to her jacket and pleading, "I need you to promise me. If I – if the curse takes me – you must make sure I don't hurt anyone!"

She was so scared. Hapi never quite knew what to say when she was like this. "If that happens, I'll do whatever it takes. If you turn into an evil, bloodthirsty monster. I don't think that's gonna happen, though. I've been checking out the library in my spare time, you know. They have plenty about heroes with Crests, but nothing about a Crest that can turn people into beasts." She'd been skeptical for years, but the problem was finding evidence that would convince Marianne. Proving that something had never happened (or perhaps only once, a thousand years ago) was pretty hard. "I just don't think you need to worry about this the way you do."

Marianne gave a wan smile. "Well, if I have you by my side, I know I don't need to worry. Even if the worst should happen, you will keep everyone safe."

Hapi sighed again. "Yeah."

Hapi had been nine years old when she ran away from home to see the world. In hindsight, she hadn't been very prepared. After several weeks of being lost in the woods, she had been laid low by some kind of food poisoning. A miserable experience that she barely remembered, thank the Goddess. Baron and Baroness Maurice later told her that she emerged into a Faerghan village on the back of a wolf, dizzy from dehydration and in too much pain to stand. The villagers gawked at the strange wolf-child, but the Baron quickly came to her aid, taking her into his care. Because, as he always said with a dark smile, he too was kin to beasts.

When they figured out just how strong Hapi's gift for beast-taming was, they declared her Marianne's sister, and told the two girls never to be apart. If their daughter ever turned into a monster due to the family curse, they reasoned, then their other daughter would be able to stop her from going on a murderous rampage! It would have been a brilliant plan, if the fucking curse actually fucking existed, which Hapi seriously doubted.

No one could name anyone who had turned into a beast except the family's progenitor, good ol' Maurice himself, who, again, may not have existed. She certainly hadn't found any mention of him in the monastery library. From Hapi's perspective, it looked like the real von Maurice curse was passed down from parent to child by word of mouth. Whispered warnings to never trust your own humanity, to never stop fearing a terrible fate that had never happened and so could happen at any time.

She was grateful to the Baron and Baroness for what they had given her, of course. But she also loathed them for leaving Marianne so helpless, so dependent on her. It was the work of days, months, and years to coax Marianne to leave her manor, to enroll at the Officer's Academy, to start making friends that didn't eat hay or birdseed.

Hapi took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out. Mari had been doing better, much better – sitting with classmates in the dining hall and introducing Raphael to her favorite birds. It was just Edmund's stupid story that had her all scared and clingy again – a temporary regression, Hapi told herself. They'd go find the beast, kill it dead, lug its corpse back to be dissected, and everything would be fine.

The first sign that everything would not be fine was the fog. It spilled through the air, turning the dark, dense forest into something truly impenetrable. Up ahead, Professor Byleth was pausing to re-check their map. Hapi was beginning to think of her as "Teach," because Claude never shut up. That was a problem. She needed to give people her own nicknames. It was a matter of pride.

She considered the possibilities while the group waited. Claude was already Chatterbox, but…what if she made that Byleth's nickname instead? Which would be better, the ironic or the straightforward? Claude could be…

"Huh, speak of the devil," she said, as the man himself approached. "What do you want, Apricots?"

He only paused a little at the new nickname. This one was hard to faze. "I wanted to talk to Marianne, actually. Teach says we're taking a break, so might as well chat." He held up a bag of dried fruit with a winning smile (it included apricots, so Hapi felt vindicated in her choice). Hapi, Claude and Marianne all squatted or sprawled against the ground and passed around the snacks.

"Not to sound ungrateful, but you came here with food bribes," Hapi said while munching on an apple ring. "So I think you want a little more than a chat."

"Hapi, you needn't be so cynical," complained her sister.

Claude shrugged. "She's not exactly wrong. I have a few more questions about your family, Marianne."

She immediately tensed, like a threatened rabbit. "You think we have something to do with the Wandering Beast?"

"Uh, do you? No, I – please don't run away. That's not what I was going to ask." Claude rubbed his hair and chuckled awkwardly. "This is actually about what happened in Zanado."

"Oh!" Marianne settled back down to the ground. "I don't see what light I could shed on those events, though. No one in my family has ever been to Zanado, as far as I know."

"But you were one of the people who heard something before the monsters attacked, right? Me, Hilda, Lorenz, Teach, and you all distinctly heard some kind of scream at the same time, even when others nearby heard nothing." He was leaning forward, some kind of gleam in his green eyes. In this fog, he looked like a figure from a tale: a kind of mysterious magician who came forward to make bargains with desperate young fools. "I was wondering about what common trait connected us all."

"All of you are nobles?" Hapi guessed. "Except for the Chatterbox."

Claude squinted. "Do you mean Lorenz? But he's –"

"Chatterbox is your teacher. It's an ironic nickname."

"Hapi never calls anyone by their real name, I'm afraid," said Marianne. "But it's a harmless habit."

"If you have more of these, I'm gonna have to ask you to make a glossary," Claude sighed. "But it was a good guess. We're looking for something that's true of everyone in that group, and not true for everyone else who was in Zanado at the time…Give up?"

Hapi snapped, "No, I'm still thinking! Uh, dark hair?" Marianne pointed to her powder blue bun, frowning. "Cool colors, then."

"Ignatz's hair is green," Claude pointed out. "And Mae…well, you can classify magenta as a warm color, I guess."

"Fine, I give up. Tell us your idea."

"As I said, you made a good guess before. The set of nobles in our class overlaps very closely with those who heard that scream. With the addition of Teach, who I happen to know is the bearer of a mysterious Crest that Professor Hanneman is studying right now. And not including Mae, who was born without any Crest." Marianne was getting nervous again. Claude's eyes were glittering like a hunting cat's, but unfortunately, Hapi couldn't pick him up by the scruff of his neck and move him somewhere else. "The only exception to that pattern would be you, Marianne. Unless…you actually do bear a Crest?"

"You don't want to ask about this, Claude," Marianne said.

He laughed. "You mean you don't want me to ask. If it's a secret, I'll keep it – but I'll be very intrigued as to why. Most nobles are so proud of their Crests, seeing them as marks of the Goddess's favor, as the keys to prestige and legitimacy. What could make you so ashamed of yours?"

In that moment, Hapi wasn't sure if she loathed or loved him. He was pressing her sister so hard, uncaring of the discomfort she was in. But at the same time, here was another person on the verge of discovering their family's "dark secret" – and saying to Mari's face that it was bullshit.

"I have my reasons," Marianne said hotly. "I am trying to protect you, in fact! You don't understand the burden I was born with!" She seemed close to tears. Hapi thought the others must be able to hear them – not that she could see the turning of heads through all this fog.

Claude only leaned in closer. "If I don't understand, then explain it to me," he wheedled.

Hapi huffed and pushed the young man back. "Enough. You're making her cry! Have some damn tact!" Their eyes met – his still stubborn and hard – and for a single moment Hapi dearly wished someone would come to teach him a lesson: that he couldn't just push and push to get what he wanted. Something hot and sharp spiked behind her eyes.

From the forest nearby, there came a monster's roar.

Marianne immediately sprang up. "It's the curse! It's coming for me!"

"There's a curse?" asked Claude.

"Mari, it's just one of the beasts—"

Both of them reached for the blue-haired girl, but she shied back. "No, stay away!" Seeing doom and disaster everywhere, but especially wherever she was standing, Marianne ran.

Vocalist · Aug 16, 2022

Marianne tumbled through the forest, snapping twigs, bending branches, scaring birds. The fog blocked sight, narrowing her world to a single room of this tree-formed maze. She felt so vulnerable, but perhaps keeping her vision would have been worse. She didn't want to see who or what was trying to follow her. There were sounds in the forest, too many to just be her wild passage.

Her logic, as much as that word applied right now, was as follows: Something terrible was about to happen. When it happened, she and everyone near her would be doomed. So she ran, to outpace both the danger and her friends.

The terrain was hostile, exhausting. After squeezing through a tightly twinned set of trunks, Marianne could only stumble back to a walking pace, taking harsh breaths through a raw throat. Space was opening up around her – now, her instead of being penned in by trees, her world was bounded by a gradual dissolution into fog. The breaths came easier. Should she start running again?

Something massive moved before her. She shuffled back with a gasp. Coming into view was a quadrupedal beast – no, a Beast. Its steps ponderous but deliberate, there was no mistaking that she had gained its attention. It had a strange appearance. Weathered muscles shifted openly as it moved, as if it had been flayed of skin, but so long ago that it no longer bled. Armored in crocodilian plate, it bent its horned, eyeless head down to sniff the top of hers. Marianne saw the ropy scars, like tree roots, from old war-wounds. Its teeth were brown and cracked, and moss grew between its scales.

Below its horn, between knobby scales, was a single place smooth and clear of weathering. At this close distance, Marianne was just able to make out the Crest inscribed therein.

"Oh no. Goddess, please…" The strength to run deserted her. All she could do was stare at the awful fate ahead, and think of what had occurred to her last night, lying fearful in her bed – a thought that she had not even dared bring up to Hapi.

Her parents had disappeared on their travels, final fate unknown. It had been in this part of Leicester, though. It had been three years ago. When did the Margrave say the current spate of beast attacks had started? Only a few years.

Was this, then, the Goddess's way of reuniting father and daughter?

Hair loose from its bun danced in the creature's warm, fetid breath. When it spoke, the words were like the cracking of a rotten trunk. "Young woman...you stink of fear, but beneath that I can tell we are kin. What brings you to this forest?"

Amazingly, Marianne found the will to speak. "I seek the Wandering Beast. Is that you?"

"Perhaps. I wander, and I sleep, and when my blood burns and the rage takes me I become truly a beast. For what purpose do you hunt? Have you ambitions of slaying me, like so many others before?" It shook its head back and forth, kneading the ground with stone-splitting claws as it chuckled – a sound like an avalanche of gravel.

"Um, that is correct. I have been charged with slaying you," said Marianne.

It laughed even harder. It was still laughing when someone burst into the clearing, crying, "Mari! Don't you dare run away again!" and, shortly thereafter, "What the fuck?" Happi skidded to a stop, breathing heavily and covered in bits of twig. It occurred to Marianne that she probably looked the same, and they were both about to die an absolute mess. "Oooh, fuck me with a rusty lance, that's a – that's – are you telling me the fucking curse is real?"

"There are now two of you," the Beast said. "Your chances have marginally improved." Those claws kneaded the ground again, but in a way that struck Marianne as – nervous? fidgety? "You may leave, and fetch others. I recommend it. Make haste," it said, voice dipping into a growl.

It was letting them go? She could barely believe it. Logically speaking, this was a blessing. But if she left now, she would never know. "Wait! I need to ask—" Marianne stepped forward, causing the Beast to hiss and rear. Its enormous bulk pawed through the mist.

"Get back!" screamed Hapi, hand outstretched. Light traced a Crest in the air before her: the New Moon, the sign of Timotheos.

The Beast came down heavily on the earth. "Beast-charmer. Shadow-blood," it said, its voice somewhat clearer, as the two girls backed away. "Never before have I met one of your power. Perhaps if I had, my tale would have ended long ago."

"Yeah, I'm pretty awesome," huffed Hapi, not daring to stop using her Crest as she tugged Marianne away. "I can't say it was nice to meet you – in fact, you've kind of ruined all my plans for the future, so…"

"Can you tell me your name?" Marianne cried, interrupting her sister.

"My name?" it echoed. "Are you determined to mourn a man long dead? My name was forgotten long ago, as is right. My children did not dare to sing funeral songs for me."

Marianne had passed beyond fear. The situation was simply too surreal for logic. "Would you like me to? I will pray for you, if your children did not. Everyone has that right."

"Are you serious? Mari, I can't keep this up much longer!" Hapi urged, her words ragged.

"…You have strong convictions, granddaughter. Very well. You are lucky you found me on a good day…I am Maurice, of a clan I no longer recall. Once, I was a Hero, a Dragonslayer, who fought at the side of my King…"

Three youths listened, wide-eyed, to the voice of this figure from a time of legend. One paused, then continued her measured retreat. One could not force herself to move an inch. One forgot himself, and moved in closer. The branch that snapped under his foot was loud as a robber's forced entry, or so it seemed.

All attention fell on the young man at the edge of the clearing. Though the mist, Marianne could recognize Claude von Riegan's feigned nonchalance. "Oh, no need to stop on my account. Please, continue. You were saying something about your king?"

Lowering its head, the Wandering Beast growled. Hapi cried out, her hands shaking; the Crest dissolved, its light fading from the clearing.

"Oh, dear," said Marianne, as Hapi screamed, "RUN!"

The three pounded back into the cover of the dense woods, where undergrowth hid treacherous roots and uneven ground. The Beast gave chase. Its roars sounded nothing like a human voice, now.

"Can it get through these trees? It's so big, the forest has to be slowing it down, right?" asked Claude, having dropped all pretense that he wasn't terrified.

Behind them, the sound of splintering wood. "Not enough!" replied Hapi. "Where are the others? We'll only stand a chance against it together!" Claude couldn't answer. "Are you telling me you thought snooping was more important than getting backup for this foggy, monster-infested forest?"

"Fine, I'm an idiot. I have an idea, though!" Claude said desperately. "You can make fire, right?"

"You want me to set the forest on fire?" Hapi screamed.

"No, I want you to make a signal that they'll see through this damn fog!"

Hapi was angry, but still able to recognize a good idea when she heard one. Pausing atop a fallen log, she concentrated, forming a magic sigil. Hands fluttered like she was trying to balance an invisible ball, and light ignited into fire. It streamed into an empty space in the canopy, boiling away the fog in a circle meters wide. Hapi was already jumping away again, moving through the forest with grace neither Claude nor her sister could match to catch up with them.

"If we keep moving," Marianne huffed, "then that beacon will no longer tell them where we are."

"You're right," Claude said. "Hapi, can you keep doing that?"

Hapi groaned, but when she felt they had gained enough space she paused and summoned a fireball once more. And once more after that. Marianne felt guilty for specializing in ice, for her sister was looking truly ragged – but then, she was too. Human endurance only went so far, and it was not as far as a Demonic Beast's.

As her lungs burned and trees crashed down behind her, Marianne once more began to think she would die today.

It wasn't fair, she thought. Okay, well, if the Goddess decreed it, it must be for the greater good somehow, but it wasn't what she wanted. She had wanted to return to the monastery. Raphael needed someone to introduce him to the birds. Lorenz had said he wanted her help transplanting some flowers they'd collected to the greenhouse. And her sister definitely didn't deserve this. Claude…well, she couldn't say she truly knew him. But he had never struck Marianne as a bad person.

"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I can't…run anymore." She stumbled to a halt, doubled over. "If you two keep going…I can distract him."

The others stopped. "I'm not leaving you here to get eaten!" snapped Hapi, though her words were almost as breathless.

"Damn it, there has to be a way out of this," Claude muttered. While he scanned their surroundings with urgent eyes, his hands were already readying his bow.

"I don't want you to die," Marianne begged her sister.

"I don't want that either! But do you think this is something I can live with? I never wanted to leave you like this!"

"Wait," Claude said. "Wait…You two! Listen!"

Behind them, somehow, the crashing of the Beast had stopped. The only sound was their terrified panting. What was going on?

Claude knew. The Crest of the Moon traced itself in the air before him and his eyes gleamed greener than the rarest jewel. Absolutely focused, he drew his bow, aiming beyond the mist and trees to something neither Marianne nor Hapi could see. His teeth shone white as the smile returned to his face.

Just a few minutes ago, Byleth had been complaining to Sothis about the prospect of searching these woods for hours to find a single creature. She was not much pleased by the current change in circumstances.

Before her, the Wandering Beast paused in its charge – taking notice of the mercenary, it changed direction. Byleth gripped her sword and took up a ready stance, but the creature was actually slowing its pace. It stopped a good ten paces away. Then, amazing her, it spoke:

"That scent…the blood of my king. Are you here to free me as he could not?"

"I'm here to kill you," she said bluntly. "If you would welcome that, lie down and stay still."

"My beastly blood is roused," it growled. "Do your best, and we shall see if it is enough."

Her eyes flicked to each side: there, Ignatz was crouching, trying to be invisible. There, Lorenz crashed through the underbrush, unable to be stealthy on a mount and with no desire to. He was escorting Maegelle, who immediately raised her hands and began forming a magic sigil. The Wandering Beast lowered its head, presenting its man-slaying horn, and—

No one saw the archer who loosed an arrow from the mist, but they all heard the Beast scream, rearing. Byleth needed a moment to comprehend what happened: the Wandering Beast had no eyes, just long, thin nostrils that fluttered open and shut with its breath. One of them was now deeply pierced by a feathered shaft.

With a willing shout, Lorenz threw a javelin while Maegelle and Ignatz loosed their own attacks. The Beast's throat was pierced and scorched. Truly enraged now, it lunged forward with steps that shook the earth. A blow of its terrible claws broke through Lorenz's attempted parry and sent him flying from his horse – which bolted.

Byleth dashed into the fray. One of the others – she hoped – would see to Lorenz, if she only kept the monster busy for a time. Her sword drew a line of blood across its limb. Thin as the stroke of a pen. Damn this thing's hide! She'd fought monsters before – why did this one have to be so tough, even where it wasn't armored?

She kept dashing down its side. Penned in by trees, it struggled to turn, to bring its teeth or horn to bear at the mercenary biting it with her sword. On its other side, she could hear Raphael's war cry as he made his own attack. A leg lifted and slammed down blindly; Byleth simply darted back, and then close again.

What was this? Marks she'd already made were fading, barely bleeding anymore.

This creature is not merely tough. It heals fast enough to recover from its wounds mid-battle!

"Cichol's fucking hat," she swore. She retreated – just a few paces – to plan a new strategy. She saw Lorenz back on his feet – thanks for those elixirs, Edmund – barely catching snapping teeth on the edge of his shield, keeping the beast at bay while Raphael and Leonie harassed its sides. She was proud of them, but they couldn't defeat it that way. "Deer! This thing heals itself! We need to take it out all in one go!" Did they hear? They better have, or she'd rewind time and drill them on battlefield awareness until their ears fell off.

Did the Wandering Beast have a weak spot? A place unprotected by its ancient, mossy hide? That nostril shot seemed to hurt it a lot. Byleth hustled forward. "New plan, Lorenz. We aim at its face."

"A bold one, Professor," he huffed. Not even he was comfortable remaining that close to that many teeth. He rolled his lance in his hands. "Shall I feint and you strike?"

"No. You've got the lance. Drive it in deep." And they were off, each warring for the creature's attention. It was slow to react, as one would expect for a creature without eyes. But when Byleth risked a slash across the blackened tendons holding its jaw together – getting close enough to smell its offal-pile breath – it lashed out at her. A jutting tooth scraped painfully through her leather sleeve. She didn't retreat, circling her sword back under the jaw to strike again. Quarters so close she could see the ridges in the skin where countless warriors had tried just the same thing, and probably died for it.

It lowered its head to protect its throat and to better bite at her – right onto Lorenz's precisely-angled spear. "This is the end of your reign, King of Beasts!" he gloated, driving it in with all his strength.

The Beast whipped its head away hard enough to snatch the lance from his hands. Hard enough to drive Byleth to the ground, when it collided with her.

Oh, we should have seen that coming.

She hit her head on something hard. Pain bloomed – too many places. Sword? She'd lost her sword. That was bad. Get up, get up. She could smell blood. She could smell the Beast's breath, like a pile of dead animals and wet leaves.

Byleth, if you don't move right now, I'm going to go ahead and stop time—

"I won't let you do this!" It was the shrill voice of someone very unused to shouting. Cool air blew in from somewhere, and Byleth finally blinked enough of the dizziness away to see what was going on.

Marianne was here. Marianne had cast a wall of ice between her professor and the eager maw of the Beast. She was running to Byleth now, holding Byleth's sword in her hands. "Professor! Are you injured? I can—" Sword-claws tore through the construct of ice, a lifesaving but amateur work. As the Crest-marked snout pushed back in, Marianne raised the sword in a poor imitation of Byleth's stance. "No! Get back!" It lunged, and Marianne swung her sword at its open maw.

If they had had the time, Byleth would have told her that was a terrible idea. You didn't slash a Demonic Beast's open mouth with a sword. You stabbed there, with a lance. Using a sword just put your arm in range of all its teeth. But Marianne had used every excuse possible to avoid holding a weapon in Byleth's class, and so she didn't know these things.

The Wandering Beast's jaw snapped shut on part of Marianne's arm. Then she screamed. Teeth cracked and her own flesh tore as her sword-hand came free, the sword with it. The blade sheared through the leathery tendons of the jaw, driven by a moment of unbelievable, unearthly strength.

A Crest formed in the mist. It looked, Byleth thought, like a pair of curved horns.

It dissipated after only a moment. The sword dropped from Marianne's bloody fingers, and Byleth lunged forward to grab it. The Beast was backing away, lowing in pain, one side of its jaw cracked open and unable to close.

From the forest, arrows peppered its wounded flesh. But it refused to turn away from Marianne. Roaring like a man on the last lap of a thousand-mile race, the Wandering Beast charged headlong at the two women, horn lowered to gore.

Byleth only had time to position her sword and brace, and she needn't have bothered with the latter. The hand of the Goddess Herself could not have kept that juggernaut from sweeping her off the ground. She felt her sword embed deep in its wounds and crack bone. She felt its horn like a hot knife against her chest. It took all the leverage she could muster to keep it from slicing deep into her ribcage. Then she slammed against a tree, painfully dislodging her, and the point became moot. The horn tore through her, laterally.

At least the Beast's breathing sounded just as pained as hers. She rolled her head over to see Raphael's worried face. Not sparing a glance for the enemy, he scooped her up and carried her away. She wanted to scold him on situational awareness, but only blood came out when she tried.

"Oh, you look bad. But don't worry!" He set her against a tree with a mix of gentleness and haste. "Man, Leonie was a genius for asking for these." A stone vial, its cork designed to be openable by one's teeth. The lemony, peppery contents were poured into her mouth; she swallowed on instinct. It burned a little, not unlike the touch of strong alcohol – but she could feel that burning travelling with her blood, pouring into her limbs. Where she was uninjured, it tingled. Where she wasn't, it hurt. She gasped and writhed, overwhelmed – but the pain vanished as quickly as it had arrived.

Byleth looked down. A tear stretched all across the front of her gambeson, but underneath was untouched skin. Healing elixirs that good were too rare to be sold in stores. It had probably been the most expensive thing she or Raphael had ever touched. For a brief moment, she considered going back in time to save it.

You want to go through this ordeal again? Look at the Beast, Byleth! It's dying! You've won!

The Wandering Beast had indeed collapsed to the ground. Its wounds leaked a steady stream of black blood. Of all the people to dare approaching it, she was surprised to see Marianne.

As she crouched down by the massive, listing head, it spoke to her: "Well done. This thousand-year nightmare is almost at its end…"

"I will keep my promise, Maurice. I hope you can find peace in the hands of the Goddess."

"My own gods rejected me. But perhaps yours might not, if you are willing to intercede on my behalf…" It groaned, shuddering. "My heir…now that this body is decaying…the sword…I leave to you…" The red-orange light of a Hero's Relic was spreading out from the Crest on its brow, tracing the ancient sinews, the mossy scales, the black veins. Where it touched, flesh crumbled away, to naught but soil and bones and the stuff of the forest floor. Finally the light retreated to a single red star, over which Marianne bent her head, and wept.

"I'd like to apologize," Claude told her. He, Marianne, and Hapi were once more the three of them alone, after the rest of the students had retreated from the impromptu funeral of Maurice to rest for the night. "In my curiosity, I was pretty insensitive to you today. And to your, ah, ancestor. It put us all in danger, in addition to making you uncomfortable."

Marianne looked up from where she was kneeling by the grave. There was nothing to mark it but a cairn of stones and some forest flowers, but it had a quiet dignity that she hoped Maurice would appreciate. "I suppose it all came out after the battle, anyway." But she had been quite distressed, in the moment. "So I forgive you."

"Glad to see you've got some self-reflection in you, Apricots," Hapi groused. Her eyes were looking unhappily bloodshot, but she refused to leave Marianne's side. "But don't think I haven't seen you shooting glances at me. You're curious about my Crest now."

"One mystery is solved, and another reveals itself," he sighed theatrically. "Can I assume that you'd prefer for me not to tell anyone else?"

"Yeah. You're gonna have to show me you can be trusted before I, you know, trust you."

He smiled like a cat trying to insist that it had definitely not already been fed today. "No need to worry. You two aren't even the first people I know who have secret lost Crests that they want to hide. Of course, I can't tell you who I'm talking about. Because I am so trustworthy in these matters."

Despite the funeral setting, Marianne giggled. Hapi just rolled her eyes. Claude's smile softened, then, to something almost concerned. "Are you planning to tell the Margrave about what happened here?"

"I think he ought to know. No," Marianne considered, "more importantly, I…don't feel I need to hide so much anymore. Maurice, the Wandering Beast who cursed our Crest, is dead. Perhaps…there never was a curse, or perhaps it vanished when he died. It is curious…Even after a thousand years as a beast, so much of him remained human. All my life, despite seeming human, I feared that deep inside I was truly a beast. But if even Maurice was human enough to ask me to pray for him…"

Claude nodded as he said, "He tried a lot harder to be human than some people I know. He should be commended for that." Shifting his weight, he continued, "But, if you're going to tell Edmund…I owe you a warning."

Something in his tone made Marianne scramble to her feet and Hapi stop leaning against a tree. Not a trace of his usual smile could be found on his face – not in any of the teasing, smirking, grim, triumphant, prideful, self-effacing, or falsely-innocent variations Marianne and the Golden Deer had become used to. Claude without a smile, she realized, looked like a completely different person.

"He'll be interested in your Crest. Hapi's too, if he finds out. He'll want you. He'll try to bribe you however he can to get you to stay with him. It's…not a good idea to accept." His eyes were wide, and curiously dead. "If you can make your excuses and get back to Garreg Mach, you can string him along from a distance, bargain him up, down, whatever." A nervous breath that somewhat resembled laughter. "I'll be honest. Since I'm your class leader he'll be leaning on me to convince you. It strengthens my position with him to be in control of something he wants," he rambled.

"Claude," she said, clasping him on the shoulders. "Are you all right?"

He looked at her. Blinked. Drew in a very deliberate breath. "You bring out the worst in me, Marianne," he said. "Yeah. I'll be fine. I'm just going to go…take a walk." He put on another smile which, while shaky, was so convincing that Marianne immediately wondered how real any of them were. "Think about what I said, okay? I'll leave you alone now."

He left the clearing in a random direction. "I'm starting to worry for him, Hapi," she said.

"You're real nice like that," her sister sighed. "But you need to worry about yourself first. Although, actually – you need to worry about yourself less. Worry about everything less." She looked down at Maurice's grave with a bizarrely fond expression. "It seems like meeting Maurice gave you some kind of reassurance, at least."

"It did," she smiled. Then she said, "Hapi, when we were running and I didn't think I could go on, you told me that you never wanted to leave me…like that. Does that mean you were thinking about…leaving, some day?"

Hapi averted her eyes and let out a doleful sigh. "Yeah. You know that I left my home because I wanted to travel the world, right? It didn't work out so well the first time."

"You were only nine," Marianne said. "It could have gone far worse."

"Ugh. Anyway, I still want that! Lands and people and animals that I haven't seen before are – beautiful," she stuttered, with a tongue unused to speaking of anything poetic or abstract. "But I know it's not your dream. You want to live a quiet life in a place you know and be very safe. So if…if we're both going to be happy, we have to take separate paths. Up until now, I never wanted to tell you this, because you were so…"

"…Afraid," Marianne supplied. "I thought I always needed you nearby, because of the chance I might hurt people."

"Exactly. I never wanted to break your heart, Mari, so I…didn't know if I would ever get to leave. Though I dreamed of a day when I could."

"I see," said Marianne, clasping her hands. "So I've been a burden to you, for years…"

"No! Don't – don't go around hating yourself. That's the whole big problem in the first place. I want you to be happy and strong and have people you can ask for help when you need it. And then, I'll feel like I can go, and you'll be okay. Okay?" Hapi's eyebrows were raised, as if she wasn't sure what she was saying made sense. But Marianne understood perfectly.

She looked down by the grave, where a long, dangerous shape was wrapped in a white shroud. For a time, she had been tempted to bury it with Maurice's bones. But she knew, if she did that, it would be out of fear. When she lifted it up, it glowed dimly, even through the wrappings. "The professor already told me in no uncertain terms that I would be taking remedial sword lessons." Her right arm twinged at the reminder, still aching even after Hapi's healing spell. "I wonder if learning to use this would make me stronger."

Carved from a single rippling horn, Blutgang was about as beautiful as a sword could be. Its glowing Crest Stone flickered quiescently in the pommel; below that, its wire-wrapped hilt continued the curve of the blade. Marianne appreciated its organic simplicity, its lack of ostentation. It was, still, a horribly powerful tool of death that had accompanied its last wielder to a terrible fate. But all swords were like that to some degree. And if she had to use one, Marianne thought she might as well honor Maurice's last bequest.

"I think trying something you're afraid of and being good at fighting will both make you stronger, just in different ways," Hapi said. "I want you to know that I'm not going to leave before you're ready. Or before I'm ready; I think I really need to get better at defending myself too. Do you think your professor would let me sit in on lessons sometimes?" A yawn slipped out. "Oh, is it sunset already? It's been a long day."

Marianne smiled at her sister and took her hand, cradling Blutgang in the other. "Come on. They must have already set up camp by now. Let's not make them worry for us."

Vocalist · Aug 17, 2022

"You must accept our apologies that we were unable to return the body as promised," said Maegelle to the Margrave as he debriefed them over tea. "It happened to, ah, disintegrate. A consequence of the monster's unique origins, I suppose."

Edmund seemed unconcerned. "That is no fault of yours, and I will not hold it against you. Consider your end of the agreement filled." Setting down his tea and steepling his hands, he said, "I am far more intrigued by the revelations about my young kinswoman here."

Marianne did not like the way he looked at her – as if she were a piece of merchandise he was appraising. She hid her face in her cup of chamomile.

He continued, "I was familiar with the story of Maurice…but all my sources left me with the impression that his Crest had died out centuries ago. Your ancestors must have kept the secret well."

"Those who bear the Crest of the Beast are often the targets of scorn and fear," said Marianne delicately. "It was a matter of shame, but also self-preservation."

"I am ashamed that you thought you had anything to fear from me. Dear Marianne, if you had confided in me after the death of your father, I would have been able to help you."

"What do you mean?" she asked, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

He spoke with a politician's earnestness. "Your line may be shadowed, but the House of Edmund has never gained anything by deferring to the past. I recognize the practical and political benefits your Crest could bring, especially to an 'upstart' house without its own connection to the Ten Elites. Marianne, it would be my honor to adopt you as my heir."

Marianne goggled. She'd expected – she didn't know – but not this. "My lord, that's extremely – a lot. Um." As Claude had warned, he was trying his hardest to make her his. Her insides twisted in trepidation, that the rest of his advice might hold true as well. She looked around, for help. Lorenz was beaming, Maegelle looked aghast, Hapi seemed to find the situation absurd. Claude gave her an encouraging smile. "Do you…not have closer relatives who will be expecting the inheritance?"

His nose wrinkled. "I have nephews," he said vaguely. "You should not concern yourself with them – I do not foresee that any of them will be an obstacle."

"And what of Hapi?" she asked. "Would you adopt my sister as well?"

Margrave Edmund gave an indulgent smile. "Well, I don't suppose she's hiding a Crest of her own?"

"Nope," said Hapi flatly. "Totally normal, here."

"Then I'm afraid not. But rest assured that I have the resources to make sure she lives in comfort for the rest of her life."

Marianne knotted her fingers. "Um, my lord, your offer is most generous. But I think any decision so major should be postponed until after I complete my education at Garreg Mach Monastery…"

"Hey, look, guys! Hilda's waiting for us!" On the steps of the monastery, their classmate stood and waved. There was a spot of color to her now: she wore a blush-pink beret over her hair, and a still-healing bruise on her face.

Abandoning his horse, Raphael ran ahead. "Hilda! So much happened! This was supposed to be an easy mission, but we actually ended up fighting another giant monster! And it turned out to be Marianne's great-great-grandfather who was under a curse!"

"Not so loud, Muscles!" Hapi yelled out crossly, as Marianne winced.

"Wow, sounds like we all had an exciting month," Hilda laughed. She stepped up beside them as they made their way to the stables. "Did Edmund give you trouble?"

"Oh, he was his usual self," said Claude, hopping down from his own horse and stretching in that lackadaisical way of his. "But after we amused him enough by risking our lives for a small increase in his profits, he agreed to open negotiations with the Church. Nothing's going to come of it, I'm sure, but it's not my time he's wasting. So I'm calling this a successful mission." Then he paused, giving her a look. "…Nice hat, by the way. The color looks good on you."

"It looks like you encountered some trouble yourself," said Byleth, staring at Hilda's bruise.

"Yeah, well, the Bishop of the Western Church is pretty strong for a supposed man of peace," Hilda replied. "And now you're all staring at me! Fine, I might as well tell you the whole story now…"

When Professor Manuela announced to the Blue Lions that Hilda would be assisting them on their mission, the general reaction was one of bemusement.

"You requested backup? Why?" said Felix scornfully. "This is already make-work. We don't need more people."

"Hilda is here because she is unable to go with her own class this month, and so needed something else to do. Take a seat, dear," the Professor told her. "And don't mind Felix."

Felix was currently glaring at Hilda as if he suspected her of lying just to get an easy mission. She chose a desk far away from him.

"I, for one, look forward to working with Hilda," declared Prince Dimitri. "It is all right if we call you Hilda, correct?"

"Yeah," she said. "I mean, what's the alternative, 'Duchess Goneril?' No, please don't call me that," she said in a rush as Dimitri opened his mouth. "And I'll just call you Dimitri. No need to get worked up about rank."

"Lovely to see you getting along," said Professor Manuela. "Now, I'm going to go over the mission details again, for Hilda's benefit. Lord Gaspard has requested the Blue Lions to serve as additional security at the wedding of his son, Christophe Artyom Gaspard, to Lady Cassandra Rubens Charon."

One of the students – she thought his name was Ashe? – was almost bouncing in his seat, a huge grin on his face. "The groom is my adoptive brother," he informed Hilda. "I was afraid I'd have to miss class to see the wedding, but now we all get to go!"

"And now," Felix said acidly, "I hope you see why this so-called 'mission' is an utter sham."

"We all know, Felix," said Sylvain, whom Hilda had eaten lunch with before. "We just don't care, because weddings are fun."

Felix set his shoulders stubbornly. "At least tell me that we will be truly guarding the place, not drinking and chatting with the guests."

"Well, of course," said Manuela. "I'd hate to see you all deprived of fun, though, so I thought I'd deploy you in shifts. Half on guard duty and half enjoying the party. What do you think of that?"

Felix's groan was drowned out by the chirping of a diminutive girl with orange hair: "We'll need to pack proper clothes for a ball, then!"

"Ooh!" said the girl next to her. "We can go shopping! Ingrid! Hilda! Come with us!"

A blonde – who had to be Ingrid – balked. "I, uh, have a dress already."

The two pairs of eyes turned to Hilda, who felt curiously like a lamb approaching the slaughterhouse.

No, Hilda decided, she was not a lamb. She was a chicken, being plucked naked, and then festooned with…new plumage? The metaphor was breaking down. But her discomfort was only rising.

She categorically refused to let anyone see her undressed, but Annette and Mercedes were distressingly patient. Whenever she emerged from the changing stall, there they were, rushing over to coo and offer suggestions. She couldn't even accuse them of offering bad advice. The dresses they found her were all lovely things, treats to look at and to touch. The only problem here was her.

"I can't wear that, Mercedes," she found herself saying for the umpteenth time. "I have – a lot of scars, okay? I need to be covered up to the neck."

Mercedes gave her a sad look. "That's really a shame." Then her gaze turned back to the dress, a thing of black velvet and pink ribbons with a plunging neckline. "I really want to take advantage of your figure. Some girls would die to have cleavage like yours!"

"Um," said Hilda. She could feel a blush rising. "If that's true, they need to get their priorities straight."

"Hilda! I was just looking for things we could do with your hair," said Annette, rushing over with a stack of accessories. "It really, um, clashes with a lot of the things we're trying to do. Also, I thought it could use a spot of color. You look depressing in black and white!"

"Good idea, Annie." Mercedes gathered up a few dresses in her arms. "I'm going to just put these back now."

Hilda's blush did not go away. She sat herself down in one of the shop's chairs and brushed futilely at her horrid white hair. They didn't need to know that she cut it herself, as quickly as possible, barely looking in the mirror. She hated that hair – brittle, dry, and the wrong color. She couldn't abide spending any time on it. "I don't really want anything that draws attention to my hair. If you can cover it up, that would be nice."

"Hairnet?" Annette asked. "I think the pearls on this one would go with your eyes."

"Don't you need, like, a certain volume of hair to fill those up?" Hilda sighed.

"Right. Okay, what about hats? I got this, um, felt thingy!"

"It's called a beret, Annette. Let me see that…" Hilda took it in her hands. It was pink, and lined with a simple ribbon band to keep the felt from being too itchy. When she put it on and looked in the mirror, she noticed immediately that the color matched her eyes.

Just like her old hair used to.

Hilda tucked more of her hair into the beret. "I like this one. I think it's a keeper."

"You do? Wonderful! Let's find a dress that goes with it, then," Annette beamed. "Can you go show Mercedes? I want to try on some of these barrettes." Grabbing her own chosen dress – a clingy cobalt piece – she started color-matching it to the hair accessories.

Hilda obeyed, ducking out of the back room and into the main shop. Dressmaker's forms stood everywhere, positioned in little twos and threes as if they were already having a party of their own, one which you, the customer, were rudely interrupting. Hilda had made the mistake of mentioning that impression to Mercedes, who responded with an airy giggle and a promise to tell her the story of the Scorned Tailor's Curse later.

Or, well, maybe it hadn't been a mistake. These two seemed like such nice girls. And how bad could their ghost stories be?

"Hilda!" Mercedes's ash-blonde head poked out from a gaggle of mannequins, as if she'd been holding them in conversation. "Ooh, take a look at this!"

Coming closer, Hilda said, "Have you found something you like?"

"Oh no, I'm still deciding between those two dresses from earlier. I wanted your opinion on this style." Mercedes indicated a mannequin whose puffy velvet skirt and sleeves contrasted with a tight bodice. The bodice showed – of course – a lot of cleavage. But there was actually quite a bit of fabric above that, covering the neck and shoulders, so that the décolletage was more of a cut-out. "I don't know where your scars are, exactly. But would something like this work?"

"Um, I'd have to try it on."

She tried it on.

"Um, do you think the dressmaker can make a version of this where the neck is just a little more covered? And, um, I'd like it in black and pink."

Two weeks later, when she met Yuri Leclerc in his room, he gave a satisfied nod of appreciation. "Annette and Mercedes sure know how to choose a tailor. I'm sure all three of you contributed to the final design, as well. Sit down. Time for me to do my part."

Hilda took the chair at his desk, which seemed to house more makeup and sewing supplies than schoolwork. She smoothed the rich, furry velvet of her skirts – a very popular fabric in Faerghus, she had been told. She hoped it wouldn't be too warm for a Garland Moon wedding. Skirt and sleeves alike were a dark pink slashed with black, falling in rich, puffy folds – though the sleeves were cinched tight at the wrists to keep her skin hidden. Black cloth covered her shoulders and neck, gold edging accented her pink bodice, and between them a diamond-shaped window showed off her, uh, "amazing body."

Belatedly, Hilda thought to wonder if Mercedes had been flirting with her.

Yuri flung a towel over her shoulders and got to work with his scissors. A soft rhythm of feathery snip-snips backgrounded his next words: "Goddess, your hair is a mess. Did you cut this with your axe?"

"Knife," Hilda said.

"Hm. You know, normally someone this aggressively unconcerned with their own appearance wouldn't take so well to wearing fancy dresses…" Yuri felt her shoulders stiffen, and gave them an encouraging pat. The soothing rhythm of the scissors continued. "I'll stop prying. Fashion can be…complicated, I know. The way you style yourself can lead others to make so many assumptions about you, beyond just that you like to look a certain way. So many people get scared away by that. Unfortunate. The world could use more people as gorgeous as myself."

A giggle escaped Hilda's lips. "You're modest."

"I'm common-born, Duchess. I never would have gotten here if I didn't know my own worth," he said coolly.

She couldn't help but compare him to Claude – the monastery's other secretive outsider. Where Claude always approached you with a smile and a game, Yuri's demeanor was cool and impenetrable. His smiles were thin and cold as a Faerghus winter, and they were only for himself. Claude deflected, self-deprecated, tried to be everyone's friend. Claude called himself your friend even to the very moment he was sliding a knife in your back. He did this, Hilda knew, because he was terrified of actually being attacked. Claude thought the best enemy was one who was unaware of your existence.

Yuri, in contrast, was widely considered by the entire school to be sketchy as fuck. He seemed quietly proud of that fact.

"I didn't know you could cut hair," she ventured.

"I wouldn't call myself an expert. But I am the reason Dimitri still looks halfway presentable after your classmate struck him with lightning during the mock battle." He hummed in consideration, made a few more snips, and slid a mirror in front of her. Silver-backed and silver-edged, Hilda noted. Yuri Leclerc may have been of lowly birth, but he sure had developed a taste for the finer things in life.

As for her hair, it was still short and bristly and the wrong color, but it didn't stick out in all directions now. Maybe when it grew out a bit, it would end up looking like Leonie's. That wouldn't be too bad. Leonie's hair looked good on her.

"You've done about as much as I could have hoped for," she told him. "Thank you."

"Well, we're not done yet," he said with a grin, dragging out a tray of small, expensive-looking bottles. "This is the fun part."

"What, we're not using any of the stuff that's already here?" she asked, waving at the rows of makeup on his desk.

He sniffed. "Trust me, you and I do not benefit from the same color palette. Annette gave me a description of your dress and, on that basis, I went on a little shopping spree." He selected three creamy powders in near-identical shades of pink. "Come on, hold out your arm. I need to see how these look against your skin." As he painted swatches of color onto her arm, she poked through the other things he had bought for her. Saints, this was strangely exciting. It was almost like…like…

Hilda's chubby little fingers scrabbled through her mother's collection before closing around a particularly pretty-looking bottle. Bringing it close, she turned back around to ask, "Mama, is this gold?"

"Yes, dear. That's gold leaf. On very special occasions, I paint it onto my nails." A warm smile. "Would you like to try it?"

Hilda nodded. "I want a lot of gold!"

"Oh, Hilda, you can't go overboard with the gold. You must balance it out with other colors, or else it looks so tasteless." Long arms, reaching around the little girl on her lap. "Now, what else can we use here? A bit of blush, hm?"

Yuri looked up from his work to see Hilda, frozen still. She was staring at a bottle in her hand. "Duchess?"

"Is this gold?" she asked in a weak voice.

"Mica powder. It's much easier to blend with. And, speak of the devil," he plucked it from her hand, "it's exactly what I need." Unscrewing the cap, he carefully spooned a tiny amount of the virulently glittery powder onto Hilda's skin and started blending it in with the color swatches. "Something worrying you?"

"…No. I'm just not really used to this." She could feel the memories threatening to rise back up, like bile in her throat. She tried to swallow them down, focusing on the feeling of Yuri's makeup brush and the grip of his hand. She looked at the dormitory desk, ever-so-slightly battered under its coat of varnish. She counted the bottles on the shelves, almost all in cool shades of blue, green, silver, and violet. "It's been a long time since anyone…pampered me like this."

Her words gave him thought, so much that he actually paused in his work. Violet eyes uncannily perceptive, he asked, "Is it the makeup and dresses? Or the attention people are giving you?"

She smiled weakly. "Both, I guess."

He asked, almost grim, "Is it bringing back bad memories?"

"No," she replied. "They're very good memories, actually. But often, I can't think of my family without remembering how they died. All my good memories are of things that I've lost." She closed her eyes, willing the tears prickling there to go away. "That's all. I really do appreciate what you and Annette and Mercie are doing for me. I'm just…having a hard time."

She felt a tentative touch on her shoulder. When she didn't shoo him away, he drew closer; a twilight shadow, a comforting pressure. They stayed like that for several moments before he withdrew.

"I'll keep going, then," he said, the words businesslike. "Take a look at your arm." The three patches of makeup were now each divided into two, a glitter and a matte. "I think…I'll restrain myself on the color layering, but I'd like to fade this into this for your eyeshadow, and then a…taupe. Definitely taupe."

"Will that go with my hat?" she asked, trying to visualize the effect.

"Eh. It's taupe, it goes with everything in a mediocre way. The point is to let your eyeshadow play gently with your eyebrows." He poked at them, and Hilda realized for the first time that her snow-white eyebrows had their own part to play in this. "Let's try it out."

Yuri's brushes skittered over her eyelids for an uncomfortably long time before he announced that she could open them. Then they needed to choose a color for her nails, for her lips, for her cheeks. To get a glossy lacquer on her nails, he layered on multiple concoctions in a process that was more complicated than anything her mother ever did. There was a long stretch of drying in between each one, during which Hilda amused herself with small talk.

"So, Yuri, how did you become such an expert at this stuff?"

He was inspecting his own nails, as if the process of doing Hilda's had reminded him. "My mother taught me. Cosmetics are one of the most important tools in her trade, after all."

"Her trade?"

"Prostitution." He smiled to see her flinch, then leaned over to make sure she hadn't messed up her nails. "I thought the rumors had reached everyone in the Officer's Academy by now. It's not something I bother hiding."

"I, uh, assumed it was a lie? There are a lot of weird rumors about you," Hilda said.

His smile grew. "Oh, this ought to be fun. Tell me what you've heard."

She sighed. "Fair warning, this is mostly from Claude, who loves passing on this kind of stuff. And probably made some of it up himself." Thinking, she said, "Okay, I've heard that your mom's a prostitute, and that you, um, did some of that yourself before you met the prince. Or perhaps you were a thief. And then, uh, in Fhirdiad, you seduced a lot of noble ladies, and men…" Ugh, she can see herself blushing in the mirror. "Apparently two people dueled to the death over your favors, or something?"

"Oh, don't stop," Yuri said, looking immensely flattered. "I can tell you have more."

She would have facepalmed if her nails weren't still drying. "Are you seriously having fun right now? Ugh. So Claude thinks that you must be a spymaster of some kind, probably with blackmail material on half the royal court." Of course, Claude had then wondered if Yuri kept any of that material in his room, and if it would be worth breaking in to have a look around. "And…well, some of the girls think that you and Prince Dimitri are a couple. Is any of that true?"

"Dimitri and I are not sleeping together," he chuckled. "As for the rest, no comment." Leaning over her nails, he said, "I think these are done, now. Time for coat number three."

"Don't just change the subject! What was the point of all that, to make me uncomfortable? And here I thought you were some kind of gentleman," she fumed.

Yuri painted her nails with a delicate touch as he explained, "People thoughtlessly say and assume so many things. Sometimes it amuses me drag that out into the light and make them confront it. But I also benefit from it – in truth, I'm pleased to hear that I'm developing the kind of reputation that I want." He smiled with infuriating smugness. "It acts as a buffer for my real secrets."

Macuil's sword and Cichol's spear, Hilda thought, this must be how other people feel when they have to interact with Claude. "And you're not going to tell me any of those, of course," she said, rolling her eyes. "You just brought them up to wave them smugly in my face and seem more mysterious."

"We could trade," he said lightly. "A secret for a secret."

For a moment, she actually considered it. She had plenty of secrets. But none came to mind that wouldn't have horrible consequences if they got out. Consequences like "Claude blocked from ever holding political power" or "Yuri, and everyone else he had ever talked to, tortured to death in an underground dungeon."

"I really shouldn't. No offense, Yuri, but we don't know each other that well."

"None taken," he said. "But now we have to find something else to entertain us while we wait for this to dry."

A thought occurred to her. "Can you tell me how you became the prince's retainer? Or is that another secret?"

He settled back into his chair, stretching. "I don't mind telling that story. It was…five years ago, when we first met. You see, King Lambert of Faerghus is a man very concerned with the common people. So much so, that it is said he sometimes disguises himself as an ordinary citizen to walk among his subjects and observe them, their conduct and their condition. Perhaps he even brings his son with him on some of these ventures." Yuri's voice was lilting, dreamlike. He told it like a story; like something that might or might not be true. "It is also said that a wise healer used to make his home on the lowlier side of Fhirdiad. He treated all who came, never asking for payment, and lived on the charity of grateful citizens. And there were many, for this man's skill and knowledge were without equal.

"He could have earned a fortune administering to the noble classes, but he did not wish for wealth, and especially not for recognition. So he stayed in the shadows, where he could help those who needed it most. Despite this, rumors of this man reached the ear of the king, who resolved to seek out the truth of the legend. Taking only his son and his most faithful knight, Lambert Blaiddyd set out into the unmapped depths of his own city. He kept asking after the healer, pretending only to be a concerned father with an ill son.

"Eventually, he found what he sought. In a ramshackle house on a street he had never known existed, he revealed himself to the wise elder. 'One of your great talents should not be languishing here!' he said. 'I admire your desire to give help to all who need it. How much more could you do, with the backing of the Crown? I would grant you all the funds and facilities you wish, if only you would agree to spend some of your time attending to the royal family.' He thought himself very generous and clever for that offer. It was a good offer, in truth. But King Lambert did not understand that what the wise man truly wanted was not something it was in his power to give."

"Yuri," Hilda broke in. Her nails were almost dry. "I'm enjoying the story so far, but…is it going to have you in it?"

He pursed his lips. "All right, all right. I'll hurry it up a little." Resummoning his misty air, he continued, "The healer refused entirely. 'I have no desire for recognition, and as for apprentices, my current one is sufficient,' he said. 'In fact, that you have been able to find me is a sign that I have lived here too long and drawn far too much attention! You will not find me here again.' Then he summoned his apprentice to show the nobles back to familiar streets." He dipped his head in a mock bow. "His apprentice, a youth of astonishing beauty but only middling passion for advanced medical sciences…Happy now, Duchess?"

"Wait, how'd you become a legendary healer's apprentice?"

He spread his hands wide in exasperation. "You asked me for the story of how I met Dimitri! Saints, learn to appreciate the mystery a little! Anyway, the healer's apprentice tried to lead them out of that neighborhood. But, well, it was a very bad neighborhood. And the king tried to look normal, bless his heart, but a good footpad can usually identify a noble who's slumming it."

She raised her eyebrows. "So you got mugged together."

Dropping his storyteller's conceit entirely, he sighed. "Yeah. King's dumbass kid jumped in front of a knife for me, when I was armed and perfectly ready to defend myself. Then we had to drag him all the way back to my teacher's house, where I had to do the surgery because my teacher was currently skipping town. I'd been wanting to leave his service for a while, so when I had to choose between a rendez-vous with my teacher and a prince who swore I'd saved his life, I chose the prince." His annoyance shifted to something warmer. "Haven't yet had reason to regret it."

"Wow. So you just left your apprenticeship? Without a word?"

He shook his head. "He knew that I'd learned all I wanted to. You don't have to understand. Just know that we parted on good terms, to pursue our own separate goals."

Curiosity fuelled by their conversation, Hilda kept an eye on Yuri as they departed Garreg Mach for the southern hills of Faerghus. It was fascinating. There were differences in how he interacted with each classmate – he was willing to joke with Sylvain and swap stories with Ashe, while he had nothing but scorn for Ingrid. She even saw him trying to cook with Annette one night, though it ended with him taking over entirely in frustration. But he kept his icy composure with everyone, she found, with one clear exception.

He saved all his warmth for Dimitri. The smiles he gave him were unlike the smiles he gave anyone else. He chided his prince, sometimes, like a concerned mother hen. And fussed over his hair, although it was far beyond him to make something good out of those limp and greasy locks. And sometimes, when the class rested, the two of them would just sit together in silence, leaning on each other and looking up at the changing moon.

Hilda could definitely see why some people thought they were a couple.

Gaspard territory was relatively close to the monastery, so their journey lasted only a few days. Near the end, sharp-eyed Ashe took the lead, pointing out familiar features of his homeland – Castle Gaspard greatest of all. It was a blocky thing tucked into a corner of the hills, built more for defense than grace. But the welcome they received was warm enough to chase all trepidation away. The entire town was in high spirits, anticipating the wedding. Many called out greetings and directions, and as they approached the castle Ashe was mobbed by a gang of children who couldn't possibly all be his siblings.

When the Blue Lions finally reached the castle gates, they found two men and a woman waiting there for them. The oldest, a craggy, sun-browned man whose hair had gone completely white, stepped forward. "Hail the Blue Lions! I am Lonato Gildas Gaspard, and I am honored that you agreed to come."

Professor Manuela laughed. "However could we refuse this opportunity? Manuela Casagranda, professor, healer, available. Now, how about we discuss the boring details of our stay, and leave the kids to have some fun? It looks like…Ashe! Why is Ashe upside down?"

"I'm fine, Professor!" Ashe struggled to give a thumbs up, but couldn't quite figure out how to orient his thumb.

"He's gotten taller," explained the young man who was holding Ashe upside-down – himself as tall and thin as a fencepost, with cerulean hair. "I wanted to make sure I could still pick him up."

Lord Gaspard made a sound that was part sigh and part chuckle. "Christophe…one wonders if you're actually mature enough to get married yet."

"I'm the one who gets to be the judge of that, and I say yes," declared the third member of the welcoming committee – a tall blonde woman in trousers and a white longcoat. "Now, I think I can carry two of these students at once. Any volunteers?"

The lord turned back to Manuela. "Yes, let's leave the children to their amusements."

Vocalist · Aug 18, 2022

The wedding celebration was to last two full days. Hilda found herself assigned to guard duty on the first one, along with Felix, Ingrid, Sylvain, and Mercedes. Her post was on an indoor balcony, overlooking the main ballroom where noble guests drank and mingled. So many people had been invited that the little castle was full to bursting.

Hilda supposed that, if she knew more about the nobility of Faerghus, she would be able to gather reams of information from her lofty perch. Claude would have loved to be in her shoes, probably. But Hilda's talents were not in spying, they were in smashing things. She found some amusement in examining the fashions on display – the Faerghans loved their fur trim even in summer – but she was mostly just bored.

Felix, her assigned partner, was also bored. By midday, when he came over to hand her a lunch of meat skewers, they had both given up watching the glittery crowd in favor of chatting dully.

"I can handle night watch," Hilda said. "But this is giving me a headache. I want fresh air."

"This is so useless," Felix complained. "What are we watching for – one guest suddenly stabbing another?"

"Is that likely?" she asked. "I mean, do you know any nobles here who hate each other that much?"

He grimaced. "I am not the person to go to for gossip. Besides, that's what duels are for. If two people here want to kill each other, you can bet they'll be announcing it loudly and making a big deal about their honor," he said with a roll of his eyes. "The duels themselves can be fun to watch, though." A thought occurred to him. "Ashe told me that Lady Charon only agreed to marry his brother once he defeated her in a duel. She was using Thunderbrand, too. I wonder if I'll get a chance to spar with her before we leave?"

Leaning back against the balcony railing, Hilda mused, "Is a duel really a good reason to marry someone? I hope their relationship is based on more than just that."

"Respect is necessary for any strong relationship. And I know I'd respect someone who could beat me in a fight," Felix told her.

"Yeah, but if I duelled you right now and won, you wouldn't want to marry me, would you? You'd probably just swear revenge and go off to train harder."

Felix looked like he was about to reply, but the sight of someone coming up the stairs made his eyes widen. Hilda looked, too – it was a nobleman, with familiar long, night-blue hair. As he drew close, he opened his arms wide. Too late, Felix tried to dodge away.

"Felix! Saints, it's good to see you again! Why don't you ever write home?" Trapped in the taller man's arms, Felix endured his affectionate hair-ruffling with the approximate willingness of a cat in a bath.

Hilda almost expected him to start hissing and clawing, but he settled for a terse, "Let me go, Glenn."

Surprisingly, Glenn obeyed without a fuss. "I'm glad I found you. I just couldn't wait a whole day to talk to my little brother after finding out he was at the same party." Hilda could see the resemblance in their faces, now that she knew they were related. Perhaps the biggest difference was in their height, or their eyes – Glenn's ocean-blue to Felix's warm amber.

"I'm on guard duty. I can't talk," said Felix stubbornly.

"Felix, you were just saying that you felt like you had nothing to do and you were bored," Hilda said.

"As I suspected," Glenn said smugly. "You've never been good at standing still. Oh, but where are my manners? I'm Glenn Hector Fraldarius, heir to the Fraldarius dukedom," he said to her. "You must be Lady Hilda of the Golden Deer. Ashe told me about you – not Felix," he glared, "who never writes any letters."

"Let's make a deal. I'll write a response to every letter you send," Felix replied coolly.

Glenn winced. "Okay, I get your point, but – come on, Felix. I've been so busy. Father has me doing just about everything for him while he's at the capital, and by the Goddess, it's…" He leaned forward, lowering his voice somewhat. "Are you sure you don't want to inherit? You're the one with a Major Crest. By tradition, you should have priority over me."

Hilda debated whether to back away politely, or draw closer to the juicy gossip. She took a subtle step forward.

"You're going to have a hard time convincing me and Father of that," Felix replied. "Not to mention Count Galatea."

Glenn made a disgusted sound. In that moment, he sounded very like his brother. "If that man tries to foist Galatea's problems on me too, I think I'll jump out a window. Why can't I just be Ingrid's trophy husband and run around slaying her enemies?"

"Because House Galatea needs money, and they don't want you if you don't have a dukedom attached," Felix said bluntly. "And Ingrid likes slaying her own enemies."

"We could be comrades on the battlefield," Glenn whined, quietly.

Felix looked back at Hilda, remembering for the first time that someone was listening to this. "Are you drunk, Glenn? You only say things like this when you're drunk."

"I've had a few glasses," he said defensively, "because I am enjoying my vacation. I'm at a friend's wedding. I'm allowed to!"

"Well, you shouldn't have any more," Felix told him. "Go outside and cool off." To Hilda, he gritted his teeth before reluctantly whispering, "Cover for me?" She motioned for him to go ahead, and the younger Fraldarius dragged his older brother away.

"Are you having fun at the Officer's Academy?" she heard Glenn ask. "Goddess, I sure miss those days…"

She kind of felt for Glenn. She certainly knew what it was like to get saddled with a load of responsibilities you didn't want. But, by that same token, she didn't think it was right for him to try shoving them all on Felix. Really, the two brothers playing a game of keep-away with the most valuable inheritance in the Kingdom would have been kind of funny if it didn't remind her of her own situation.

Left alone again, she leaned over the balcony railing, trying to spot people she knew in the crowd. There was Christophe Gaspard, the groom, who seemed to be introducing Ashe to some other guests. Annette was speaking to an old soldier-looking type who absolutely towered over her – but they had the same orange hair and he was wearing the Crest of Dominic, so they were probably family. She saw Yuri's distinctive purple head, and beside him was Dimitri, as expected. The Crown Prince was surrounded by a knot of people hoping to talk to him, and he was giving them all equal attention as best as he could.

Considerate, handsome, chivalrous, and gentle; Dimitri Blaiddyd was possibly the closest thing to a storybook prince that could exist in the real world. He stumbled, of course, like a knobby-legged fawn, but by that same token he was just so adorable and earnest about whatever he was doing that it was hard to hold that against him. He seemed to hold a sincere belief that the world was kind and people were fundamentally good at heart, and, well, events around him tended not to contradict it. She'd be jealous if he weren't so impossible to hate.

She wondered if people actually acted differently around him. Were they just trying to impress the prince, or were they being hammered into some better shape by relentless rays of sunny idealism?

A small noise from behind caught her attention. Turning away from the railing, she saw a man in Gaspard colors, looking hesitant. He was holding a triangular leather case, like what one might use to carry a harp – a musician? "Oh, didn't see you there. Am I in your way or something?"

"Ah, yes," he said. "We're going to set up instruments on the balcony for the dancing later." He gave a bashful smile. "Could I ask you to leave?"

"I know I might not look it," she said, tugging at her Officer's Academy uniform, "but I am actually on guard duty here. Leaving could get me in trouble. I'll do my best to stay out of your way, okay?"

The man's brow furrowed. "…Okay, then. Could I ask you to hold this for a second?" He pushed the case into her hands. It was surprisingly light, she thought. What was in there? Then as he moved past her, she saw the glint of a blade. Instinct took over and she shoved the leather case in between the dagger and herself. The man was forced to stumble back and kick it away.

"Should have just gone downstairs, girl," he growled, as Hilda unhooked her axe and he revealed two more knives.

"You should really take some time to talk to Hilda, father. She looks scary, but she's actually just kind of shy. She's sweet once you get past her shell, and she has a great eye for fashion. And she's also very mature for her age, running a duchy and all. If you want to see what kind of person she is, I could arrange a meeting for later today…" Annette said, in a way that she hoped was calm and mature, and not wheedling or rambling or coming across like she had a crush on Hilda, which was Mercie's thing and not hers.

The craggy face of Gustave Dominic remained unmoved. "I don't believe the character of Lady Goneril is what is at issue here. Frankly, Annette, a Hero's Relic is too great a responsibility for a girl of your age to bear. I doubt Lady Goneril would have been allowed to bring Freikugel to the Academy if she had anyone around to tell her 'no.'"

Annette fought the urge to gesture and jump – she was not a girl, she was seventeen! – lacing her fingers together and almost vibrating with the effort of keeping still. "I'm not asking to go off to war! We'll just be training together. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to learn from someone who wields the Relic most similar to Crusher – it could teach me and Hilda so much. I'm trying to become a better servant of the Kingdom, father. Why would you want to get in the way of that?"

Baron Dominic sighed. "I thought you wished to serve the Kingdom through your talents as a mage."

"I did, until I met Hilda!" Forgetting herself, Annette started to wave her arms. "What are you worried about? What do I have to do to prove myself worthy of this 'responsibility' in your eyes?"

"Like any Relic, Crusher contains enormous power," he began, a lecture she had heard a hundred times before. "As its current custodian, it is my role to ensure that that power is not used for evil. To do otherwise would betray the trust of the Goddess. I do not exactly worry about…evil intentions in your case, so much as youthful impetuousness."

"Saints, father, I'm not going to bring it out willy-nilly!" She persisted in speaking in the future, not the hypothetical, as if she could trick her father into thinking he'd already agreed to her request. "Hilda saves Freikugel for training or emergencies. She didn't even bring it on this mission, because of the low chance we'd see combat."

He sighed again. Annette hated those sighs. They were the sighs of a busy man dealing with some tedious bureaucracy, or a parent explaining to their young child that they couldn't have any more candy today. "I must…think about this. The martial path is not easy, Annette. Why do you seem so intent on rushing down it before you are even a woman grown?"

That was quite a question, and Annette had to spend some moments thinking on her answer. All her thoughts were scattered, however, when a loud scream of "GUARDS!" came from the upper balcony, followed a split-second later by the whistle of a crossbow bolt. This was followed by a great deal of chaos.

Eyes wide, Gustave looked at Annette as though she had been shot. She put a hand on his arm to steady him, and he took a breath – before stiffening up, eyes even wider. "The prince!" he said, and bolted.

Gustave Eduard Dominic was a broad man with a commanding air. These features, which served him well in pushing through panicked crowds, had not been inherited by his daughter. She lost him in seconds. It occurred to her that the attackers might still be here, killing people, and that in this crowd she'd be very vulnerable. It occurred to her next that there might be wounded, probably being attended by Mercie, and she ought to be helping out with that. Not that she knew where Mercie was right now. Uncertain, disoriented, she wiggled to the edges of the ballroom, where the press of people was less. A number of the guests seemed to have already fled the room, and she didn't see any visible bodies, which was nice. Now, think…where was the danger? That shout had come from above – Hilda!

Annette looked up, to the balcony ringing the room, just in time to hear wood crack and see a tangle of limbs and knives falling down from above, screaming in two voices. Annette thought she screamed too, while outstretching her hand to make the worst-looking improvised spell of her life, the sort of thing that would get her a failing grade in any class and was only a spell by dint of basic definitions: it used wind anima, and it did something. What it did was blow the falling combatants apart and send them rolling across the floor in different directions. What it was supposed to do was break their fall. Whether it fulfilled its intended purpose was difficult to determine by eye – but Annette, in the spirit of optimism, chose to believe that it had and she was being helpful.

Of the two people on the floor, Hilda was first to get up, flaring Goneril's Crest as she did so. She advanced on her opponent and, undaunted by the fact that she had lost her weapon, kicked him in the face. There was an ugly crack.

"Augh, mercy!" he said through a broken nose, curling up on the floor. "In the name of the Goddess, have mercy!"

"Who sent you?" she demanded.

"No one!"

She kicked him again.

"Hilda!" cried Annette.

"Ugh. Hi, 'Nette. Help me get this guy secure, and we can keep him around for someone who's better at interrogations than me."

"Are you hurt, Hilda? I tried to break your fall, but I don't know if I—"

Hilda brushed off her hands on the skirt of her uniform. "I'm a tough girl. It's just scrapes and bruises. Can you check him out? Make sure he's not about to die."

Annette thought that this was just about the most impressive thing she had ever heard anyone say outside the pages of a novel, and Mercie would definitely be hearing about it later. She stood over the prisoner, forming the sigil for a basic Heal spell. It washed over him in a wave of light, and his posture changed. He was no longer curled up in agony, just keeping his head down in justifiable caution.

The two students did not have to wait long before Cassandra Charon strode in, white skirts spattered with blood.

"You got one of these scumbags, Hilda?" she asked, a truly thunderous expression on her face.

"I think he was trying to snipe from the balcony, but he didn't count on me being there," she explained.

Charon looked up at the balcony, eyes widening to see the splintered railing. She gave an appreciative nod. "Good job. But his partner got a few shots off. Who was supposed to be on the other side?"

Hilda shifted uncomfortably. "Uh…Felix. But he had to go deal with…one of the guests who was drunk."

"Well, tell him thanks for that, because the prince has been shot and we can't find the man who did it!" She looked down at Hilda's prisoner, eyes narrowing to hateful blue slits. "At my own wedding. You've got some fucking nerve!"

The man stayed annoyingly silent.

Charon grunted and had the two students help her search him for more weapons, before marching him out of the ballroom and into a dungeon cell. She then went raring off after her fiancé. Lacking any direction of their own, Annette and Hilda followed her.

They found Christophe Gaspard in worried discussion with Professor Manuela and Annette's father. Most of the Blue Lions were also present, including a shirtless Prince Dimitri, who waved at them even as Yuri was smearing some kind of healing salve over his wounds.

"Hilda! Annette! I caught a glimpse of your admirable performance. Only a glimpse, because I was at that time being ushered rapidly out of the room," said Dimitri by way of greeting.

"I imagine the crossbow bolt in your shoulder was also distracting," Yuri snarked. Annette tried not to look directly at them, even at the risk of being rude, because the prince had the body of a healthy young man who spent every day at the training grounds, and she could feel her thoughts going in a direction that was entirely inappropriate to the current situation.

The mood was tense. Dimitri, normally radiant, was colored by solemnity, and so was Mercedes as she took Annette and Hilda both in a hug. "I'm so glad neither of you got badly hurt! We were so lucky today. If the assassin had been a little more accurate, he would have killed the prince."

"The Goddess is kind, but perhaps not as kind as she could be," said a haggard-looking Professor Manuela. The adults had scattered to attend to their own tasks, and the Professor's, logically enough, was her students. "The guards will be searching the castle grounds for the man who got away. Until we're sure no more assassins are lying in wait, the prince is going to be staying right here in this room, under our eyes."

"So we're sure Prince Dimitri was the intended target, then?" asked Annette.

"It was either Dimitri, or someone standing very close to him," replied Yuri. "And I'm not currently aware of anyone who wants me dead this badly."

"It's not even the first time someone's tried to kill me," the prince said far too casually. "Have I ever told you about the Miracle of Duscur? I imagine, like that incident, this one was motivated by a disagreement with my father's policies." He paused, before something else occurred to him. "By the way, does anyone have a spare shirt? The one I was wearing is rather soaked in blood."

As the lowly Deer, Hilda found herself volunteered to go get some of Dimitri's clothes from his room. She couldn't keep herself from scanning every corner she passed with twitchy eyes. This sort of attack – audacious yet untraceable – reminded her far too much of what she'd seen from them. If they'd suddenly decided Faerghus's royal family should go the way of Almyra's, how would she know? They told Claude the bare minimum, and her even less.

She told herself that chances were this was someone else's doing. The Holy Kingdom had plenty of internal discontent. What she knew of King Lambert's reign was a cycle of power centralization, smacking down pissed-off nobles, then using that as the excuse for more power centralization. Although if that were the motivation, it was still odd to go after the son before the father…

In her current state, it didn't take much to set her off. So when she saw a shadow moving under the door to Dimitri's room, Hilda rushed in ready to fight. The woman inside found herself beaten down before she could react.

The prince's things were obviously disturbed, and there were letters on the floor. So she hadn't just punched out an innocent servant, Hilda thought with some relief. Pinning the spy to the ground, she asked, "Anything you feel like telling me?"

"I…got lost," the woman said. "I thought this was my room."

The audacity of the lie took Hilda aback. Then she realized the woman was dressed in the robes of a monk. "Oh. Ah…you're a guest here? My apologies, sister, but I'll need to confirm that." She retreated warily, allowing the woman to sit up.

"Well, I cannot blame you for being a little…cautious," she said, in a tone that suggested she did blame Hilda for other things. "But if you would only speak to my master, Bishop Kirill Sidorov of the Western Church, I am sure we can get this whole matter worked out."

"Bishop Sidorov. Yeah, okay, I'll do that," said Hilda, before punching the woman again.

"Kirill!" said Lord Gaspard, finding the bishop where he was speaking to a knot of other guests, appealing for calm. "I need to speak with you. Urgently." Flanked by Hilda Goneril and Cassandra Charon, he was an intimidating sight. The guests took one look and immediately broke out into nervous twitters.

The bishop sighed to see his work undone, but turned to face his addresser. Kirill Sidorov was a coldly handsome man, with that sort of reserved solemnity some priests liked to cultivate. He had the freckled skin and bluish-white hair of a Faerghan peasant, though he was more meticulously kept than most nobles Hilda knew. His hands clutched a tall bronze-capped staff, and as he began to walk with them, Hilda realized he had something of a limp. "What is it, Lonato? Has your investigation turned up something relevant?"

"It has. One of your people was implicated, Kirill."

Sidorov's eyes widened, and his face hardened into a grimace. "What? Who? Take me to them."

"I will do so. But Baron Dominic will want to question you as well, in the king's stead. Considering how strained your relationship with the Crown has been recently—"

"And that's why I wished to make my case to the prince here, and gain his support! Do you really think I'd benefit from killing him instead?"

Lord Gaspard looked equally unhappy. "I believe you, my friend. But…"

"Oh, just come out and tell him!" Cassandra snapped. "We found a letter in the spy's possession, in handwriting that even my father-in-law admits could be yours. It mentions a plot to assassinate the Archbishop herself – on the day of the Rite of Rebirth!"

Sidorov's face went gray. "Maiden preserve me," he breathed. "I mean, that's very serious –"

"It's fucking abominable, that's what it is!" Cassandra yelled. "I know you people like to be all holier-than-thou to us normal worshippers, but I thought you at least had the respect and decency the Goddess gave a louse. You're supposed to be a priest, a servant of the Goddess!"

"Cassandra! That's enough!" cried Lord Gaspard, as his daughter-in-law reached out to strike the bishop. Very quickly, his staff raised to shield him, and then then swung out low in a blow meant to sweep her feet. Cassandra dodged. Hilda, who'd been circling from behind, didn't – and the other end of the staff caught her in the face.

"Ooh!" she cried. Meanwhile, Lord Gaspard successfully managed to get in between his religious teacher and his daughter-in-law, shouting them both down with a voice that had once commanded battlefields.

"You're lucky you're in home territory," Cassandra growled. "If you'd tried this at Castle Charon…"

"I will pray for the Maiden-Saint to teach you the virtues of peace and compassion," replied the scornful Sidorov. "Do try to prove yourself worthy of your new husband." To Hilda, he only said, "Please accept my apologies, madam," before following Lord Gaspard to an uncertain fate.

In the end, Hilda returned to Garreg Mach without getting to wear her new dress. She was surprised at how much that disappointed her. A dejected Ashe told her that the bride and groom were going to take some time to work out their new differences, and hopefully have a smaller wedding in a few months.

The way back was busier than usual, as pilgrims began to gather for the Rite of Rebirth. Perhaps some of them were assassins in disguise. The Knights of Seiros sure seemed aware of the possibility – all pilgrims were being questioned at the town gates under the eyes of watchful guards. Mercifully, the Blue Lions got to waltz right through.

There was but one final hurdle before they could enter the monastery and retire. Waiting expectantly on the route from the stables to the dormitories was a prim young woman in a student's uniform. She had chestnut hair and violet eyes, and Hilda recognized her as Edelgard, from the room next to hers. She was a Black Eagle, she swung an axe respectably well, and, judging by the way the prince blanched when he saw her, she was here for him.

"Welcome back, your Highness," she began. "How was your fun, celebratory vacation of a mission?"

Some of the Blue Lions politely averted their eyes and sidled past. The gossipy ones, Dimitri, and Yuri stopped in their tracks. "I get the feeling that you're angry with me," the prince said delicately. "I'm not sure why, though."

"Yuri," she demanded, "when he was attacked, did my brother act like an idiot?"

"Well," he drawled, "it took a lot of people yelling to get him moving for cover, but once we got him to safety he pretty much stayed put. So I'd say that little flame of self-preservation is still burning."

Dimitri looked rather put out to hear them talking about him like this. "Personally, El, I think you should be most angry at the men and women plotting my death."

"Well, now I am. Just had to get a little bit of indignation out. Do you know how worried I've been?" Dimitri dropped his bags to accept her hug. She looked small in his arms – but everyone did, because Dimitri was taller and wider than some brick walls. "I know there's been unrest in Faerghus for years, but – Goddess, this is ridiculous! Attempts to kill you and the archbishop?"

"So you've seen our messages, then?" Yuri asked.

"Not officially, but Hubert was able to 'acquire' a copy. I simply couldn't not keep abreast of a situation involving threats to my younger brother's life."

The prince sighed. "I am surrounded by mother hens. I wasn't even wounded that badly—" He flinched as she poked him in the right shoulder, putting the lie to his words.

Fascinated, Hilda said, "Sorry to interrupt here, but…I didn't know Dimitri had a sister? In the Black Eagles?"

"Ah, yes," said Dimitri, seemingly eager for a change of topic. "El, this is Hilda Goneril of the Golden Deer. She came with us on our mission. Have you been introduced before?"

"Not formally," said Edelgard. "Edelgard von Hresvelg, ninth princess of the Adrestian Empire. Dima here is my stepbrother. The story's a little complicated, but the short version is that after my mother left the Empire she remarried to the King of Faerghus. We've known each other since childhood."

"Although she enjoys calling me her 'little brother', I feel it is worth noting that she's only older than me by six months," added Dimitri.

"And I used to be quite a bit taller than him, if you can believe it," she muttered ruefully. "At any rate, Professor Manuela wrote a glowing account of you in her report. I must thank you for doing so much for my brother, Hilda, even when you barely knew him." The Adrestian princess gave her a formal bow.

"Oh? That's not…I was just doing my job, really," she shrugged, feeling a strange little warmth. "I mean, I know him enough that I wouldn't want him to be hurt. And I was pretty angry about the wedding being ruined, too!"

"I want to second that thanks," said Dimitri. "And also convey my sincerest respect. I know your time with the Blue Lions is coming to an end, but I would love for our friendship to continue – if that would be all right with you." He rubbed awkwardly at his hair. "I'm at the training grounds every day before class, so if you'd ever like to spar…"

"Oh, I-I could do that!" stammered Hilda. "I mean, I'm not much of a morning person, but I've noticed you there in the afternoons sometimes—"

"I can come by in the afternoon! That's fine!" Behind him, Hilda could see Edelgard and Yuri whispering to each other suspiciously.

"Do the two of you have anything you want to say?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

"Not at the moment," replied Edelgard. "But we do agree that the both of you should get some rest." She gave Hilda a smile and a wave, before taking Dimitri's arm with a bossy air. "Come along, now!"

"She's only like this because she never gets to be in charge of anything at home," he told Hilda tiredly, before letting himself be dragged away.

Vocalist · Aug 19, 2022

Garreg Mach's library was a cozy place of dark-varnished wood and venerable tomes, kept clean and organized by conscripted students and a devoted staff. Cleverly-crafted lanterns spilled their light like warm oil onto the reading tables. This metaphorical oil was produced by the burning of actual oil, which Hapi knew was expensive, made horribly messy spills, and smelled like damnation when it went rancid. But no-one wanted an open flame by all these books, so every day a poor soul had to top off all the lantern wells and hope nothing went wrong.

Today that poor soul was Cyril, the Almyran, who gave her a nod as she passed by. "Hapi. Haven't seen you much, recently." He kept his eyes on his work, bringing the oil to the well's very rim and then removing the nozzle without a drop spilled.

Something twisted a little inside her. Embarrassment? She didn't let it stop her from being frank: "My sister's professor agreed to take me on as a student. My shifts at the stables have been cut to a quarter." It was far more than she had expected, but Professor Chatterbox could get favors from the Archbishop like the latter was her indulgent mother or something. The normal student fees had been, apparently, "worked out."

With a bit of a smirk, Cyril said, "Oh, I heard about that. It happened after some kind of commotion with your sister, right? She doing okay?"

"She's fine now," Hapi stonewalled. Cyril was alright, but Mari still wanted everything with Maurice and Edmund to remain private. "I'm studying here because of my own ambitions, not because of Mari."

"Huh. Well…" Cyril picked up his supplies and prepared to move to the next table. "If you're here to study, don't let me distract you. Unless you're after that new atlas with all the maps and illustrations. There's a waiting list half a mile long for that thing."

Darn, that actually sounded like a really good read. She ought to get her name on that waiting list. "I'm here to meet other students, actually. One of the Black Eagles put up a bulletin about making a study group…"

"Ugh, we're late! Thank the Goddess no one else got here before us," huffed a voice from the entrance. In strode Edelgard von Hresvelg, inspecting the room like she personally suspected it wouldn't be up to standard; behind her slithered Hubert von Vestra, who inspected the room like he personally suspected it contained assassins. In that moment, Edelgard reminded Hapi of a rich noble's pampered cat, while Hubert reminded her of a spider. One of the big ones, that ate birds.

Hapi waved. "Hi."

"Oh! Are you—" Momentarily taken aback, the princess let her companion whisper a few words in her ear. "Hapi. That's right, you're a student now. Are you here for the dark magic study group?"

"Yep. Milly's going to be along too. She just said she'd be a little late because she had a lunch date." Cyril had moved a few paces away, but she could feel his eyes on them. He was definitely the kind of servant who liked to amuse himself with upper-class gossip.

"Milly?" asked the princess, politely mystified. Her shadow couldn't help her here.

In answer, Hapi pointed back to the entrance, where Maegelle von Ordelia was trotting in. "Hapi! Lady Edelgard! I apologize for my lateness; I couldn't cancel my usual chess game with Sylvain. Is this…hmph. Is this all who answered the bulletin?" She looked more smug than disappointed.

"Dark magic is a difficult field with an unsavory reputation," Hubert noted. "I was prepared for no one to answer."

Taking charge, Edelgard sat them down and revealed the disappointingly short list of books the library had on the subject. "This is less than what I had hoped for, but it should be enough for us to master the basics. This one comes recommended as a very good introduction to the field. It even explains the mathematical concepts involved."

Maegelle leaned forward, trying to read upside-down. "Hmm. What mathematical concepts are we talking about, say, for a basic Miasma? I might not need the review."

Edelgard flipped through the chapter. "It looks like…oh dear. I didn't even know you could combine matrices like that." Maegelle looked, gave a small wince, then admitted she could indeed use the review.

Hapi didn't know what a 'matrice' was, but she didn't like the sound of it. "Is this going to involve a lot more math than normal magic?" The math was her least favorite part. When her teachers weren't looking over her shoulder, she tended to avoid calculations and just fudge the sigil until it looked right.

The other students all looked at her in a way that suggested she'd said something very embarrassing. "Dark magic is known for that, yes," said Hubert dryly. "In exchange for the complexity, one can achieve a variety of esoteric and disturbing effects. Did you truly come here without even knowing what it was you were studying?"

Hapi refused to let the Spider cow her. "Dark magic is the magic that looks like this, right?" She unfolded her palm, where a silver spiderweb of a sigil was inscribing itself in the air just above her skin. As its symmetry completed, a dark mist coalesced into a roiling void the size of an apple that shed a curious violet shadow-light. The violet shadows cast everyone's faces in a ghoulish aspect and reached to every corner of the room. Where they touched the oil lanterns, their cozy light was smothered in heavy veils; forced back to nothing but a tiny flame.

Hapi's fingers beckoned, and the shadows answered. With impossible rapidity, the lantern-flames were plucked from their wicks and drawn back, waving like yellow ribbons, to the little ball of darkness in her hand. As her fist closed, the spell extinguished, and the monastery library was thrown into complete darkness.

From elsewhere in the room, there was an indignant, "Hey! I just finished lighting all those!" from Cyril.

"Sorry!" she called into the darkness. Beside her, Maegelle had the presence of mind to summon up a magical light. It revealed three wide-eyed young faces; even Hubert was not bothering to hide his astonishment.

"You have clearly studied this before," he probed.

"Not exactly," explained Hapi. "My adoptive parents hired a magic tutor for us, but he always bored me so much that I came up with a lot of spells on my own. That one I used to sneak into the kitchen at night and steal snacks."

"That's unbelievable," Hubert said. Not as an exclamation, but a flat statement that he did not believe her.

She shrugged. "It's the truth. If I'd actually learned dark magic from a secret old master in the woods or something like that, I'd tell you. I don't have a reason to lie."

"I don't think it's worth making a fuss over this, Hubert," said his mistress. "At any rate, it's an incredible talent you have there. The rest of us might be starting at a…different level."

"Nah," said Hapi. "I'm here to learn the nasty spells, for self-defense. That's going to leave me staring at these books with the rest of you."

There was little staring to be done until Cyril finished re-lighting all the lamps (she really ought to go into town and buy something for him as an apology). So a conversation started up, somewhat awkwardly, about their respective reasons for pursuing this particular course of study: "I know Hapi has an inclination for it, and I simply wish to be the best mage I can be," said Maegelle. "But what about the two of you?"

"The effects it offers seem unique and useful," said Hubert. He paused, before admitting with a chuckle, "It is also very intimidating to be known as a practitioner of dark magic."

The princess clasped her hands before her on the table. "Personally, I wish to excel in an uncommon field, to have a notable achievement to my name. I feel that's sure to win me respect."

Hapi raised her eyebrows. "You're an imperial princess. It seems to me like you're already pretty notable and respected." There were, to be sure, nobles that were better off dead, buried and pissed on, but Edelgard wasn't one of them. The worst that could be said about her was that she was bossy – but to everyone, not just the lowborn like Hapi. Hapi was indifferent to her, and given how badly her rapscallion nature reacted to authority figures, she figured that meant everyone else must think Edelgard a pretty fine fellow.

"There are…different levels of notability," Edelgard tried to explain. "Being a child of the Emperor is one of them. Being notable in comparison to my ten siblings is quite another."

"Even with that in mind, there are certain of the Black Eagles who do not show her Highness all of the respect she is due," Hubert noted delicately. "Thus, seeking to prove herself superior to them in some way."

"Ah," Maegelle said with an impish grin. "You must be talking about Ferdinand."

Edelgard's jaw tensed in a way that told all she had guessed it right. "He is…a busybody. And a…he often has good advice, I suppose. But the way he assumes everyone needs his advice and his help is so grating. Especially me, because 'House Aegir has advised House Hresvelg since the foundation of the Empire!'" she mimicked. "Dark magic is one thing that I know he's never even tried, so he can't try to explain it to me."

"He might try," mused Hubert. "His opinion of himself is higher than the moon."

Outside, in the bustle of the town's markets, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester glared up at the sun, which was glaring right back but in a considerably more powerful way. Admittedly, he ought to have predicted that an afternoon in the middle of the Blue Sea Moon would be a) hot, and b) extremely crowded. And he should have drawn the further conclusion that those burdensome conditions would hinder the progress of his courtship with a certain Marianne von Maurice (soon-to-be Edmund).

It had seemed like such a clever idea at first. Marianne was uncomfortable as the target of his focused attention, which made dinner or tea unsuitable. He had done much better by inviting her to the greenhouse to help him transplant some flowers he had gathered on their trip to Leicester (all ones that she liked, of course). With their gazes and hands occupied by work, Marianne had seemed to relax, gently patting the earth into place and whispering encouragements to grow. When that work had ended, however, Lorenz found himself in need of another activity they could do together. Shopping had seemed just the thing, before he'd seen her wilting in the heat and cringing away from the noise.

Waiting in a long line to buy iced fruit juice, Lorenz allowed himself a few minutes of self-pity. Then he straightened himself up, handed the vendor his coin, and marched back into the street. What else could he do – blame the sun? Blame the pious, who gathered at Garreg Mach at this exact season every year? No, the one responsible for this mess of a date was himself, and he would likewise be the one to salvage it.

Marianne was at the stall where he'd left her, listening to a merchant with berry-red hair explain the extraordinary journeys that justified her fantastical prices. "You can't get in or out of the steppes right now, not since they set fire to Darband. You see anyone else here selling imports from Almyra? I risked my neck for this stuff, I tell you!"

"Okay, but…I still don't think I'd like saffron at that price. What about this?" Marianne pointed to a painted wooden box. "Oh, thank you, Lorenz." She took the drink from him and watched as the merchant flipped open the box, revealing a game board painted with long triangles.

"Nard, the most popular game east of the Locket! Forty gold pieces, and I'll write down a copy of the rules for free." He could see Marianne wince.

Lorenz stepped in: "My good woman, I hope you do not take it as an insult when I say that your prices are outrageous."

"No offense taken! I hear that multiple times a day," she said with good cheer and a cocky grin. "But it's all relative to supply and demand. I traffic in the rare and exotic. I travel great distances and take great risks. The compensation I ask for is only appropriate."

"But look at this item! Hard as it was to acquire – and I doubt that was very hard, if it is truly as popular an entertainment as you say – it is nothing more than wood and stone!"

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "The dice are ivory," she said.

"I think they're tagua, actually," chirped Marianne. "Which is better, since it doesn't come from an animal," she assured the glaring woman.

"And the paint," Lorenz informed her icily, "is chipped. If you wish to traffic in rare and valuable items, you ought to take care with them. Ten gold pieces, for the craftsmanship."

"Twenty. This thing's been halfway around the world!"

"Twelve, I suppose, if you insist on taking advantage of my generosity."

She clutched at her heart. "You're a scoundrel. How is a woman supposed to make a living, when no one wants to pay her the worth of her labors?" From her belt, she drew a bright-shining dagger. Lorenz and Marianne flinched, but she only brandished it dramatically at an invisible enemy. "Poor Anna was waylaid by brigands twice, and that was just getting from Darband to al-Alaya! So many of my guards and travelling companions have perished!"

"Um, you don't need to – I mean, I'm willing to pay fifteen," Marianne stammered.

The merchant – 'Anna' – immediately dropped the act, smiled greasily, and held out her hand for the money.

Lorenz sniffed, but let the transaction go ahead. He could have negotiated a little more, he thought. But his attention was on the dagger, still clutched in her left hand. It shone with more than just the luster of well-polished metal. "I beg your pardon. Is that an enchanted dagger?"

"This? Carnwennan? Yes, but it's not for sale." Yet she couldn't help but show off a little, spinning the blade between her fingers. When it stopped moving, Lorenz spotted a Crest inscribed on the blade – but it disappeared back into her belt before his eyes could make proper sense of it. "My life is the one thing I can't replace, so I always guard it well. With things that are almost as hard to replace, like an enchanted mithril dagger. If you're interested in magic items, I have a few talismans…"

Interest piqued, Lorenz let himself be persuaded into buying an amulet of spell resistance. In addition to being genuinely useful, it would also keep him in Anna's memory, in case the woman ever came back with a find as valuable as that dagger. Afterward, Marianne complained of tiredness, and it was only when they were halfway up the monastery steps that he thought to ask her what she wanted with a foreign board game.

"I'm sure you know," she said in her silvery, wind-through-snow-covered-branches voice, "but Claude's birthday is on the twenty-fourth. I thought he would appreciate a gift to remind him of home."

"Oh," he said, feeling quite embarrassed for the second time that day. "You are a more considerate friend than I, Marianne. Claude's birthday had quite slipped my thoughts." He put a hand to his head, thinking. "I suppose I should thank you for reminding me while I still have a week to prepare."

"Why don't we say it's a gift from both of us?" she offered. "I would not ever have bought it if you had not haggled the seller down so far."

"Oh – I – well, first of all, I negotiated. One of my station does not 'haggle'. But your offer is most generous," breathed Lorenz. Internally, he was at war. One side argued that it was within both his duty and his capability to find a proper gift on his own. The other side proposed that letting Marianne do a favor for him would further their courtship, and also feel really nice. A third side sneered that a man raised in the dirt, like Claude, would likely appreciate this battered old trinket more than anything Lorenz would choose for him.

Outnumbered, Lorenz's pride bowed out. "I would be ever so grateful, Marianne. Would you keep it safe until the day? Claude sleeps next door to me, and I do not want to chance him seeing it."

As if he were the one doing her a favor, and not the other way around, Marianne smiled at him. Behind his ribs, Lorenz's well-bred heart melted into a gooey puddle, and he congratulated himself on a choice well-made.

He didn't even need to keep an eye on the other eligible women of the Academy any more. All he had to do was convince her to accept Margrave Edmund's offer of adoption. Then they could marry, form an unassailable power bloc, and have beautiful children with abundant Crests.

Lorenz's good mood lasted until he stood in the hallway outside his room, and a redolent herbal odor hit his nose. It was so surprising that he whirled around, as if he could track it with his eyes. The scent was not foul, per se, but by the Goddess it was strong. As if some forest witch had set up her cauldron in his room – but he checked, and his room was exactly as he left it. The odor was weaker there, in fact.

Lip curling in distaste, Lorenz knocked on the next door over. "What is it?" called Claude, sounding somewhat harried.

"I assume you can smell as well as I can. So you must be aware of the problem," Lorenz said through the door.

"Ugh, Lorenz. Weren't you supposed to be out riding with Marianne today?"

Lorenz nearly facepalmed. Riding, of course! She loved horses! He should – but now was not the time. "Shopping, actually. We came back earlier than expected. Marianne's delicate constitution was affected by the heat."

"You'll have to give her my best wishes on her recovery." The voice sighed behind the door. "If you could convey those wishes to her right now, in fact…and stay by her side for the span of an hour or so…"

"Claude. What. Are. You. Doing." There was no answer. He rattled the doorknob unsuccessfully, and wondered for a moment if he could modify a Fire spell to melt through the lock. No, not with enough precision to avoid setting the whole door on fire. Such violent thoughts were uncharacteristic of him; Claude's Almyran-ness must have been dragging them both down.

Entreating himself to calm, Lorenz sat down against the opposite wall. True to his word, after the span of an hour, Claude opened the door and made as if to wave in some fresh air. He froze when he saw Lorenz sitting before him. "You stubborn bastard. What are you still doing here?"

"My parentage is entirely legitimate and not at all in doubt," Lorenz informed him, craning his neck to peer into the revealed room. What he had spied of Claude's room before always surprised him with its normality; nary an exotic touch. The only things he could criticize were the messiness of the unmade bed, the books piled everywhere, and the papers strewn on his desk like leaves. This time, the room was messy in a new way. The books had been pushed to the side, and the center was dominated by bowls, tins, measuring scales, and a tiny portable stove. The floor was covered by towels – many stained with drips of something dark. Claude was also wearing leather gloves and an old linen shirt, his Academy uniform nowhere to be seen. All in all, Lorenz felt safe in concluding that some unwholesome concoction had just been brewed. He stood, giving Claude a vindicated look. "I repeat my earlier question. What were you doing all that time? If you do not answer, I'll have to bring this to a professor. We cannot run the risk of you trying to poison us all. Or perhaps just me – you do have a motive, after all."

"If you're referring to the fact that you have been ceaselessly antagonizing me since the day we met, I suppose I do have a motive," Claude bit out. It occurred to Lorenz that, for all the arguments they had had, this was the first time he could recall seeing those green eyes narrowed in such undisguised anger. "This is not your business. But if you insist on being this way about it, I was dyeing my hair." He stripped off the gloves like he wanted to slap Lorenz with them. The motion sent his loose sleeves fluttering, revealing old, layered scars around his wrists that Lorenz had never seen before. "Henna. Indigo. Olive oil. Warm water. You couldn't poison a baby with it." Now that he looked, Claude's hair did seem quite wet. And, perhaps, blacker. Wait, had it been black or brown before? "I need to spend a day on it every month or else the color fades. Sorry about the smell."

Lorenz furrowed his brow. "I don't understand. What's your natural hair color, then?"

The question seemed to agitate him, for reasons Lorenz couldn't comprehend. "This is my natural hair color! You—" He bit his words back. With a visible effort, he reassembled himself. Emotions retreated behind his eyes, and his next words were delivered calmly, if not with one of his customary smiles. "Hilda's not the only one who went white at a young age. It's just that black hair dye's a lot easier to mix up than pink." He then slammed his door in Lorenz's face.

"What a crude disguise this makes," Khalid heard the tall woman laugh as she rinsed henna paste out of his hair. "One must work with the tools available, though."

His hair still felt heavy and gluey, even as she said she was done and beckoned to Hilda. Hilda glared, and did not come. "This is so stupid."

"But the people fooled by it – they will be the stupid ones, yes?" she said with an indulgent smile. "Come now! If we wish to cross the desert, we must follow the oasis network. And if we wish to pass through the oases without trouble, we must hide how special you are." She motioned for Khalid to go, and he obeyed, back to the campfire under a starlit sky.

The other two paused in their conversation as he approached. "Goddess," the leader woman said in Fódlani. "You look so much like Tiana now, kiddo."

"He does, doesn't he?" murmured the man.

Vocalist · Aug 21, 2022

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester prided himself on waking up at an early hour every morning, one that allowed him enough time to fix his appearance, make a cup of tea, and enjoy the refreshing birdsong before venturing out to class. The world was peaceful at that hour; those who were awake spent it in solitude and meditation, not tramping around doing work. Yet on the twenty-fourth day of the Blue Sea Moon, he found himself roused from sleep just a little earlier than he was accustomed to by something outside his door.

Mind still fogged by sleep, he wondered if he had imagined the noise; if some errant dream had tricked him. Then a voice said, "Oh, you can put that down for now," followed by a very real whump.

That had been Hilda's voice. As he crawled out of bed, Lorenz prepared himself to be angry at Claude. Hastily wetting his face and brushing his hair so that he could achieve the minimum level of presentability, he listened to someone else ask if they wouldn't be waking the others up.

"Keep your voice down and we won't need to worry about it," replied Hilda.

Lorenz's door swung open. "Too late," he said acidly. His classmate looked up in surprise from where she stood before Claude's door, which had seen far too much drama as of late. Beside her was – of all people – Prince Dimitri, propping up – of all things – a rolled carpet.

The prince had the decency to look embarrassed. "I beg your pardon. I'm afraid I don't have much experience in, ah, stealth."

"Oh well. Lorenz wouldn't be such a cad as to ruin a classmate's birthday, would he?" Hilda asked pointedly. "Since I know you're not going to go back to bed until we tell you, we're sneaking Claude's birthday present into his room."

Lorenz looked at the bulky carpet, which was about as tall as Hilda. "I really must wonder how you plan to accomplish this without waking him."

Hilda beamed. "He's already awake. Claude goes out every morning to watch the sunrise. And I'm not a morning person, but Dimitri is. I only asked him to wake me up, but he insisted on helping me with the rest, too!"

"Such things are much easier to maneuver with two people," Dimitri insisted.

At that point, Hilda returned her attention to unlocking the door. Lorenz wondered how she had her own key. When it was open, she and Dimitri each hefted one end of the carpet and carried the bulky gift inside (true to her word, the room was unoccupied).

Unrolled, it was…ugh. The style was certainly foreign. Tightly woven, made of common wool; Claude would probably find it very durable. And scratchy on his feet. Against the white background, rows of stars and spiny diamonds were red, yellow, blue, green in no particular pattern; as if the artisan's only goal had been to show off how many dyes she had available. It looked embarrassingly rustic.

"Claude will probably love this," was all he said.

Dimitri agreed wholeheartedly. "Did you know that Hilda has been letting Almyran refugees settle in her territory? Her family used to treat them in such an appalling way, but she's been doing so much to help them get established and resume their lives. This carpet was woven mere miles from her home, from Fódlani materials and Almyran techniques. It's my hope I can take some lessons from her for dealing with the borders of my own homeland."

Lorenz knew of Duchess Goneril's generosity to the refugees, of course. The whole project was not going quite so smoothly as Dimitri seemed to believe. However, the rest of the council was happy to let Goneril bear those problems, and even throw some funding her way as long as she promised to keep the unrest from spilling out to the rest of Leicester.

Hilda blushed, no doubt pleased to find someone who wasn't chiding her for her misguided charity. "You're too kind. I'm hardly the brains of my own operation. I just want Claude to know that his ideas are working out." Satisfied with the new arrangement of the room, she declared, "All right, everyone out before he comes back!"

The Golden Deer milled in the monastery's manicured gardens, crowding under the shade of a gazebo. "I have to say, you guys, I haven't had a birthday like this since—" Claude paused in the middle of speaking. "Years ago. I wasn't expecting much more than some flowers."

Leonie gave him a suspicious glance, as if trying to detect an insult to her own gift – which had been, indeed, some flowers.

"Aw, no need to be modest!" cheered Raphael. "This isn't much at all!"

"You cooked for Raphael on his birthday," said Ignatz, "so he's been wanting to return the favor."

Maegelle looked over the jam tarts she had baked with an exacting eye, pushing them into a symmetrical arrangement on the plate. "Get used to the attention, Claude. You'll be a duke soon enough, and I can tell you the feasts at Derdriu get much more lavish than this little afternoon tea."

"I'm well aware," he said, leaning over to steal a tart – and politely leaving the rest of the formation undisturbed. "But will I have company this good ever again?"

A sly smile lit her face and danced in her eyes: "I'll be there. As Countess Ordelia."

"I'll hold you to that, Mae. Debate me into the ground at the council meetings, too." He waved her back and headed over to the table where Byleth was watching them as she heated tea. "Can you believe how nice these people are?"

Byleth shrugged. "Your classmates are fond of you."

"Apparently. Even Hilda went above and beyond this year. She snuck an entire carpet into my room!" He shook his head, still pleased. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but I feel like some people have failed to realize that I can be charmed with something as simple as a good meal. Or," he proposed slyly, "the rest of the day off class."

"You get tea instead," said Byleth. She checked the beautiful silver tea set, crafted in Enbarr by a workshop that served the Imperial Court itself; tossed her way offhandedly by Ferdinand von Aegir because, somehow, he'd accidentally ordered two. Her father had laughed himself silly when she told him.

Her expensive teapot was currently brewing a proportionally expensive tea. Balthus had informed her that Claude favored a distinctive Almyran blend of black tea and oxidized pine needles. A perfectly common thing over the mountains, but here it was a specialty import. A whiff of the steam was like falling face first into a woodpile. Byleth poured the dark tea into two delicate silver cups.

Her student spent a good few breaths just inhaling the fragrant steam. Seeing him so relaxed…was its own kind of reward. It made her feel better about spending so much on tea, at least.

Oh, come now! Do not pretend you weren't enamored by some of the blends in that merchant's array! When you have some more spending money, do go back there and get yourself a treat.

"Is my face really that interesting?" asked Claude.

"Yes." She took a sip from her own cup – it tasted exactly like it smelled. It had the robust bitterness of black tea to keep a man going, but the pine needles added a woodsy, citrusy flavor.

"Blunt as always," he chuckled. Then he held out the little tart he had palmed from Mae, its golden crust still intact and encircling a jewel of cherry jam. "You want this? She would have been offended if I didn't make like I was eating her baking, but…" The tart was in Byleth's stomach before he even finished. "…I'm not really in the mood."

"You skip dessert a lot," Byleth said. "Or you eat a few bites and give the rest to Raphael. It's not especially hard to notice."

"It's not that I don't like sweet flavors! I just don't like them to be overwhelming. It's true that, given the choice between a well-seasoned cut of meat and some honey cake, I'll always go for the former. That's just my preference. But I love food in general. Even if it doesn't suit my tastes, I'll always honor the work, artistry, and history that went into it. Take this tea, for instance."

"I imagine some Almyrans must have worked hard to grow it," she agreed.

"Oh, not at all!" he grinned. "Tea trees don't grow in Almyra. These leaves were probably grown in Dzulong or Marhatah. Then they were dried, oxidized, pressed into bricks, and brought west in a succession of caravans. Up in the hills, some herbalist bought the tea bricks, ground them up, and mixed them with local pine needles. Then it was back on the road west, to Fódlan, where some merchant decided to save space for it among his more popular blends…and then he met you, and you thought of me." More thoughtfully, he said, "Isn't it remarkable, then, that you and I are able to share my favorite tea today?"

"It's travelled far," she said. "Like you. And it's a creation of two different lands, like you."

He laughed. "And I don't even think you mean that as an insult! So yes, the tea is symbolic…although I've liked it since I was a little runt who couldn't read a map." He drained his cup and poured another. "So, Teach, has anything new turned up in regard to the Rite of Rebirth thing?"

Byleth raised her eyebrows. "You don't wish to talk about something more casual?"

"But conspiracies are one of my favorite things!" he said. Acquiescing, she called the students in to discuss the most recent findings.

At the moment, the entire monastery was on high alert due to the threat of an assassination attempt on the day of the Rite. But earlier that month, the Golden Deer had looked over the evidence against the Western Church and decided that it simply wasn't credible. Competent people, Claude declared, did not carry letters detailing their intent to commit a crime while engaging in a different crime. His conclusion? The letters had been intended to be found. Either someone was trying very hard to get the Western Church destroyed, or the goal was to distract the Central Church with false threats while the real goal was left unattended. Perhaps both. Perhaps the Western Church was a convenient patsy to absorb the Central Church's wrath; Claude found their recent actions suspiciously self-destructive.

Claude had a suspicious mind. Byleth had ordered the class to focus on the simplest possibilities, the ones they could actually do something about: help guard the monastery as ordered, and search for possible targets that could be hit on the day of the Rite.

"Have we discovered anything new?" asked Lorenz. "I still think the possibility remains that this supposed plot will come to nothing."

"I'll admit, I kind of got distracted reading about the monastery's construction," said Ignatz. "It's almost a thousand years old, and there are all kinds of underground passages, and no one has a complete map! Which, ah, gives us a lot of ways people could sneak in."

Byleth spoke, "Well, I've talked to the higher-ups about my suspicions, but they don't seem very concerned. The Archbishop thinks that the extra guards will be enough to serve as a general defense, my father is overwhelmed managing said guards, and Seteth just doesn't like me."

"Ooh, what if it's Seteth?" Claude burst out. "Riling up Rhea's enemies so he can get her killed and take the top spot for himself?"

Marianne stared, wide-eyed. "What?"

"Claude, you can't just accuse the Archbishop's right-hand man of betraying her without any evidence," said Leonie.

"Just a thought. You can't dismiss these ideas out of hand – sometimes there's gold in them," he said. "At any rate, I've been compiling the reports of all of you who have been helpfully scouting the monastery and, well, I had a lovely chart and a map all drawn up, but I'll go on without them. Assuming the enemy is coming here, I think I have a good idea of what their target is. Did you know that the Holy Mausoleum of the Saints is only open to the public on one day each year? Guess what day that is. Guess."

Getting her class put in charge of guarding the cathedral was simple enough – she just had to ask Father. It meant they were all standing for hours in a crowded space while hymns blared, glaring suspiciously at every pilgrim who went to put a wreath of flowers on the tomb of their favorite saint. One's tolerance for this depended quite a lot on one's feelings on church music.

Byleth, have we heard this song before? I cannot tell. They all sound exactly the same.

Byleth did not disagree. She felt that the hymns made for nice ignorable background music, though, so she didn't mind.

Music is meant to stir the blood and summon emotion. These compositions are a disgrace to the art. Sothis sounded too sleepy to be properly outraged, however.

When the announcement came that the holy Rite of Rebirth was beginning at the Goddess Tower, the music finally stopped and the crowds started flowing out. Byleth made the rounds once more – woke up Hapi, who had literally fallen asleep – then re-took her position by the hallway that led to the Holy Mausoleum. There were several pilgrims in there still, she noted, kneeling in prayer. Out in the cathedral, people were still bunched up at the doors; no one seemed to be heading to the Mausoleum. She looked back inside: peaceful.

Softly emanating from the floor: the silver glow of a magic sigil.

They were kneeling in a circle. Macuil's sword, it was a group casting ritual – she flung her body behind the stone doorframe as soon as she realized that, and blew a piercing whistle to summon her students. The spell completed, not as a devastating storm of fire or lightning, but a crackling sound and a harmless outgust of wind. And a sudden babble of new voices.

"They've warped in their main force!" she yelled to the approaching students. She was grateful when they ordered themselves in a proper defensive formation without being told. With her and Hilda leading, they entered the Holy Mausoleum of the Saints.

It was a room deserving of its grandiose name. At the other end of a wide avenue of stone stood a dais with four tombs, inscribed with four saintly Crests. And higher still was the noblest tomb of all, where rested the bones of Saint Seiros. A thicket of flowers and candles surrounded each – currently being trampled by the invaders, a pack of men and women dressed for battle. Byleth counted fifteen. Saints, that was a reckless number to warp at once. You couldn't really get above a dozen – even casting as a group – without an error margin big enough that you risked someone popping out with their head on backwards or something. Sure enough, the mages who had warped them in were falling back to the sides, out of breath. They wouldn't be contributing much to this fight.

A man in white robes started shouting orders: "The heretics have spotted us! Buy me time while I open the seal on the casket! Death Knight – time to prove your worth!"

"So, our hunch was spot on," mused Claude. He had an arrow ready to fire, but took it back to spin it between his fingers, contemplatively. "I do wonder what they want with the saint's bones, though…huh? Is that…?"

"Oh, shit, I knew it!" swore Hilda.

Amidst their enemies, one figure drew the eye. A warrior in sleek, purple-black armor with an eerily blank faceplate. They towered over the rest, and their long-hafted scythe was as tall as some men. They strode to the edge of the dais stairs and paused. Then, they spoke: "…These are children. You are asking me to waste my time." A woman.

That armor…have I seen its like before?

"Are you going to be helpful or not?" screamed the frustrated leader.

The woman in black armor stayed at the top of the stairs, gazing at the entrance. "If the Knights of Seiros show up, they can have a taste of my blade. Now stop pestering me." Cowed, the leader turned back to Seiros's tomb.

They do not act like master and subordinate. In fact, I would wager this Death Knight is from a different group entirely. Why must all these mysteries bombard us at once?

"Death Knight – that's certainly a memorable name," said Claude, still spinning an arrow. Then he raised his voice: "All right everyone, the nice friendly Death Knight has agreed not to pursue us, so just give her a wide berth and focus on the others!" That wouldn't be hard, Byleth saw. The other soldiers were keeping their distance from the Death Knight as well, leaving her to guard the front of the dais by herself while they took the sides.

A pincer attack, then? No, that mage was doing something with the tomb. They had to pierce through quickly before he finished. Concentrate force on one side and send a few fighters over to keep them busy on the other. Who was good at staying alive without her supervision?

"Claude, Hapi, Ignatz, Raphael. Take the left. Cover each other, be just aggressive enough to keep them busy. Everyone else, with me."

Byleth had no battle cry. She had never found a use for such things. Her raised sword was all that announced her; she offered no words to her opponents, and no visible emotion save the occasional grimace of pain. The effect was, she had been told, uncanny. After the Burning of Nuvelle, whispers had circulated, naming her the Ashen Demon.

Everyone who fought in that battle had been covered with ash, so she found the name rather arbitrary. But she supposed a fearsome reputation was a useful thing for a mercenary.

And if the kids were making her soft, the soldiers before her sure couldn't tell. Hardened men wilted under her assault – Western Church, she'd bet, they had Faerghan freckles – and blood wet her blade. Beside her, Leonie charged, piercing defenses with her lance, while Maegelle summoned lightning and dark, sticky, life-draining miasmas.

"Hold the line!" cried a monk, thumping his staff on the ground as he focused a healing spell. Before her, the woman whose blood was on her blade found new blood and new skin. It was no stronger than the old. She tried to lash out but Byleth was able to riposte, forcing her to her knees.

"Get the healer!" cried Byleth as she struggled with the opponent before her, trying to beat through her last desperate defense.

"I'm on it!" said Leonie, rushing forward at the same time as Lorenz. The two almost collided; Leonie snarled, leaning back, while Lorenz jabbed forward with his own lance. Their target took nothing but a bruising blow, which he quickly mended with the use of a life-draining spell on Lorenz.

"Why did you get in my way?" Lorenz demanded.

"Oh, for the love of the Goddess!" snapped his rival, before she had to defend herself. The Western Church soldiers were closing in around them.

"Hilda, cover the mages!" Byleth removed her sword from the collarbone of the woman before her and climbed up after them. A man's clumsy close-range strike tore into her gambeson before she back-handed him to the ground. Byleth ignored the pain and kept going. Leonie and Lorenz were back in her sights, now – and still going after the healer, who was looking quite desperate. On the other side of the dais, defensive lines still held. She could only hope that Claude's detachment was doing okay.

A breath of ancient wind, and a vibration that made her teeth hurt. The great stone casket set against the wall burst open, its stone lid thrown back with astonishing force. The crash was thunderous.

"Yes!" cried the leader. "Wait, a sword?" Reaching inside the casket, he pulled out something the color of yellowed bone. His gaze took in the Golden Deer, his soldiers. Byleth, who had backed up into a guard stance the moment she heard "sword."

His fingers sketched a sigil, and he disappeared.

"Damn it. Sothis—"

This time, she forced her legs to run as soon as motion resumed. When the thief looked up, the Ashen Demon was already barreling down on him. To his credit, he reacted quickly, parrying her blow with his new "sword" – a strangely-shaped thing of pitted bone, with an ornate crossguard and a straight, toothed, single-edged blade. Though the move was enough to preserve his life, he did not have a proper grip, and the thing flew right out of his hands on impact.

Byleth, wait. The sword. I want you to pick it up.

She had a sword already. And that thing looked ridiculous – it wasn't even metal!

Because it's like Hilda's Freikugel, you fool! A Relic! Pick it up!

Byleth relented, giving her opponent a few more precious seconds while she picked the thing up off the floor. Predictably, he used it to start throwing fireballs at her. At such close range, there was nothing to do but brace. She brought the Relic up before her, hoping that its enormous fancy crossguard might act as something of a shield.

It deflected the fireball entirely. Her hair didn't even crisp. When she flicked the blade to deflect a second fireball, the bone started glowing. A rust-orange light, just like how Freikugel responded to Hilda's touch.

Yes…this is it! I cannot say what 'it' is, but I have been missing it and now it is here!

The mage backed up against the wall, truly afraid now. He knew what it was to face a Hero's Relic. With admirable defiance, he summoned the glassy shield of a Ward spell.

Byleth couldn't help but glance at the sword, fascinated. It felt…warm, as a living creature. It felt light. She dropped the sword of steel.

Keeping two hands on the Relic, she charged at her opponent. Her sword met his shield. She could feel something burning in her veins, burning like the sword was. Old bones, come to life. New life, fed on old power. The stirring of a dragon so vast, its wings were constellations. The ignition of a star.

As her sword ground through to the man's end, silver light wove a tapestry of complex strokes. It formed the sign of the Goddess; the Crest of Flames.

The quietly-observing Death Knight was the first to recognize it. Her voice projected through the ancient tomb:

"The land where dwelled my heart and world is gone.

The city tall enough to touch the clouds

And bring me to the doorway of the sun

Has drowned and crushed to bone its frightened crowds."

Stupefied, on the edge of surrender, one of the Western Church soldiers yelled, "Are you reciting poetry?"

She crossed her arms and continued, not willing to interrupt herself.

"No more my lover waits beside the pools

Now razed by gaze unveiled of one fell star.

I see the end, and what is left is cruel.

Gods laugh at human notions of mere war."

From Sothis, Byleth felt a curious, inexplicable guilt. The Death Knight continued, "The occasion is momentous. And grave. I must report this." Without even the visible sigil of a spell, she disappeared.

The next morning, as the stars winked out and dawn began to pink the sky, a man scrambled up the face of Garreg Mach Monastery as smoothly and silently as a gecko. His goal was a particular ledge under the eaves of the main hall, sheltered from the view of any inquisitive sky patrol, and wide enough for four people to comfortably discuss sinister plans. He could have used a teleportation beacon, but he preferred the exercise.

It did mean that he was the last to arrive to the meeting. Thales, Hypatia, and even the little beast beat him there. As he pulled himself over the ledge, accepting Hypatia's hand to help him up, Thales began speaking.

"Anaximander. Good of you to join us." Their commander was a tall man, imposing in his cloak and ceremonial armor. The tassels clasping his cloak marked him as a rishi of the military sciences, and his appearance was always immaculate.

"They keep your cover busy, don't they?" said Hypatia, who was even taller. The very image of a kshatriya warrior, she was stiff-backed and practical, with short bobbed hair that she kept in its natural white. "I do hope you get enough sleep."

The little beast said nothing. Although, noted Anaximander, in heeled boots even it was taller than him now. That fact irritated him far more than it should have.

"I do have an enormous amount of work to do today," he replied, glad of the chance to vent. "There's always a lot to do after their summer festival – even on a normal year. Guess who got to drag all the dead bodies out of the Holy Mausoleum?"

At that, the little beast chuckled. "Sorry," it simpered insincerely. "But if I was supposed to keep the Golden Deer out of your pawns' way, you should have just told me that this was your operation in the first place."

"Not my operation," muttered Anaximander. He gave Hypatia a jealous glance. To be sure, corralling a bunch of savages on a stealth mission sounded like a hellish headache, but – as a deep cover agent with the most boring cover imaginable – it was more action than he'd gotten in years. "I wasn't told about this either."

"All of you are given a great deal of independence in your operations," said Thales sternly. "If more information-sharing would be useful, that is for you to arrange among yourselves. Back to the point of the meeting – I assume the schismatics from the Western Church failed in their assault?" he sneered. "No matter. We stood to benefit no matter the outcome, and I never placed much faith in them anyway."

"Yes, the Archbishop is already planning to send her knights to bring them to heel," the beast reported. "The Church of Seiros will be occupied fighting itself, and I suspect the situation could lead to more division in the Holy Kingdom."

"Agents in the Kingdom will be making good use of it," said Thales. "Now, how uselessly did they die? Were they at least able to open the casket?"

A wince came over Hypatia's face. "The casket was opened, rishi. It did not contain Seiros's bones, however."

"So can we assume she's still out there somewhere?" muttered Anaximander. "Hey, Hypatia, maybe you'll finally get that good fight you've been looking for."

"I'm not done," she snapped. "In her tomb was the Sword of the Creator. The professor of the Golden Deer picked it up, and manifested the Crest of Flames."

Thales was taken aback. "The Crest of Flames? But how could that occur naturally – the King of Liberation never sired children."

"There's more," the beast chimed in, aching to seem useful. "The professor's being allowed to keep the sword for now, so I got a good look at it. Its Crest Stone is missing. Nowhere to be found. Wasn't in the tomb, either."

"And the sword is still functioning?" Thales wondered. "That's doubly impossible. Hm."

Anaximander was skeptical. "Can we confirm this? I don't want to run around trying to figure out something impossible when the real problem was that you just overlooked a small stone."

"Anax, I know what a Crest Stone looks like. They're about two inches across and they glow bright red. I have seen drawings of the Sword of the Creator, with a Crest Stone in the pommel. I have seen the real-life Sword of the Creator, with a round, empty space in the pommel. What conclusion would you draw from that evidence?"

Irritated, their commander stepped in. "Do you know what that woman plans to do with that sword?"

"She's hard to read. But her loyalty to the Church is not strong. I was already making plans to poach her for myself, and with your permission I'd like to continue. It's not like the Sword of the Creator will be worth much unless we also have someone who can use it, right?" The beast quirked its head. "Oh, and I confirmed experimentally that the sword will not activate for just anyone with the Crest of Flames. Only Byleth Eisner. Sample size of two but, hey, that's 100 percent of the known Crest-Bearers."

Thales shook his head and sighed. "Definitely a question for the research librarians. Continue to observe her for now. Depending on how she acquired that Crest, it may be dangerous to get too close. Hypatia, your work with the Western Church is done. Your next assignment will be in partnership with Anaximander. A brahmin will be arriving in Garreg Mach shortly and you two are to assist him with his experiments."

Anaximander's gaze darted to the edge of the rising sun, spilling light over the mountains. While Hypatia complained about her cover requiring her to show up at Derdriu in a few days, the spy went through a few sutras. A quick prayer that this brahmin would have something interesting for him to do. Though he was hardly a devout man, he knew the power of this sacred time.

When he returned his attention to the meeting, it was already over. "You have your assignments. Stay in the shadows, all of you." While Thales teleported out, the rest of them did not immediately leave.

"So…" said the little beast, an inauspicious gleam in its green eyes. "Death Knight, huh?"

Anaximander twisted his mouth wryly. As much as he loathed the creature, he could not pass up such a golden opportunity to tease Hypatia. "Our kshatriya made quite an impression yesterday for someone who – if the rumors are correct – did not even swing her weapon."

"Oh, that's not just a name people gave her," the beast informed him, mirthfully. "That's how she introduced herself."

Hypatia crossed her arms. "I do not see why I should take this from you, considering the persona you have been using, little beast."

"What about the poetry? Can I tease you on that? Because while I do enjoy a good monologue, I have never given one in rhymed iambic pentameter."

Anaximander raised his snowy eyebrows. "Burn me, Hypatia, you forced them to listen to your poetry?"

"I am very proud of my work translating the Epic of Thinis into Fódlani! Someone should listen to it!"

The beast held out its hand. "If you give me a copy, I'll read it. I know I've been teasing you, but—"

Oh no. He couldn't allow this. Anaximander cut it off. "That's one of the most celebrated works of all time. You couldn't understand the slightest bit of it. Hypatia, I know you need to keep your mind active somehow. But you really ought to choose a less pointless project. Don't forget what these surface-dwellers are." He nodded at them both. The woman looked offended, but the beast, at least, was cowed. "Excuse me. I have work to get to."

The beast was clever, and often helpful, and knew how to banter; it could even smile with whiter teeth than normally found on these unhygienic savages. And, intentionally or not, he could see it getting its hooks into poor romantic Hypatia. She simply wanted someone to read her poetry. But, by the sun and stars, there were few more dangerous things than a beast with ideas.

And, for all that the higher-ups thought they had this one on a leash, Anaximander thought Claude von Riegan had too many.

Vocalist · Aug 21, 2022

Maegelle von Ordelia scrutinized her lunch as one of the cooks ladled it into a bowl. It smelled like cabbage and herring stew. Not ideal. She took the bowl, fantasizing about throwing it out and walking down to the market in town. Those salty, fishy, bitter flavors – so occupied was she, imagining how bad it would taste, that she completely missed the person approaching her.

"Mae! It's good to see you," chirped Marianne. "Why don't we eat together? We haven't done that in a while."

Ah, Marianne. With her here, the stew suddenly didn't seem that bad. Maegelle would eat a herring raw to avoid hearing her sickly-sweet voice. "I'm afraid I can't today, Marianne," she said, rapidly scanning the dining hall for an excuse. "I have pre-existing plans to…dine with Sylvain!" The red-haired scoundrel was currently eating alone, an unusual circumstance for him.

"Oh. I see." Marianne's gaze fell. "Mae, have I offended you somehow?"

Her conversation partner laughed nervously. "Beg pardon?"

"It might be my imagination, but it seems that you are avoiding me."

Maegelle smiled the most painful smile she ever had, and said, "No! Don't you worry, darling. I've merely been busy." And then, the words slipped out: "Some of us must work very hard for what we have." She hurried away, then, before Marianne could realize she'd just been insulted. Her bowl thumped down into place next to Sylvain, shortly followed by herself. "Sylvain, darling! Sorry to keep you waiting, but a friend caught me on my way here. What do you think of this stew?"

Sylvain looked at her, eyes full of that demonic intelligence he only ever seemed to use for playing board games and causing mischief. "I wasn't under the impression we had a date today, Mae. In fact, you're looking a little harried."

She stuffed a spoonful of stew into her mouth and chewed, so that any sour expression might be blamed on the bitterness of the fish guts. "Nonsense. I rejected dear Marianne's offer to dine with me on the basis that I already had a lunch companion, and I am no liar. We are eating lunch together companionably at this very moment. You have such a busy social calendar, Sylvain – I do not blame you for getting a trifle mixed up." As if no more needed to be said, she returned to eating.

She could not say such a bold thing to just anyone and expect them to go along with it, but the past months at the Officer's Academy had produced something of a friendship between her and Sylvain Gautier. She had met him in the way most women met Sylvain, which was to say she had been the target of a delicate compliment and a sensitive smile. Ought she be embarrassed to admit that she had fallen for it? So many women did, after all.

Many, many women. She realized that sometime around their third date, after she had had some time to establish herself in the monastery gossip networks. She spent one long evening in her room, mourning the death of the amazingly handsome, witty, and knightly husband-to-be she had constructed in her head. It was late and she had run all out of tears when it occurred to her that, though she now knew Sylvain as a hedonist and a scoundrel, he was still amazingly handsome and possibly good for something if she readjusted her expectations. The next day she went to Professor Manuela to discreetly inquire about acquiring certain herbs, and her relationship with Sylvain entered its next stage, wherein she visited his room quite a lot.

The chess-playing had started out as a side activity – Maegelle saw the board in his room and playfully challenged him to a game. He won handily. He won the second one, too.

It was shocking, at first. Sylvain, who claimed he only showed up to class if the teacher was "hot enough", whom she barely liked and certainly did not respect…was better than her at something? Never one to accept being second-best, she challenged him again, and again. Her overall win-loss ratio was something like 3 to 7, at this point, and the biweekly running average showed improvement. Sylvain told her she was taking this far too seriously. She told him that if he ever dared throw a match to her, she would duel him to preserve her honor.

At some point along the way, they stopped meeting in his room in the dead of night, and transitioned to playing chess in broad daylight over tea like respectable young nobles. They brought out other games, too – Sylvain owned a lavishly-painted deck of cards and Maegelle was able to make a mock-up of nard after Claude explained the rules. It was a wonderful way to stimulate the mind, and Sylvain, she had to admit, was still very witty and charming.

He lacked his normal roguish grin today, though. "Huh. Well, I won't say no to the company. Perhaps I need it. I've been lost in thought, and you know how I like to avoid thinking at all costs." There it was, the playful wink. It seemed strained, though. Perhaps he, too, had troubles he was trying to avoid today. "You asked me what I thought of the stew? This is a pretty classic Faerghan dish. Reminds me of home. That's about all it has to recommend it, though. Living in Garreg Mach has made me realize that no one in Faerghus knows how to cook."

"Lucky boy," she teased. "Your family up north must be cursing you for the opportunities you get..." Sylvain flinched. "…to eat better food. Oh dear." He did not look well. Some dam had broken, and his face had gone white. His spoon trembled as he set it down against his bowl. "Sylvain? Is there something…distressing you?"

"My brother," he said quietly.

"Your brother. Oh. Oh dear." Maegelle pushed the disgusting stew away and laced her hands before her on the table. "Miklan Gautier, correct?"

"You've heard of him? I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You love gossip, Mae," Sylvain said. The words fell dry and lifeless like dead leaves from his lips. Mae had never seen him like this.

"Well, it was a notable scandal, when he was disinherited. For, ah…" she hesitated. "For his lack of a Crest."

"His lack of a Crest just lost him his position as the heir. He was disinherited entirely for trying to kill me," Sylvain corrected her. "For the second time."

A sort of spiky sympathetic dread started worming its way into Maegelle's chest, like the feeling of seeing a gravestone and reflecting that one day you, too, will be buried in a similar place. "And you have news of him?"

He sighed painfully. "After he was cast out, he turned to banditry. Petty, and otherwise. The Lance of Ruin was just stolen by his band."

"But he cannot use the Lance!" Maegelle said, shocked. "A Relic will only work for someone with a matching Crest!"

"He knows that!" Sylvain said to her, agitated. "But it's very like Miklan to decide that if he can't be happy, then no one can." His eyes lost their deadness, and burned with some kind of fire – anger, perhaps, at past injuries. "And he's always been fucking miserable, so he has a lot of unhappiness to spread around. To me, to the innocent people he's been preying on – they would have been his own fucking subjects – to basically everyone. And now my father's asked the Church of Seiros for help. Asked specifically for the Blue Lions. So that's our mission for this month: hunt down Miklan and his gang."

"You don't appreciate that," Maegelle guessed. "Are you angry at your father, too?"

"Yes! Does he think I want to be the one to kill my brother?" Sylvain's gaze was burning holes into the table. "Because I don't. I would actually prefer to never see him again. But now I'm going to be going back to my homeland, hunting down my own brother like an animal and ripping the bloody Lance from his hands and confirming everything he ever thought of me. Because Goddess knows I can't say no."

"Why not? I am sure Professor Manuela would let you recuse yourself. Not wishing to face family in battle is a perfectly understandable excuse."

"Bandits preying on our own people. House Gautier's Relic, stolen. By one of our own, who was supposed to be gone and forgotten. Imagine a piece of trash, pulling itself out of the wastebin, Mae. Would you just let it be?" Sylvain's voice was deeply bitter. "This is a strike to the heart of House Gautier, something we cannot afford not to respond to. And my father has made it clear that he expects me to deal with it." He sighed again, sweeping his hand through his red hair.

Maegelle reached out a hand. He took it. "You are in an incredibly difficult position. I am so sorry."

"Nothing to be done. Just have to distract myself for the time being. Speaking of which: want to go somewhere else and make out?"

She pursed her lips. "Perhaps. But first, you should know that I intend to accompany you to Faerghus."

He leaned back. "What? Why?" he asked.

"By 'you', I mean the Blue Lions, of course. As Hilda did. And my reasons are my own. Yes, it's decided. I will obtain permission from the professors today."

"Sure," Byleth said. "Why are you doing this, though? The higher-ups all agreed that the Golden Deer deserved an easy month." A guaranteed easy month: just training exercises with the knights. Given her class's penchant for finding deadly combat in the midst of routine missions, this was considered necessary.

Maegelle gave a courtly smile. "Sylvain is a dear friend, and…"

Byleth cut her off. "You're not that close."

The young noblewoman dropped her smile, raising her head stubbornly. "You're much too practical to take a polite excuse, I see. Well, I would rather my reasons stayed private. Do you have any objections to that, Professor?"

"I guess not." Though it rankled Byleth that one of her own students was heading into danger without her (and Sothis's powers) to protect her. "Stay safe, Maegelle."

"I intend to." Finishing her cup of tea (sweet apple blend – Maegelle had quite the sweet tooth) she got up, leaving Byleth alone in her office.

Her office. Where she had shelves of paperwork and meetings over tea, poured from her fancy Imperial silver teapot. Her stock of tea blends was proliferating, too – all the students had their own tastes! – and Byleth thought it would be worth getting a small chest to hold them all. Overall, she was adjusting to Academy life at a rate that astonished her and her father both.

There was also the Crest, of course. And the legendary holy sword Rhea had blithely told her she could keep. Professor Hanneman was in scholarly ecstasies over it. Apparently the King of Liberation had been the only known human ever to bear either, and he was the stuff of legends, so the opportunity to study her was completely unprecedented in the field of Crestology. Byleth made time for his questions and his blood samples, but she was not nearly as excited. The new power could be useful, she thought – she had been practicing with the Sword of the Creator, which had intriguing capabilities but was a finicky and oddly-shaped thing. But overall it did not change who she was, and would not have much effect on her life outside of battle.

It was akin to the situation with her heart – i.e. it did not beat, which was as far as she knew unique but never seemed to cause any problems and so was not often worth mentioning or thinking about. Although Hanneman had gone into an even greater fit when he found out.

Byleth's thoughts had wandered for long enough that she realized she would not be getting any more work done without a break. Stretching, she decided to head over to her father's office (which was much like hers, but with more liquor and less tea). If he was there, he was usually up for a jaw.

Captain Jeralt was already entertaining; she could hear through the door a woman's rich alto laughter.

"So you're into poetry now, Judith?" her father was saying as she pushed open the door.

"Don't get the wrong idea," said the woman – Judith von Daphnel, a well-known figure in the Alliance. She had first arrived to attend the Rite of Rebirth, before taking Claude and Hilda to a council meeting in Derdriu. If she was back…sure enough, there was Claude, listening with one ear while he nosed around her father's books. "I keep Penelope around for plenty of reasons, foremost of which is that she does excellent work. Her poetry is just…"

"The reason she's your mistress, instead of just another retainer?" supplied Jeralt.

Judith crossed her arms. A lithe woman, tough as a leather whip and crackling with athleticism; her long dark hair was caught in a simple ponytail, and her clothes, though colorful, were practical and easy to move in. "I don't see why I have to answer all these questions about my romantic life." Byleth saw Claude's head turn back to the two adults, eyes hungry and mischievous.

Jeralt leaned back in his chair. Shaggy eyebrows raised, he said, "Well that would be a change. When you were a student here I learned so much about your romantic life, most of it against my will."

"Oh, do tell!" grinned Claude, turning around fully. "I'm always interested in learning the lessons of the past."

"Uh," Judith stammered, looking less like the Hero of Daphnel every moment. "Don't tell me you remember all that? I certainly don't care to remember all the dumb shit I did as a kid!"

"Don't worry," Jeralt said dryly. "The majority of your drama has been thrown in the same hole I put all the other stupid things I don't care about."

Judith relaxed. "You really don't give a damn, do you? The older I get, the more I identify with that attitude. One day, Captain, I'll be just as curmudgeonly as you."

He nodded. "Of course, some things do stick in the memory. There was one time in particular…" Claude leaned forward, his smile fit to swallow the moon. Judith groaned. "Me and my men had to shut down some kind of clandestine party in the Sealed Forest. I remember carrying you on one arm and Tiana von Riegan on the other, both of you too drunk to walk straight, and you were crying that she'd cheated on you with Leopold Gloucester of all people, and Tiana was trying to explain that it wasn't really cheating if his pants had never come off, and—"

"Wait, no," Claude said, horrified. "That's – my mother and – Lorenz's father? Oh god – goddess, I don't want to hear this. Please stop." He pushed his way past Byleth, whispering, "Your father is evil, Teach!" while Jeralt chuckled in a manner that was admittedly rather evil.

Her student fled, Byleth turned to her father and crossed her arms, sternly.

"What? Does a soul good to be surprised now and again. That Claude kid is always far too smug." Jeralt reached into a drawer and pulled out a few cups, which he started filling from a metal flask.

"He has plenty of uncertainties. He just doesn't show them on his face," she said. "Like me."

"Well, I'll be. You're really getting fond of the little brats. Tell Claude to stop asking so many annoying questions, and I'll return the favor."

Taking the cup of vodka – her father had long since left his birthplace, but he still drank like a Faerghan – Byleth nodded to him, and sat down.

"So," said Judith, accepting a drink of her own from Jeralt. "Professor Byleth. We met pretty briefly last time, but I hope you still remember my name."

Byleth nodded. She'd known the Hero of Daphnel by reputation for years: a respected general and, it was rumored, the Alliance's spymistress. "You wish to speak with me?"

"Mostly to hear how Claude and Hilda are getting on. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm their adoptive mother or anything, but I do try to look after those kids. His mother Tiana and I were very good friends…" Across the room, Jeralt was rolling his eyes hard enough to creak. Judith glared. "We were friends foremost, okay? Dating each other was a bad idea, it didn't work out, but we stayed friends afterward." Judith sucked down her liquor unhappily.

"Well," Byleth mused, "they're both doing all right in class. Hilda could stand to actually do the reading, though. Claude…does too much reading. I think some nights he doesn't actually go to sleep."

Judith nodded, wincing. "I know what you're talking about. The kid definitely has problems getting a full night's sleep, but sometimes he doesn't even try. What else?"

"They're making good progress in their training. Claude is showing a real gift for strategy and tactics, and I'd say he's also respected by the other students. Except for Lorenz."

Judith merely rolled her eyes. "If all they do is snipe at each other over the dinner table, that's still far from the worst possible outcome. I have my people keeping an eye on the Gloucesters where I can. Is Hilda making friends? She's a prickly girl, that one."

"She has a lot of friends in the Blue Lions, actually. Prince Dimitri seems to be her favorite sparring partner now. I think they both enjoy having someone who can match their absurd level of strength."

Jeralt chuckled. "The two of them break so many training weapons. Crests like Blaiddyd are the reason we keep such a big stockpile of those."

"I can imagine," said Judith. "Is the Crest of Flames like that? Or did you never notice that you had it until recently?"

Byleth waggled her head. "It seems to do a little bit of everything. Strength, speed, endurance. Nothing obvious, like, you know, how my father can't get drunk, or how Dimitri breaks doors when he opens them too fast." Jeralt, who was currently drinking the flask of vodka like it was water, nodded in agreement. "Sometimes it went all glowy and, uh, activated, while I was in battle as a mercenary – but my father and I didn't know what Crest it was. Just that it was different from his Crest of Seiros."

"Huh. And you don't know where it might have come from?"

Byleth shrugged. "My mother?"

Jeralt stayed silent.

"Well, sounds like it's been pretty good for you, overall," said Judith. "There are a lot of families out there where Crests are both an honor and a burden when they appear. And a source of shame and infighting when they don't. You and your father seem to have escaped all of that."

"If you ask me, it's that the great noble houses all feel they have to have someone with a Crest leading them. Even the ones without a Relic to use. If you're Lord Whoever with the Crest of Whoever and all your predecessors since the dawn of time have had the Crest of Whoever, you're damn well sure going to keep having children until you get one with the right Crest," Jeralt scoffed. "And don't even get me started on the minor houses trying to breed Crests into their bloodline. They swarm to marriage candidates like seagulls to a fish market." He spoke, Byleth suspected, from personal experience.

"Indeed," said Judith wryly. "What is a Countess Daphnel without a Crest of Daphnel?"

"You actually want me to answer that?" wondered Jeralt. "Well, I'd say she's living her best life. I notice you seem to have slipped through your youthful years without finding a husband."

"My sister, who likes men much more than I, is well up to the task of continuing the Daphnel bloodline." Judith bared her teeth in a proud smile. "When House Daphnel split in two, those fools who believed in Crest power took the Relic and the stronger blood, but we kept the name and the fertile land of Leicester. Now my distant cousin in frigid Galatea is struggling to keep his people fed, while I am twice as influential and ten times as rich, with significantly fewer grey hairs."

"I saw Aisamere von Galatea use her Relic in battle, once," recalled her father. "She called the ground to quake, to crack open, and turn to fire. I was a lot younger, then. It was downright terrifying," he said with a chuckle. "A warrior with a Crest and a Relic is a superlative warrior. But you're right, Judith. A lord needs to be more than a warrior."

"Now if only the rest of the nobility could realize that," Judith said, finishing her drink. "It was nice catching up, Captain. And to you," she turned to Byleth, "a word of advice. You may have lived a pretty unremarkable life up till now, but you're now in the public eye. People in Leicester are talking about the woman with the Sword of the Creator. Whatever the powers of your activated Crest, it has more meaning as a symbol – a valuable one. Speaking frankly, a lot of people are going to be trying to get you on their side."

"Are you one of them?" asked Byleth evenly.

"Hah! I'll refrain from begging for favors from someone I barely know. All I'm saying is, think carefully about who you choose to tie yourself to. Even the Church. The divine is flawless, but priests and bishops are mortal men, with earthly agendas. If you feel anyone might be trying to take advantage of your political naiveté, send me a letter. I'll do my best to peel back the curtain, and reveal some of the dirt on them."

"So, Mae. I've been thinking," Sylvain began. It was two weeks later, and the Blue Lions (plus Deer) were making their way north on horseback. Very north – the Margravate of Gautier lay at the wild edge of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, past the famous pine forests and into a hilly expanse of bogs and moors. It was both the longest and most uncomfortable journey Maegelle had ever undertaken. To her, used to the temperate flatlands of southern Leicester, this place was as colorless as a cloud, as dry as a desert and as cold as a mountain peak.

"I thought you tried to avoid thinking at all costs," she said dryly. "But this landscape is boring enough that I cannot blame you for doing whatever you can to keep yourself entertained."

"You'll not blame me? That's great. Because I think I've figured out why you wanted to come here. I mean, it certainly wasn't to appreciate the scenery."

Maegelle sighed, and, hoping to distract him, she said, "I hope my complaining has not given you any offense, Sylvain."

"No. I understand why my family's domain is so miserable for you, my sweet southern fire lily. Sometimes I feel the same way. But back on topic."

Maegelle groaned out loud.

"Now, I'm not as much of a gossip as you, but I do like talking to people, and I remember hearing a while back about the curious fortune of House Ordelia. A Crestless Count and Countess, somehow managing to produce three Crest-bearing daughters in a row. People were full of praise and jealousy. My dad yelled at my mom about it, asking why she couldn't do that. You know what it was like, I'm sure."

"I do…know. What it was like. The Goddess indeed showered her blessings on my three younger sisters." She was choking up. Shameful.

There was a moment of silence. Then Sylvain said, "I don't remember ever hearing anything about a new heir."

"My parents—" She took a deep breath. Began again. "My parents are loving and indulgent creatures. In their wisdom, they have allowed me a chance to prove myself. I intend to – I will demonstrate that I am capable of leading House Ordelia to a glorious future, and that I am the equal of any of our great ancestors. I may not have a Crest of Gloucester like Peronelle and Alraune, or a Crest of Charon like Lysithea, but I work harder than any of them." Her hands gripped the reins, nails digging into the meat of her palms; her voice took on a vicious edge.

"And if one of them does get promoted over you?" Sylvain asked, his tone dark. "What will you do then?"

"I would not hurt them!" she cried out. "I mustn't. It would be – I love my sisters." Yes, she loved being a big sister, brushing their hair and holding them as they cried and receiving letters asking for advice. And she hated the part of herself that wrote back to Lysithea, telling her dark magic was dull and not worth pursuing, because she needed to stand above, to have something she could do that none of the others could, and if her most precocious sister mastered that subject before her she would be finished.

And it was the same part of her that wanted to strangle that bitch Marianne for getting the same kind of seat she'd struggled and bled for dropped in her lap, cheating every other member of House Edmund out of their rightful inheritance.

And it was the same part of her that hoped, one day, Sylvain would fall hard enough to have his heart broken the way he'd broken hers.

She hated that part of her. She feared it. So she rewrote every letter to her sisters; she avoided Marianne like she was a plague victim; and she never asked Sylvain for more than his superficial attention.

"I am not Miklan," she said aloud, for the first time. "That is what I am here to prove. I am here for an instructive lesson on the path I must never take."

Vocalist · Aug 23, 2022

As they approached their destination, the land grew ever wilder and less populated. Once they passed the site of a decades-old battlefield, where broken spears hid under the heather and ragged trees bore the scars of a Srengi shaman's lighting magic. The tower they were looking for, Sylvain told them, had once stood watch for the feared raiding parties of the northern tribes. But King Lambert had pushed the border farther north than ever before and constructed new towers to match. The old ones had been left empty, to be colonized by rats, bats, and bandits.

Maegelle found it odd, at first, to imagine that this land she saw had been foreign territory until just before her birth. In many ways, it was still: the scattered villages they passed contained no churches or emblems of Seiros, the men and women went about with strange marks painted onto their faces, and the whispers that followed their party were impossible to understand. In fact, it was usual that no one in the village could speak but a few words of Fódlani, and this made asking for directions very hard.

In one typical interaction, the village's chosen interpreter – a leathery woman with streaks of charcoal black across her cheeks and over her lips – beelined straight for Sylvain as their party attempted to enter. "You is from Gautier?" she asked, indicating the emblems he wore.

Sylvain sighed. "Yes. I is from Gautier. Do you need something, my lady?"

She regarded him warily. Maegelle saw her eyes linger on his spear; she wondered what these people thought their heavily-armed party was here to do. "You have no need from us. We the tax already pay. The tax-man come to here, one moon pass. We all give to him."

Sylvain shook his head. "That's not why we're here. Uh, I am not a tax-man," he said, enunciating his words slowly and clearly. "We are looking for a tower."

She stared at him blankly. "Taur? What is taur?"

"Um, it's a tall building. Tall?" He tried tracing a shape with his hands. "Okay, never mind that. We are looking for bandits. Do you know that word? Bandits? Thieves?"

"Thief?" she gasped. "We are no thief. We never steal anything! No thief is here!"

He waved his hands defensively. "No, I don't mean any of you are thieves! Have any thieves – men of Fódlan – come here and stolen from you? Do any thieves steal from you?" She quirked her head. He continued, not sure how much she understood – but hoping that, if he said enough, some of his words would get through. "We are hunting a band of thieves. They have stolen from Lord Gautier, from the people of Fódlan, and from the people of Sreng. We know they are dangerous. They have killed people. They have taken women. We know they are living in a tower – a place called Conand Tower, on the old maps. Their leader is a big man with red hair, with a scar across his face like this," Sylvain traced a slash from his forehead down to his left cheek. "He likes using an axe." Maegelle noticed more and more of the villagers were coming out to watch the scene, showing cautious curiosity.

"…We know of the thieves," the woman said, after some consideration. "I see the man with the red hair, like you have. You search them?" Sylvain nodded. "Because they steal from Gautier?" Sylvain nodded again.

She said something in Srengi, then, to the people nearby. There were a few derisive sniggers.

"I'd ask you to translate the joke for me," Sylvain sighed, "but it would double the length of this painful conversation. Where are the thieves, my lady?"

"They are in…you say the tall stone is a 'taur'?" she replied.

"A tower."

"Then they are in the Tower of Black Winds. We give you a guide. Kill them well, yes? They is steal from all of us."

Conand Tower, or the Tower of Black Winds, stood tall and jagged over the moors like a lightning-struck tree. True to its name, the wind picked up as they approached, hurling unimpeded across the flatlands with no obstacles but the Blue Lions and their little guide, a scrawny young man from the village. When they were still some distance away, he stopped, pointed to their destination (unnecessary, for it stood out, perfectly obvious, against the gray sky) and sat down on a rock without a word. Through gestures, he indicated that he would wait here for them.

"Thank you," Prince Dimitri said politely. "Well, they've probably seen us already – one must admit this is good terrain for a watchtower. Absolutely nothing we can use for cover. We'll have to be wary of archers as we approach."

The other students were studying it, too. "It's hard to see at this distance," said Ingrid, "but I'd say the top floors have collapsed. That means fewer good perches for archers. If we had a wing of pegasus knights we could probably just swoop in through the top."

"Fewer doesn't mean none," countered Ashe. "I think the prince is right. We should be very careful on approach."

"Or perhaps rush in on horseback? Look at the sky; I can smell rain coming."

"Actually, if it's going to rain…"

Professor Manuela looked over her students proudly, perhaps glad that she did not have to do any of the planning herself. It was soon decided: they would wait for the arrival of rain, to spoil the aim of their enemies and protect them until they reached the tower itself.

The anticipation was excruciating. Maegelle had nowhere to look, no one to talk to. This gray land was oppressively empty and Sylvain was in a dark, silent mood. She heard Annette and Mercedes chattering nervously about lighter things, but she had no desire to join them. Bleak rumination seemed only appropriate before the bloody task they were about to undertake. She almost felt as though she were about to kill someone she knew.

"Goddess," she whispered, "whatever lessons I am meant to learn here, let me learn them. Let me come out of this a wiser woman. Let me see how to follow a better path." She saw some of the others praying as well. Ashe, Yuri, Dimitri. Sylvain stayed upright, still and staring at his hands, as if he had gone to get something but lost track of his own thoughts halfway through. "And please, Goddess, protect Sylvain. Send your saints of light to take his hand and guide him through this."

Rain fell. The sky darkened more and more, until even the bright colors of their clothes became shadowed with the endless gray. Single drops became a curtain, and there was twilight in the afternoon.

"Onward, then!" decided the professor. "Before we become too cold to move! Ah, that village is going to owe us a night drying by their hearthfires after we do this."

"Keep your thoughts on the present," grunted Felix. "It's dangerous to let your mind stray from the battle."

It said something about the mood that no one bothered to bicker with him.

No one came out to challenge them as they drew closer and closer. Conand Tower loomed, a broken edifice of rain-slick black stone. Its mortar was worn and its stones uneven; its upper floors had crumbled open, as Ingrid had seen; the great timber doors had rotted away and never been replaced. The portcullis lowered over the entrance, though, blocked their way. Battered and rust-streaked but largely whole.

The shadows of men watched from within the entryway as Dimitri drew apart from the party and boldly called out. "Hail! We have come for the Lance of Ruin, and more generally to put an end to banditry and lawbreaking."

Sniggers could be heard from within. "You think we have the Lance, huh?"

"Damn straight we have the Lance!" crowed another. "You're all fools, though, if you think you can come in here and take it!"

Dimitri remained calm. "We are here in the name of the Church, the Margravate of Gautier, and of the Crown itself. Surrender, and you have my word you will be treated with mercy. But defiance will be met with death."

"Yes," they laughed, "all ten of you. All ten of you will burst in here and kill us!"

The prince remained calm. He stood bare inches from the portcullis; his hands rested on the iron bars.

Then he set his stance, flared his Crest, and tore it from its mounting. Blaiddyd's sign proclaimed his bloodline while metal screamed and deformed under his bare hands. In seconds, the portcullis was nothing but debris to be tossed aside, and the way was open.

The mages moved first, pre-prepared spells rapidly condensing anima into a deadly shape and sending it hurtling into the entryway. Lightning illuminated the forms of men, tightly packed in audience, now falling to the ground in pain. Then the frontline fighters charged, two abreast: Felix and Sylvain fighting side by side with the coordination of old friends, Ingrid and Ashe harrying from behind with bow and spear. Maegelle saw the prince catching his breath; then he nodded to Yuri, and the royal couple escorted the mages inside.

The tower's stone was not just black from the rain, she realized. It was black everywhere, and it drank the light. Whatever sporadic torches Miklan's men had seen fit to put up were not enough. Maegelle fought in a long hallway of shadows, never seeing the faces of the men she killed. The sigils she cast and the lightning she summoned left imprints on her eyelids and ruined her night-blindness, so she switched to dark magic, creating miasmas which cast no light as they enveloped men.

"I can't see anything!" Felix screamed from ahead. "Do something about it before I cut off Sylvain's head!"

Manuela, who was the closest of all to the fighting – not to better attack, but to better heal – reached out and brushed a glowing ball of light into existence. It floated out ahead of them, illuminating the blood-streaked flagstones. "I need to concentrate on that," she told Dimitri. "Don't expect much else from me."

After fighting through the entryway and the round chamber beyond, they found the stairs and climbed. Bandits stood in their way. It was tight-quarters fighting, where only the two warriors facing each other could bring their strength to bear – there was no space for anyone to flank or support. Maegelle heard Felix snarl in rage and pain as Ingrid pulled him back and Mercedes rushed forward with a healing spell.

"You take a break," Manuela told him, over his protests. "I want Yuri to rotate in, he's still fresh."

After breaking through the staircase, there was another great round room, where men rushed them in numbers. Annette murmured in concentration and a grand spell took shape, calling on the air to rush out in an unravelling whirlwind that knocked foes back and left them splayed out on the floor. The Blue Lions fanned out, bringing all of their force to bear; when that sudden cacophony of violence was done, the room was left quiet. Only the silence of the dead and the panting of the not-yet-dead, as Mercedes and Manuela healed their wounds.

A moment to breathe. Several moments. Maegelle massaged her forearms: her nerves were beginning to burn. A mage could only channel so much before reaching her limit. But she could keep going. She must.

They advanced to another stairway; another floor beyond. Men screamed, women screamed; it mixed into a sharp morass of sound that scraped at Maegelle's ears. Someone drew close to her. Dumbly, she thought only that they were not one of the Blue Lions before their sabre slashed into the meat of her shoulder. Crying out, she redirected the spell she was channeling and a spear of lightning – bloated by fear – burst through their torso. She sobbed as they collapsed.

Mercedes' healing touch; another floor. Maegelle was getting frustrated. It was better than scared; better than running. This floor had a new feature: a third of its round wall gone, letting in sheets of the cold rain at the whim of the changing winds. The rubble of collapsed stonework had been cleared out, and Maegelle could see what was left of the tower's hollow exoskeleton, rising up and up to a leaking, boarded-up roof. The stormclouds had thickened, truly dark as night now, and pregnant with crackling beads of lightning.

This storm…such a well of natural anima to draw from. A lightning mage could make something truly spectacular, if she were willing to take the risk.

There was a pause in the fighting that allowed her to make such observations. A pause as the Blue Lions fanned out, as the hardest, most favored, most loyal of Miklan's men did likewise. They flanked a man who, Maegelle could not deny, looked very very like Sylvain. He stood a little taller, a little broader. If Sylvain let his red hair grow longer and shaggier, if he stopped grooming himself like a dandy and let his skin grow scabbed and chapped, if he had that scar twisting down his face; why, one would be hard-pressed to tell them apart.

Miklan Anschutz Gautier hefted his lance. It was a knobbly thing, flanged with spikes the color of dirty old bone. He pointed it straight at his brother. "Why have you come here, you spoiled fool?"

Sylvain sounded very tired as he said, "For the Lance, of course. You know we were never, ever going to let you keep it. Is that why you took it, Miklan? So you could bait out me, or our father, and finally kill one of us?"

Miklan actually chuckled. That smile, too, held something of Sylvain's wickedness. "Maybe. If you're scared, you can leave."

Sylvain gritted his teeth. He did not move.

"All right. Come and get your 'birthright', Sylvain. Show us all how good you are at taking things from me."

"Will you stop blaming me for everything bad that ever happened to you?" his brother snapped. His lance swung forward, and the two clashed. The two sides surged and they were soon hidden in the chaos of battle, but Maegelle was left with the clear impression that Miklan did not actually know how to use a lance.

He likes using an axe, Sylvain had said. Goddess, was he actually wielding a weapon in which he was untrained just out of spite? Maegelle could not help but think that, were she ever inclined to murder her sisters, she would go about it more efficiently.

Lions clashed with bandits as Maegelle anxiously surveyed the crush for targets. Sylvain…he was easily batting aside Miklan's awkward blows, but he didn't seem to have landed any himself. He was fighting so defensively.

Felix noticed too, and stepped forward with a contemptuous huff. His silver blade flicked out, neatly slipping into an opening Sylvain had not deigned to exploit, and drew a mocking line of blood parallel to the scar on Miklan's face. "He'll not hesitate to kill you. Fight properly or find another opponent, Sylvain."

"You arrogant little shit," roared Miklan, swinging the Lance of Ruin around like a scythe. The jutting spikes on the end did not make this as pointless as it would be for most lances. Felix had to duck low to escape. The lance tore into his scalp; midnight-blue hair fell undone, wet with blood.

The bandit leader's wide blow had left him open. He didn't expect Sylvain to respond with a real strike. Thrusting forward with his lance, Sylvain expertly found a gap in the plating of Miklan's arm. His speartip plunged deep.

Miklan screamed, bull-rushing Sylvain, ripping his weapon from his grip. Felix tried to come in from the side and was knocked away too; a strike with an armored boot sent him rolling to the ground. Miklan fought better when he was surrounded, Maegelle thought. When he didn't have room to use that stupid Relic Lance.

"Heh…heh!" chuckled Miklan, panting. Blood ran down his arm and onto his hand, wetting the Relic. "Not bad…for a bunch of spoiled rotten children. Keep practicing, Felix. You're still not worth your brother's left boot, but you're getting there."

"Fuck you," said Felix. Not one for banter, him.

Miklan laughed again. Then something gave him pause. "Wha-?" It was an angry red glow, inexplicably coming from the Lance of Ruin. Its flanges shivered. Its Crest Stone flickered. "What the hell?"

Nearby, Sylvain dropped his weapon and clutched his head.

Then Miklan began to scream. He screamed as tar-black ooze bubbled up from the surface of the ancient Hero's Relic, covering his hands and cementing them firmly there. He screamed as multiplying fingers of living shadow reached for his flesh. He screamed as the corruption mounted higher and higher, greedily overtaking every bit of him and the Lance. It was unstoppable. In seconds, all that was visible was the Gautier Crest Stone, shining like an omen, before it too was taken into the seething black mass.

"No," whimpered Sylvain. "Who are you? Let him go…"

Fighting around the room stopped at the unholy sight. "What is this?" Maegelle heard one of the bandits say. "We need to get out of here!"

He was not wrong. The pillar of darkness stopped growing and bent forward, its outer layer sloughing off like a cocoon. From it emerged rippling muscle under slick black hide, cracked stone spines, four limbs tipped with claws that dripped darkness. A black beast, seemingly still-unfinished: bare tendons connected the visible bones of its shoulders, and its eyes were mere red lights within its skull. But its limbs, those were strong and hale, and as it grabbed a stumbling bandit to bring to its mouth Maegelle saw that its many teeth were functional as well. Of Miklan and the Relic, there was no sign.

"Goddess preserve me," she said, almost too afraid to breathe. "Sylvain!" He was still frozen close by, far too close. The Black Beast saw him with its fleshless eyes and roared, muscles visibly pulling at its bony jaw, something dark and oily coating its teeth.

Felix was there. Seizing his friend by the arm, he dragged him back, out of the way of the swiping arm. Claws scythed through his coat, drawing blood, infecting the wound with oily darkness, but Felix didn't stop running until he and Sylvain had reached the other Blue Lions.

"He's useless right now," Felix panted. "We'll have to do this without him."

Sylvain let himself slip to his knees. He made no sign of disagreeing with Felix's assessment.

"Do what without him?" Maegelle said, panic lending her voice a shrill edge. "You want us to fight that thing?" Most of Miklan's men were already at the stairs.

Professor Manuela looked just as unnerved, but she was managing to hold herself together enough to say: "Yes, I think we should immediately retreat. This has suddenly become—"

The Beast roared as if to remind them of its presence before pouncing forward. It was ungainly, like a predator in ill health, but it could still crack the flagstones with its weight. The students scattered. Suddenly, the room felt so small.

Dimitri began shouting orders, telling their fighters to surround the Beast and their mages to harry it. It was a sound strategy, a standard strategy for dealing with wild monsters, but were they in a condition to pull it off? Maegelle saw Ingrid block a blow with her lance: monstrous claws sheared right through and sent her staggering. Only a wild blow from Dimitri, tearing its oily flesh with Crest-given strength, distracted it from finishing her off right there.

Maegelle barely had the strength for another spell on her own. She looked up, at the boards of the roof, sagging and letting in rain. The thunderstorm…channeling that much anima would hurt, in her tired state. Probably in any state. Theoretically, possibly, it could cause permanent nerve damage. But if it wasn't stopped, the Black Beast would cause permanent everything damage, so…

Maegelle spread her hands and opened her mind to the storm. It was a roiling cloud, an outpouring of the world's elemental spirit, and trying to comprehend it all made her feel like she was being buffeted by the wind itself – well, she was already, because of the giant hole in the wall, but she was being doubly buffeted! More than lightning composed it; the spirits of water and wind were there, mingling in a generative chaos; engaged in some sort of courtship with the earth far below, the lightning their messenger.

And while she tried to grasp some part she could use, she felt someone else drawing the storm into their own composition. Water drew into a new structure, condensed, directed: a dance of sharpened blades. Lightning shunted away and wind conscripted only to hurry the water along. Fascinated, envious, she watched the elegant unfolding of a grand dance, so far above whatever desperate improvisation she could have tried.

Physically speaking, she was still looking at the roof. So she was the first one to see it crack. To see the planks torn away by the grip of enormous aquiline talons. There, silhouetted against the now-visible sky, was a winged outline.

For a moment, no more rain fell. Then the clouds disgorged their cargo all at once: a hail of icy needles the size of spears. Falling with incredible velocity, their deadly points impaled the Black Beast in wave after wave until it resembled a tortured porcupine. Maddened with pain, it shook under the resuming rain. It climbed to its feet. Then, falling with the rain, came the real attack.

She had seen hawks swoop on their prey, but comparing this to a hawk was like comparing a mortal woman to the Goddess. Four wings beat, almost filling the room and forcing the students back to the edges. Crystalline talons hooked into the Black Beast's flesh, shearing through muscle and hide. It had long, silky feathers in all the shades of winter blue, and its crest fluttered as its beak dug viciously into the Beast's throat.

But Demonic Beasts did not die easily. It rolled, pulling itself free from claws that were slicked with its black blood, and responded to the counterstrike by catching the great bird's lowered neck in its horrid teeth. The bird screamed, a surprisingly musical sound.

"No!" screamed Dimitri. He charged, lance in hand, flaring his Crest. Where the Black Beast was lifting a forelimb to catch the bird and draw it closer, he thrust. Maegelle heard the lance shatter, and perhaps bone as well. Still, the Beast did not let go. Roaring, Dimitri reached into the wound with his bare hands and started tearing at the soft hide.

"Dimitri!" she screamed. "I can hurt it! I have a plan! But you must get back!" Maegelle's mind was back on the storm: diminished now, but less chaotic, and most of the lightning anima was still there. She remembered what the other spellcaster – the monstrous bird – had done. "Dimitri! Your Highness!"

Felix looked ready to charge in and rescue a second classmate, but the prince saw reason in time. He backed up, as the two monsters clawed and bit at each other. The Black Beast was flagging, they could tell. Blood oozed from a hundred wounds, and the limb Dimitri had attacked was nearly non-functional.

"Please don't hurt the dragon," Dimitri begged her. "It's our ally."

Maegelle gave a vague sound of acknowledgement. Her hands were tracing the borders of a magic sigil of a structure she had only ever studied in theory before. A tap for the storm, funneling its energy into the shape of a lightning spell she knew – but bigger. Much bigger.

"Hey! Bird!" The overflowing energy filled her, setting her veins afire and stirring her hair with crackling static. "If you can get out of the way, do it now!"

The thing was intelligent enough to understand her – it must have been, to compose that spell earlier. Its lower wings flapped, summoning a cloud of freezing wind to distract the Beast. Tearing itself free from those claws, the bird rose up, singing.

Good. She couldn't hold the energy any longer. She threw open the gates and let it flow. The matching magic circle formed far above spun, and lightning poured through. Not a single strike, but a molten, continuous, white-hot spear, tearing the air around it and roaring in waves of thunder. For the seconds – seconds! – it lasted, it glowed too bright to look at. Maegelle screamed at the burn in her nerves, at the smell of scorched air and scorched flesh. Her vision was nothing but white.

The spell ended. The anima leaked away, and she had no more strength to regather it. Falling to her knees, blind and deaf, she still felt the rain, and the cool breath of wind from the beating of a bird-dragon's wings as it flew away.

When she woke up, it was in a hard, unfamiliar bed. No, wait. This was just a few blankets. On a stone floor. Ugh. Her body ached all over. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she looked around at the strange icons and tapestries over the hearth, the bundles of herbs and vegetables hanging from the rafters. Was this someone's house?

A movement caught her attention, and for the first time she noticed the other person in the room. Sylvain.

He put down the book he had been reading and walked over to crouch by her side. "Good to see you back again, Mae. You were pretty impressive back there, but you had us all worried. Professor Manuela has a new lecture about magical strain she wants to give you.

Maegelle could only groan. "I feel as though there are needles inside all my veins and I can barely move. Trust me, the lesson has been learned."

"Well," he smirked, "I hope you still feel proud. You did deal the killing blow to a nightmarish monster. Don't be afraid to pull that trick again if it's to save all our lives."

"Oh, it was a terribly shoddy spell," she groused. "I got the final blow, but what about…what about that dragon-bird thing, Sylvain? What about your brother? What in the Goddess's name happened in that tower?"

As expected, his face fell. "When the Beast died, it melted away, and Miklan's body was there. Along with the Lance. So…" he swallowed heavily. "We have what we came for."

"Sylvain…"

"I don't know why it happened, okay?" Brown eyes wide, he started rambling, "When the Relic came alive in his hands, I could hear a – a voice in my head, crying out. For blood, for flesh, for life. Not out of, you know, hunger, but because it wanted those things. It wanted to have those things. It took his body because it was trying to – to become real, or alive. But it could never do it. It was never complete, and it devoured Miklan for nothing. I heard him screaming. You all did, but I could still hear him screaming. His voice was in the Beast's roars. That thing that ate him was nothing but pain and fear, and by the time it was done with him that's all there was left of Miklan, too. He didn't deserve that. No one, ever, would deserve that."

She had no words. "Goddess…"

Sylvain looked down at her. His eyes, too, were filled with pain and fear. And then, melancholy. "I always had a hard time hating my brother, no matter how much he hurt me. Because I understood why he acted like that, why he felt that way. I used to think that what I wanted from Miklan was to never see him again. But, in truth, what I wanted was to see him…without pain. If he could just find a way to be happy, then I thought we could…we could be…" He scoffed, suddenly. "Look at me, crying all over you. You're going to lose all respect for me as a man."

"Shut up, you fool," she told him. "You think it makes me respect you less to hear that you still loved your brother? It gives me hope." She sighed. "I love my sisters. Some part of me always loves my sisters, even when I also hate them. Do you think…Miklan, before the end, gave you a chance to walk away. Do you think he wanted to spare you, too?"

"Who knows." Sylvain shifted on his heels. "Maybe he just wanted to see me admit that I was scared of him. That without our father and all the institutions of Faerghus backing me up, I couldn't stand up to him. Maybe." He dug into his shirt, pulling out a carved amulet of white stone. "Arzigul gave me this."

"Who?"

"The woman we talked to. The translator. We're in her house right now. Anyway, she figured out that I'm Miklan's brother, so she gave me this charm. It's bad luck to kill your own kin, she said. Makes the gods angry. Makes the earth bleed. Especially when you die as hard a death as he did. She said this would protect me a little from the consequences." He chuckled lightly. "She also said I should see a priest as soon as I get home." His fingers rubbed the smooth white stone, tracing its black veins. "You were unconscious, so you don't remember, but we found a couple of local women hiding in a storeroom. Miklan's band had kidnapped them, and were forcing them to work as servants. We brought them back to the village, told the villagers to go to the tower and pick up whatever money and stolen goods the bandits had stashed there. The look on Arzigul's face…like she was sure she must be misunderstanding me. Like there was no way House Gautier would actually just give all this stuff back to the village. Like I must be planning to take something else from them." A dark chuckle. "I mean, I know why she would think that way, but it was still a little insulting. So she's been trying to be nice to me since then. It's something, isn't it? To have someone like me for something I actually did…I don't know if she even realizes I'm the Margrave's son."

He slipped the stone back under his clothes. "Take your time getting better, lightning lily. A lot of us have wounds that are still healing. Crest of Gautier, you know. Healing magic doesn't work on those. As for the, uh, other giant mysterious creature…" His demeanor slipped, and Maegelle saw he was just as confused as her as he said, "Well, Dimitri and Yuri say they know what it is. I'm not sure I believe their explanation, but you can listen and decide for yourself."

Vocalist · Aug 24, 2022

"It was absurd," complained Felix. "That whole day, from start to finish, was like something out of Ashe's novels. If someone else tried to tell me about it, I wouldn't believe them."

The Archbishop, pouring tea into her exquisite porcelain cups, said, "I see. Nevertheless, it seems clear that something extraordinary happened at Conand Tower, and so I ask you not to hold anything back, even if you fear it sounds foolish."

"Of course," he replied. "I'll tell you what I saw, and you may decide for yourself what to make of it."

"Sugar?" she asked.

"No thank you."

Rhea added half a spoonful to her own cup. She would normally use more, but she would be taking a lot of tea today…

"So, Miklan and Sylvain were confronting each other…" began Annette, before pausing. She was eyeing the platter of sweets on the table.

Archbishop Rhea smiled reassuringly at the young woman before her, before taking a lavender shortbread for herself. "They are there to be eaten."

"Thank you – wow, this is so good! Ahem," Annette hastily brushed crumbs off her uniform before resuming, "I was paying attention to other parts of the fight, so the first thing I noticed was the screaming. And this wasn't, you know, ordinary screaming that you hear a lot of on the battlefield. It was…it went on and on. And we all started looking around to see what it was, and we saw that Miklan was, uh, transforming, and the fighting kind of stopped."

Mercedes shook her head dolefully. "With the way he was screaming, he must have been in terrible pain. No matter what Miklan had done, I don't believe he could have deserved that. I've been praying for him to find peace in the Goddess's arms. That's all I can do. Only She can help him now." She clutched her teacup with both hands, as if she needed the comforting warmth.

The Archbishop nodded in sympathy. "Your kind heart is weeping for him. If the burden ever grows too heavy, though, remember that his own choices led him down this sad path. He was the one who thought to take up a holy Relic despite knowing himself to be unworthy."

Mercedes quirked her head. "His transformation was a consequence of taking the Relic?"

"Put simply, yes. The Hero's Relics are holy treasures gifted to men by the Goddess, for the defense of Fódlan. Miklan defiled that gift with his greed and spite. The monstrous form he took was only an external reflection of the sin that lay within. An appropriate punishment."

"How…vengeful. Would you say the Goddess is a vengeful being, your Grace?"

Rhea kept her face still, but internally, she was mildly impressed. It was rare that one of her flock had the courage to challenge her theology to her face. "Not at all," she replied smoothly, taking a sip of tea. "The Goddess's forgiveness is infinite. All sins are washed away…in death. In life, however, they have consequences."

"There was a voice. I swear by the Goddess and all her saints it was there," said Sylvain. "There was something…some kind of being behind this."

"Oh, dear child," the Archbishop breathed, "the sights you've seen are tormenting you so."

"I'm not tormented," he retorted, "I only – I'm taking this very seriously, your Grace. I want to find out why that happened to him." She saw him reach beneath his shirt, fingering some kind of amulet of carved white stone.

"You do not need to worry about such a thing happening to you, dear child. Although I recognize that my words alone may not be enough to soothe you. Have you been having nightmares, dear? Some of your classmates mentioned something of the sort." Sylvain grimaced, but he did not contradict her. Rhea lifted up a delicate muslin sachet resting on its own plate by the teapot. "Here. I prepared some herbs for you. They are for brewing into tea."

Sylvain muttered an unenthusiastic thanks.

"And your professor has no doubt informed you already, but I must ask you to keep silent about the manner of your brother's death. The common folk must not be allowed to lose faith in the nobility and the Hero's Relics."

She saw the tension in him, working through his jaw and throat as he held back whatever he wanted to say. "As you wish, your Holiness."

He doubted her. Best not let this fester. Rhea put a hand on his shoulder and fixed on him her most beatific smile. "Rest, Sylvain. Focus on mending your heart. And if you have need of counsel in the coming days, ask for me and I will gladly make time for you."

"Four wings. Long legs and a long narrow tail, like a harrier," recounted Felix. "It gave off an arrogant impression."

"What exactly do you mean by that?" asked Rhea.

"You could tell it thought it was going to swoop in and win easily," said Felix, judgmentally, as though this dragon had nothing on other, more impressive dragons he had seen. Rhea dearly hoped not; her heart would not be able to take more than one of these at once. "It was taken off guard when the Black Beast fought back. If not for Dimitri and Maegelle, that battle could have gone either way."

"And did Dimitri seem as though he expected the dragon to arrive? Or Yuri?"

Felix shrugged. "I was preoccupied. I couldn't tell you what they were doing when it burst through the roof. Dimitri was more than ready to jump in and fight alongside it, though."

"Well, it had saved my life once before, so of course I was happy to see it again," Dimitri said.

"During the Miracle of Duscur, yes? I heard rumors at the time, but I did not know whether to credit them. Why don't you give me an account from your own lips?" Rhea poured herself another cup of tea. One spoon of sugar.

"If you wish. My father, stepmother, and I, along with a few courtiers and guards, were in Duscur to meet with an assembly of their leaders. It was a small party for a small occasion, merely to maintain good relations. And then while we were on the road, we were attacked by a small army of assassins." Here his demeanor darkened. "They were sent by the lords of Faerghus – men and women who resented my father for a great many petty, selfish reasons. Who thought that the death of the royal family was a good way to keep their property and their power. It did not end well for them, of course, but at the time, we were hard-pressed. They had bribed local guides to help them arrange a masterful ambush." He took a deep breath, and fixed on Rhea with a bright, firm gaze. "And then the Goddess reached down her hand to protect House Blaiddyd from treachery, by sending one of her children, the Great Ice Dragon!"

Rhea added another spoon of sugar to her tea. It covered up her flinch, the sudden acceleration of her heart. The Ice Dragon, she thought. Aubin had that Crest and that Crest Stone...did he actually succeed in his great work?

"To be honest," recalled Yuri, "when I saw the dragon swooping down I thought it was coming to kill us all. I jumped off the path to hide, ended up falling and getting lost and nearly freezing to death in Duscur's mountains." He chuckled dryly. "Not exactly living up to the knightly ideal, that, but my prince has never held a grudge over it."

"So you did not watch the Ice Dragon closely, then?" Rhea asked.

"I can tell you with confidence that it was the same creature both times," said Yuri. "It had the same call, for one. Such a musical sound, but strong enough to crack your bones and make you kneel." He had kept himself cold and professional throughout this interview. Now, for the first time, a wistful note crept into his voice. "I did watch it at Conand. I was too wounded to fight at my prince's side, but I saw enough. Something so grand and beautiful…restores one's faith in the works of the Goddess."

"I don't see what's so hard to believe about it," said Dimitri. "The Goddess sent the Immaculate One to shield Seiros in battle, yes? And the Leicester region has always given thanks to the Golden Deer for its auspicious protection. Tales say the Goddess created many sacred beasts as her children—"

"Do they?" asked Rhea. Not sharply, never sharply. Must not scare the little ones. "You appear to be drawing on something other than the doctrines of the Central Church here."

Dimitri flinched, embarrassed. "Oh – forgive me. I have always called myself a follower of the Central Church, but I suppose one cannot stop oneself from picking up on popular folklore. I make no claim to be a scholar, your Grace. Critique my arguments as you wish. But even with that in mind, I do not see how the appearance of such an astonishing creature, not once but twice, could be anything other than the Goddess's work. Does anyone else have the power to command a dragon?" he asked, blue eyes round and innocent as a doll's.

If Jeralt were here, he would be reaching for his flask at this point. Rhea reached for a cookie instead, and ate half of it without really tasting. She stared at Dimitri – was it really possible for this young man who had seen assassins and executions to be so lacking in cynicism?

She recalled Blaiddyd, his forebear. He, too, had had such a babyish doll-face, and a reputation for being kind. It didn't stop him from committing atrocities along with the rest…

Rhea gave a minute shake of her head, and bit off more of the cookie, forcing herself to focus on the taste, on the current moment. She was imagining things. This news had her off-balance, and thinking of the past always got her blood up. She shouldn't take it out on dear Dimitri, who showed every sign of being a good, dutiful child. "I hear you," she said. "However, your claim seems to imply that House Blaiddyd has some manner of special favor from the Goddess, and that is not something to be said lightly."

"Oh, I would never claim some kind of, ah, privilege due to what happened!" he reassured her. "Nor would I presume to rely on the Goddess's aid in the future. I know well that she arranges things as she wills, and that we have no more ability to move her than dry leaves may move the wind." His eyes softened – something living now, not the glass of a doll. "Your Grace, I feel grateful…and small. My life has been saved by powers out of my control. I would never presume to cage that bird."

Satisfied, Rhea took his hand over the table. "If you see it again, inform me. I would speak with the Goddess's messenger myself, if possible."

Dimitri's eyes widened, but he nodded. "We shall see how mysterious it wishes to be."

Archbishop Rhea's command, that the Blue Lions should keep silent about Miklan's transformation into a monster, failed broadly. It was impossible to find a single leak, a single example to punish – nearly everyone had some close confidant to inform. Maegelle told Claude (and through him, the Golden Deer), Mercedes told her friends in the clergy (and through them, all the monastery's staff), Professor Manuela told Professor Hanneman (and through him, an entire community of crest scholars).

Edelgard von Hresvelg was another one who found out early. Very soon after her step-brother finished telling her about the horrors of his mission to Conand Tower, she appeared before his class, stiffly holding her textbooks as the professor announced, "Edelgard will be joining the Blue Lions permanently…You all know her already, no doubt, so there's no need for introductions. Do your best to make her feel welcome."

"But she's a member of the Imperial Family. Is it okay for her to leave the Black Eagles?" wondered Ashe. "It's not…treason, is it?"

"People are allowed to transfer classes, for any number of reasons," Edelgard said, setting down her books at a seat right next to Dimitri. "If I were higher in the line of succession, perhaps this would be politically unwise. But it happens that no one much cares what the ninth princess does. And my brother needs someone to watch over him."

"You seem to be overlooking me," said Yuri sardonically.

"And me, Felix, and Sylvain," sniffed Ingrid.

"And the Great Ice Dragon," added Dimitri, looking mildly embarrassed. "Are you sure you're not also doing this to escape an overbearing House Leader, Edelgard?"

Edelgard's only answer to that was a glare.

"I do not know why she thinks she can get away with this. It is as if she thinks she may doff her status as a Hresvelg whenever it inconveniences her," complained Ferdinand. It was the hour of his weekly tea with Lorenz, and the normally-cheery Adrestian was in a foul mood. "No, not the Leicester Cortania, Lorenz – I am simply far too agitated to appreciate complex flavors today. You would only be wasting it."

"I see. Perhaps a blend suited to relaxation, then. Or – bold flavors? I have this infusion of southern fruits, quite tart…" Ferdinand signaled his approval, and Lorenz began spooning the dry tea into the pot. "Edelgard often causes you trouble, it seems."

The House Leader of the Black Eagles was happy to rant. "One would not think so to look at her. That is, she is assiduous in her studies, and she acts as something of a mentor to the other girls. I will admit that she is much better than I at handling Bernadetta's episodes. She could be a credit to the Black Eagles! In fact, I would say she is, if not for the fact that we fight so much!" He swept out a hand. "I cannot offer the most minor of criticism without her taking it as a personal attack! I cannot ask her questions without being told to keep to my own business! She is not this cold to everyone, Lorenz. I am forced to draw the conclusion that she dislikes me, though by Seiros I cannot decipher the reason."

Lorenz pondered as he poured the tea. The scent of cherries and blackberries floated up, bright and aggressive. "If that is so…I think you must do your best to uncover the reason for her antipathy, and resolve it. She will not listen to any of your appeals while this mysterious impasse remains." He winked. "Then you may try to lure her back to the Black Eagles."

"A reasonable plan," Ferdinand said, inhaling the fragrant steam. "Oh, a wonderful choice as always, Lorenz…"

"Could it be Hubert von Vestra, her retainer? I know you also quarrel with him."

"What, that he is poisoning her against me? Possible," said Ferdinand. "I would certainly call him a bad influence. The Vestras are generally dour – it comes of being the Empire's spymasters – but Hubert must have been steeped in a pit of darkness and snake venom from birth. He has no interest in polite, non-murderous society. It baffles me that the Goddess gave a face so pretty to a man with a heart so black. I could fall in love with him over tea, but he does not even drink tea, Lorenz."

Lorenz hid a bit of discomfort behind a sip of his tea. There was some truth to the idea that southerners were licentious – even the most well-bred and decorous, like Ferdinand von Aegir. When Lorenz felt attraction to men, he crushed the feeling ruthlessly, as a dutiful nobleman ought. He certainly didn't talk about it. "Goddess, what does he drink, then? Blood?"

Ferdinand leaned in close. "Coffee."

Lorenz shivered. "The Dagdan stuff? I remember trying it once on a lark, but the flavor was altogether unpleasant."

"Well, he spends lavish sums on it, so one must assume it brings real joy to his shriveled little heart – as much as the screams of his enemies, perhaps…But it really is uncharitable of me to mock a fellow student so. What were we talking about? Edelgard transferring classes, right. I hope she keeps up her studies, at least. I doubt standards are as high in the Blue Lions."

"Rumors suggest Professor Manuela is the most lax with her students," Lorenz agreed. "But she is the best teacher of white magic and medicine."

Ferdinand shook his head. "On the battlefield, Edelgard specializes in the axe, in heavy armor, and in offensive magic. She has already been seeking tutors from among the knights, but among the Blue Lions her chosen specialties are even more esoteric. I worry about the amount of work it will take."

"Well, Prince Dimitri seems quite disciplined," offered Lorenz.

"True. Ah, imagine if she had transferred into your class instead? I wonder how your class leader would have dealt, or not, with her," he laughed.

Lorenz chuckled politely. But he said nothing. Eager as he normally was to criticize Claude, recent events had left an uncomfortable residue of respect for the annoying Almyran…

Claude leaned out the window, scanning the horizon with the power of his Crest. "I see Acheron. Saints, he spends too much time on his hair. Why is he all done up like that on the battlefield? I could forgive him if it looked good, but…" Ignatz, the other archer present, gave a meaningful glance at Lorenz. Admiring him as a counterexample, no doubt.

This little watchtower, poking up beside a wooden bridge that spanned one of the innumerable rivers irrigating southern Leicester, was where the Golden Deer had chosen to make their stand today. It was barely a fort, and geography was only barely on their side, but to be fair this was only barely a battle. If it had been anything more, Gloucester troops would be handling it.

As it happened, though, the news that Baron Acheron was relitigating an old border dispute at the point of a sword was not cause enough for Leopold Gloucester to stir from his business in the capital, only meriting a curt letter ordering his son Lorenz to deal with it. Perhaps his father meant for him to write letters or agitate in court, but Professor Byleth was surprisingly receptive to the idea of a sudden class trip. Citizens under his family's protection were in danger, after all. He would do well to nip this affair in the bud.

"We can end this quickly by taking Acheron captive and forcing his surrender," Lorenz said. "He should be our primary objective. What do his guards look like?"

"Some knights and a healer. Basic – he's not expecting much danger at all. Sent most of his forces out, looks like. And he's coming our way." Claude pulled his head back in, rubbing at closed eyes. "I also saw several sources of smoke."

Ignatz paused in stringing his bow. "From someone's campfires?"

Lorenz clenched his teeth. "From someone's fields, more likely. Acheron does not have the men to conquer and hold this land. He is trying to harass my father into letting it go. By raiding like a common bandit."

On the other side of the room, Claude chuckled darkly. Then he muttered something in Almyran.

Lorenz looked around, but Hilda wasn't here – gone with the professor to scout – and she was the only one of them who knew a word of the language. "What are you saying?" he grumbled.

"Oh, just an Almyran proverb. 'The man with no beard laughed at the man with the thin beard.' I believe the Fódlani equivalent would be… 'Pot, meet kettle?'"

"What exactly are you accusing my father of, Claude?" Lorenz said icily.

"You misunderstand me. I wasn't comparing Acheron to your father. At any rate, they're crossing the bridge now. We ought to give the signal. Lorenz?"

Silently, Lorenz stepped forward. The sigil took form over his open palm – not Fire, but a Sagitta, a smokeless burst of force and heat and, when modified, very very bright light.

To Baron Acheron and his men, the green flash overhead was the first sign that someone else was here. Raphael's loud war-cry was the second. Golden Deer emerged from behind the hedgerows, to the shock of the raiders. As expected, Acheron ordered his knights forward, to trample down what he no-doubt assumed was a hastily-assembled local militia. The students stood their ground, Byleth Eisner the keystone at their center. Arrows fell from the tower, peppering the armored knights.

Acheron, Lorenz knew, was a coward. After a few minutes he looked back. Seeing no enemies on the other side of the bridge (it would have been a good idea, but they didn't have the numbers), he wheeled his horse around and began to retreat.

So Lorenz set the bridge on fire.

It was not easy. Wood could be stubborn about deciding to catch fire. And the bridge that had seemed so humble before now seemed to contain so much of it. Lorenz summoned up sheets of flame to paint the sturdy construction. Char, crack, combust, damn you! He flared his Crest, the sign of the Craftsman filling his spells with more power, red to orange to yellow-hot. Scorching tongues to excoriate and destroy.

Acheron skittered backward long before he was done, reapplying himself to the battle. It was not going well for him. His tiny guard was simply too unprepared for this ambush.

Lorenz could not help but smile; a large part of the battle plan had been his own. "I should go down there now to accept his surrender."

"Wait," Claude said. "I can kill him now."

"What? That's not what we planned, you—"

Claude interrupted, explaining quickly. "I know it looks bad for you to kill another noble over a land dispute this small, but things happen in battle. Everyone accepts that. I can use my Crest again. Straight through the eye, instantly dead, his pocket healer can't help. Otherwise he'll come back to trouble you again, you know."

Ignatz, meekly horrified, pressed himself against the wall and shook his head.

Lorenz exhaled through his teeth. "I know he will. He is grasping and arrogant. I fully expect to put an end to him one day – after he has given my House a provocation worthy of the punishment."

Claude was cold. "How many of your people does he have to kill before he merits that punishment? You speak so often of a noble's duty to protect the commoners, and yet you're willing to let such a dangerous man go free?"

His words stuck and twisted painfully inside Lorenz, demanding an answer. "This is a case of…conflicting imperatives. It is simply against the mores of the Leicester Alliance to kill a peer for a slight of this level. Such codes are important. They keep us from escalating every conflict to open war. Breaking them will lose me the trust of others, and I cannot afford that."

"And if no one knows you were responsible?" Green eyes studied him, horribly calm. "I've given you a way forward, Lorenz. I'm interested to see what you choose. Quickly, now – once the battle calms down we won't have any excuse."

"I'm not letting you manipulate me into breaking my principles!" Lorenz snarled.

"It seems to me that your principles weigh the lives and property of nobles over those of the people on which they prey."

"W-wait! Wait!" yelped Ignatz, crouching by one of the arrow slits. "The baron already surrendered. The professor is taking his weapons and tying him up. Please stop fighting, you two!"

Claude sighed. So did Lorenz. He thought it was a sigh of relief, for he wasn't so sure how much longer Claude's patience would have held out…or his own resolve. He was also, perhaps, just the tiniest bit disappointed. Imagine Acheron falling to a nice, blameless axe-blow in the confusion of battle…he shook his head. "You will need to control yourself around our prisoner. I would not have anything happen thanks to your self-indulgent bloodthirst," he told Claude.

Ignatz quietly gathered up his things and left, trying to be invisible.

"If I were really interested in being self-indulgent here, I would spend some time mocking him to his worthless face," Claude said, a bitter edge to his smile as he poked his head out the window to see for himself. "Might be cathartic."

Some kind of self-recrimination was still lodged uncomfortably in his gut, so Lorenz stepped forward to join him. "Claude, I must apologize. For misjudging you."

His classmate's eyebrows were as high as they could go. "…I'm listening."

"I've been opposed to your presence here, and your status as Riegan's heir, because it was my conviction that someone with your background could not possibly have the knowledge or training to lead the Alliance. Sellswords are known for being brash, violent, unprincipled, and greedy, not to mention – well, everything said about the Almyrans – and I feared that you had inherited those disastrous qualities. But it seems I pre-judged you somewhat."

"At least you're admitting it," Claude said tiredly, dropping his gaze back to the window. Not looking at Lorenz. Not looking at anything.

"You have talent, in the classroom and on the battlefield. You…can command people. And you…care. You understand your duty to the people of Leicester." Lorenz swallowed uncomfortably. "Mind you, this is not a surrender. I am doing my level best to surpass you in all respects, so do not presume that you will be the next Sovereign Duke. I still believe there are none better-suited to manage the future Alliance than I. It is simply that you have proven yourself to have the basic qualities required of a noble."

Claude gave a soft laugh, surprising him. Some of his normal cheer seemed to be returning. "If I prove myself further, will you support my ascension one day?"

"By all means," Lorenz said, crossing his arms. Claude turned to look, surprised. "If. If you can truly convince me that you would be better for the Alliance. Do not think it will be easy."

"Of course not," Claude grinned. "I know how titanic your self-regard is."

"It would take a truly exceptional man to make me kneel," Lorenz replied smugly. "Do you consider yourself up to the task?"

Claude's response, if he had one, was smothered under the House Leader's sudden fit of giggles. "Oh, wow, Lorenz," he choked out. "I'm flattered, but you're not quite my type, and anyway I thought you had a thing for Marianne?"

"What – you – argh! No, that is not what I meant and you know it!" Lorenz stammered, already blushing.

"Ahaha, thanks for that." Straightening up, Claude swept the landscape outside with one last glance, before turning aside and beginning to cross the room. "We shouldn't keep the others waiting…Oh, Lorenz? While we're being so uncommonly nice to each other, I have a request."

"What is it?" Lorenz asked, coming to join him.

"Acheron's actions were driven by greed, entitlement, and a lack of care for others, yes? Unfortunately, universal traits."

"Some blame must also be placed on your grandfather, Duke Riegan. His ill health and impotent leadership have emboldened such men, who do not fear breaking the peace as they ought."

Claude nodded. "Exactly. So we agree: when men with wealth and soldiers grow ambitious, and there is no higher authority to discourage them, violence breaks out and the people suffer."

"Yes? I am afraid I do not see what your request is."

"Just…whenever you might be tempted to disparage the 'savage Almyrans' for failing their people and letting their country collapse into warring fiefdoms, take a moment. Think of Acheron. And ask yourself if the land you love could ever share the same fate." A poisonous smile. "In other words, be careful about laughing at men with thin beards."

In his tower cell, Bishop Kirill Sidorov stirred uncomfortably on his cot. His leg was paining him. The rough conditions of his capture and confinement, plus the lack of the medicine he usually took…he should give thanks, he supposed, that he was not being held underground, with the rats and the damp.

Alas, kneeling to pray was too painful. They had even taken his staff from him, and without it he did not think he was in a state to stand.

He prayed lying down. To the Maiden-Saint, for mercy, even if it only came in the form of a quick death. He would have prayed to her father, for justice, but…he no longer had hope that he would escape being executed for a crime he did not commit.

The Goddess saw all, and passed her own judgment. He had to content himself with that.

When footsteps came tapping along the stone, he stayed down, eyes closed, too tired to look. It was a while before his visitor spoke, so long he though he had imagined them, but: "Your Grace? Bishop Sidorov?" It was the voice of a young woman. Tentative, polite. Not one of the knights.

The mystery was enough to drag him to a sitting position. He saw a girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen or a little older. Her lacy, puffy-sleeved, bow-festooned dress did not help him guess her age; he suspected it was making her look younger than she really was. Masses of sea-green hair lay over her shoulders; the same color as her wide, curious eyes. "My name is Flayn. Are willing to see a visitor?"

"Are you seeking something, child?" he asked. No matter how tired he felt, he was still a priest. He still had a duty to give succor to those who asked for it.

"I suppose I come seeking understanding." She was well-spoken, this Flayn. "After hearing of the events on the day of the Rite of Rebirth, I was baffled. What drove members of the Church to attack the Archbishop? Are the minor branches really so different? And even if they are, what is the source of this hatred?"

Kirill Sidorov sighed heavily. "I was not the one who ordered that attack, nor did I try to assassinate Prince Dimitri. This I have maintained, and will maintain, to my very grave." Flayn continued listening, expectantly. "…But I can tell you what some of the conspirators told me after the fact. They had received evidence to the effect that King Lambert and Archbishop Rhea were cooperating on a plan to curtail our independence, bring our practices back in line with Central doctrine, and revoke our right to bear arms. They also had records that indicated the Archbishop has been serving in her position for over fifty years. Without aging." He chuckled dryly at Flayn's expression of surprise. "A bit ominous, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh! Well, that is – um, I agree, your Grace," Flayn stammered, knitting her hands. "I – hm. I have also heard that you possess a Minor Crest of Cethleann. Is that true?"

He noted the sudden change of topic, but did not press her. Instead, he carefully swung his legs over the side of the cot and held out his hand, calling on the light in his blood. The Clasped Hands of Cethleann shone silver, even as he winced from the pull on his stiff muscles. Letting the Crest extinguish, he moved a hand down to massage the painful knots in his thigh.

Flayn's face had been alive with wonder, but that quickly turned to concern. "Are you injured? You have not healed yourself?"

"There's a story behind that," he muttered. "I am not from a noble house, Flayn." Whereas she obviously was, from her clothes and refined speech. "I was not tested for a Crest at birth. Though the flyaway seed of a noble must have entered my ancestry at some point, my father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather were all farmers on the Plains of Itha. Have you ever seen a Faerghan winter?"

She hesitated, before shaking her head no.

His fingers continued working the muscle as he talked. Each stroke was painful, but at least this was good pain. Pain he could control. Pain he could live through. "On a bad year, the drifts build up taller than men. And my fourteenth winter was a bad one. During a lull in a storm that had lasted for a day and a night already, I dashed out from our house to a shed to get more firewood. The wind had stopped howling, but only to give the snow time to settle. Under that weight, the shed collapsed while I was inside." Her eyes traced his crooked limb, understanding even before he said, "My leg was broken in several pieces. If not for my suddenly-arising gift from the Goddess, I would have lost it. I would have probably died." There was no heat in his voice, no fear.

"Cethleann's Crest gave you powerful healing magic. But you did not know how to set it properly," she fretted. "You could only work on instinct, and it healed wrong. Is it painful?"

"Yes," he admitted. Glad that someone was asking. "Often. Especially here – I have not been able to take proper care of it."

Flayn crossed her arms. "Well, using healing magic to suppress pain is quite simple. It is not recommended over the long term, but in acute cases..."

"You are right," he replied. "It is quite simple. Enough that an untrained peasant could figure it out, before he ever had anyone to explain to him why it is a bad idea." He winced. Flayn winced too. "I am largely immune to white magic at this point – and other kinds, I suppose. The resistance I built up is such that no one can heal my leg, or any other injury I may take." His position was growing uncomfortable. Gingerly, he levered his lame leg up onto the cot – muscles quietly screaming as they stretched into new positions – and sat cross-legged. "A harsh lesson. All lessons worth learning are. At least I can still use my gifts to aid others, and there are herbs I can take when the pain grows too much. Or I could, before fate took me to this cell." He fought the urge to sigh again. He should be trying to find peace, not moping.

It was probably Flayn's presence. Complaining was so much more attractive when one had a sympathetic ear. Had anyone ever looked so outraged on his behalf before? Her tiny hands were balled into fists. "Your Grace! Please let me try!"

His white-blond eyebrows raised. "Oh? Flayn, some things are beyond even the most skilled healers. They are fate, the will of the Goddess. There is very little we can interfere with in her grand creation."

"Do not be ridiculous! The Goddess is not willing you to suffer right now! She would never want such a thing. And because I might have the power to help, it's my duty to." Green eyes flashing, she reached out a hand through the iron bars. To his complete surprise, a Crest formed in the air – the same as his own. "Take my hand!" she commanded.

Feeling some greater will at work, he obeyed. The spell she traced was masterful, textbook-perfect, and fueled by so much power that it spilled from beneath her skin to set it aglow. Will-o-wisps danced, and lanterns were drowned out by the pure, colorless light – and all that was only the spillover, the spray of the wave. Pure light coursed from her palm to his, soaking every tissue of his body. Scratches, bruises, the welts left by a week of riding tied up all melted away like sandcastles in the ocean. Tension that he didn't even know he was holding in disappeared. And his left leg…

It felt whole again. It felt fine, as it had not since he was a boy who did not know the value of his own health.

He slipped off the cot, and was able to approach Flayn without a limp. She did not look as good, however. As soon as he got up, she ended the spell, gasping like a fish. Hands on her knees, she moaned a little. "Ooh, that was…how did no one stop you before it to this point? I've never seen such dense magical resistance in my entire life! If someone threw a Javelin of Light at you, you might very well survive!"

"And yet you forced your way through," he murmured, too shocked to wonder what a Javelin of Light was.

"Such are the blessings of Saint Cethleann," she said shakily. "The pain will probably be back in a few hours. I am sorry I could not do more."

Reaching through the bars, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do not be. You did your utmost. The Goddess does not ask for more." He smiled as he said, "I do believe the Maiden-Saint herself arranged our meeting, after I asked her for succor."

Flayn gave a tired smile. "Certainly. Your Grace, you do not strike me as a wicked man."

"I have always striven not to be one of those." Saint of the moon, was he making jokes now?

"Good! Furthermore, it seems to me that your imprisonment here is a terrible injustice. You have my word that I will do all I can to see you released!" She nodded to herself, proudly.

"Oh, Flayn. Do not put yourself in danger on my account."

"I have nothing to fear from the authorities of the Central Church!" she proclaimed. "My elder brother Seteth is the Archbishop's personal assistant."

Brow furrowed, he only said, "I see."

"Are you not pleased at this news? Do you not wish to escape whatever dreadful fate they are planning for you?"

"Of course I do not look forward to dying," he said. "There is much I still wish to do, and I worry about how the Western Church will fare when I am gone. Who will protect my people, and advocate for them before the king? How are the king and the Archbishop planning to retaliate against us for our provocations?" He swallowed painfully. It was hard to think of what he was leaving behind – an ache that white magic could not banish. "But you spoke of fate. Do you know what fate is? We all have one, and it is to die. Young or old, swift or slow, every man has an appointed hour. To flee it is futile. I have been thinking…mine is coming soon. I have been making my peace with the Goddess. Do not give me false hope, Flayn. By easing my last days, you have already given me a precious gift."

Flayn pondered his words, but she never got to reply. Three new sets of footsteps approached the cell.

The lightest set belonged to a slim young man – the palest Kirill had ever seen. His hair was the color of ash and his skin was the color of eyeless things that squirmed under rocks. Over his sleek black bodysuit he wore a belt of knives, neatly ordered by size.

The middle set belonged to a strange figure in white. Armored, below their belted tunic and wide trousers and heeled boots – riding boots, he realized. Their mask was white, marked in black with a theatrical jester's grin.

And the heaviest set…Kirill knew instantly who this was, though they had never met before. The courier for the mysterious organization that had led his people into disaster. The bearer both of the evidence against the Central Church and the method for unlocking Seiros's tomb. A slayer of men and a harbinger of conspiracies. The Death Knight.

"Huh," said the one in white, with a voice that was echoey and distorted. Kirill struggled to decipher the owner's gender. "The Bishop has a visitor. We should have asked the guards about that before we killed them."

Flayn cringed, trying to press herself into the bars, closer to Kirill. Then the Death Knight said wonderingly, "Is that a Nabatean?" and she squeaked with panic.

Faster that he thought humans could move without Crests, the pale man was upon her, forcing her to the ground and keeping one knee on her back. Her green hair covered the floor like the bloom of a sea anemone. "I told you we had a few hanging around Garreg Mach – but light burn me, this has just gotten awkward."

"Who are you?" snarled Kirill.

"You may have heard of the Death Knight already," said the one in white, gesturing to her. "This here is Anaximander, who is far too boring to come up with a masked alter ego, and I am—"

"I spend every day in cover," spat the pale man, Anaximander. "It's perfectly secure for me to do this under my own face and name. And much less ridiculous than whatever you clowns are doing."

"Killjoy. We're here to rescue you, by the way," the one in white informed Sidorov. "Sorry about the, ah – Anax, Anax, are you seriously going to kill her right in front of him?"

Anaximander paused, knife drawn, glaring at his compatriot with a look that said, 'Don't you tell me what to do.'

"She doesn't seem worth killing," complained the Death Knight. "This is a Nabatean? Really? She's so tiny!"

"Listen to me," the one in white sighed, Kirill silently rooting for them. "If Seteth finds her body or her blood, there will be hell to pay. He will search every corner of the monastery to find her killers. We do not want that attention. In the grand scheme of things, she hasn't seen that much, so our best bet might actually be to hold her for a short time and then—"

The Death Knight interrupted. "Aha! We can give her to Solon! He'll be thrilled!"

"Good idea," said Anaximander. He looked up at Kirill, eyes glittering with disdain. "I don't want to leave either of these two…people…unattended. Can you handle the priest while I – no, we ought to have two people watching the Nabatean."

"You know how to use the teleportation beacon, right?" asked the Death Knight as she handed something tiny to the one in white. "Just get him to the rendezvous point like we planned!"

The two mysterious 'rescuers' dashed out of sight, carrying a struggling, terrified girl. Kirill took a second to compose himself while the last one fiddled with the lock on his cell. Several seconds. What in Sothis's name was happening?

"Your organization," the bishop finally said, "has a habit of 'helping' in ways that carry a heavy price." He glared coldly at the masked figure. The door swung open, but he made no move to step out. "What are they planning for her?"

"It's not pleasant," admitted the masked figure. "But I will get her out of there, you have my word."

"How convincing."

A drawn-out sigh. "I must ask you to trust me. Surely you of all people know what it's like to disagree with the actions of your associates, and be judged by them anyway." They held out a hand.

Kirill did not move.

"I'll be straight with you, Sidorov – as straight as I can be. We want chaos in Faerghus. We want chaos in the Church. The Western Church is already radicalized. Those military holy orders you built up – don't tell me you never planned to use those, it would be a transparent lie – are already seeing battle against the Knights of Seiros. There are stirrings of revolt among the peasantry as they see their spiritual leaders fleeing for their lives.

"Not even you could calm things down at this point – not that you were very successful at keeping things calm in the first place. Do try to keep a better leash on your followers, Sidorov. But I digress. A choice lies before you: Turn your back on me, and let Rhea execute you. Let your splintering congregation fight and be crushed under the boots of those in power while they continue to mouth words about the Goddess's love and mercy. Let yourself become a historical footnote, easily overlooked, in the story of Fódlan's eternal stagnation.

"Or you could let me deliver you to a place where several of your loyal subordinates are already waiting, eager to have their leader back. Take hold of the Western Church, marshal the faithful of Faerghus to your banner, and show King Lambert just how hard it is to wage war against your own country. We are sowing chaos, Sidorov. Nothing is stopping you from using that chaos to carve out a better place for you and yours. Unless I miss my guess, you are not a man who approves of the status quo as it stands. So why would you die for it?"

I told Flayn not to give me false hope, thought the holy man, and then this one appears. Such a strange mix of cruelty and kindness. It must be the Goddess's hand.

"When I was younger, I sought to understand why the Goddess had given me this Crest," he told them. "I came to the conclusion that I was meant to rise to the halls of high power and advocate for my people there. I have never been a man who sought war. But if that is the only path that remains to me…I will not abandon my mission." He clasped the white-gauntleted hand, and their surroundings faded behind a curtain of magic.

Vocalist · Aug 27, 2022

"Do all of you know who Flayn is?" Byleth asked as the bells rang out the beginning of class.

"Seteth's younger sister? Yeah, she hangs around here," said Leonie. "She pays me for what I catch from the fish pond sometimes. A really good price…" She shook her head. "I'm not complaining, but she should learn to catch her own if she likes fish that much."

Byleth could see Lorenz tensing as he restrained himself from making a snobbish comment. She and Sothis were silently proud of him. "Well, she's gone missing," she continued matter-of-factly. "All the students and available knights are being recruited to help search for her."

"Oh dear," said several Golden Deer at once.

"Wait, all of us? For one girl?" Hapi asked. "Excessive…"

"Seteth is going mad with worry," their professor explained. "And as the Archbishop's highest aide, he has the authority to order whatever response he wants. Rhea could countermand him, I suppose. But she loves Flayn like a niece, so…" she shrugged. "For this morning's lecture, let me tell you about the time I was hired to find a playwright's missing husband. This was in Enbarr, the capital of the Adrestian Empire, so there were many places he could have gone…"

As students gathered in the dining hall for lunch, there was only one topic anyone could talk about: Flayn. "Have you guys found any leads?" "I can't forgive anyone who would hurt such a sweet little girl." "What if she comes back on her own?"

"Fate sure seems determined to make this year interesting, doesn't she?" mused Claude, standing in line for rabbit skewers. He could always be counted on to show up when the dining halls had fresh game.

"What do you mean?" asked Byleth, standing next to him. She was equally fond of all the kitchens' delights. Living on dry crackers and salt pork for weeks at a time taught one the true value of cookery. Not that she hated salt pork, but as long as she was living in this luxurious realm where chefs cooked for her every day, she would be filling her plate with gusto. And with – today – skewers of rabbit and white onion crusted with spices.

Claude filled his own plate as he explained. "Well, before Flayn's disappearance, we've had schismatics invading a holy ceremony, inter-faith civil war that's probably only going to keep escalating now that Sidorov has escaped, your fancy new sword – can't forget that! – an attempt to kill the prince of Faerghus, battles against some exceptional monsters…and did we ever figure out who hired that gang to attack us at the beginning?"

Byleth let out a displeased grunt. "No. We did not."

Giving her a concerned look, Claude said, "Well…I know this may not sound like me, but I don't think we should be worrying too much about that one. It really was a bad assassination attempt, and we have much bigger fish to fry. Like Flayn! Or actually, in her case, to rescue from the frying pan. Mmm, fish…I'm hungry. Eat with us, Teach?"

She agreed, and let Claude lead her to an already-crowded table, with most of the Golden Deer and a smattering of Blue Lions and Black Eagles. They were discussing the disappearance, of course.

"A real problem here is that Flayn was already under heavy supervision," Ingrid was explaining. "She wasn't allowed to leave the monastery unaccompanied."

"But I've seen her go just about wherever she wanted in the monastery. Even the knights' barracks," said Leonie. "No one really wants to tell Seteth's little sister 'no.'"

"There are two possibilities we should be considering here," said Hubert, of the Black Eagles. One of the older and taller students, he loomed over everyone else like a rather grim tree. "First, that she has run away for reasons of her own, in which case she is either still within the monastery or has found an exit we don't know about. Second, that she has been kidnapped, in which case someone on the monastery staff must have been involved."

"Ooh, I had that same idea about this being an inside job!" In contrast to Hubert, Annette was tiny, fire-haired, and usually vibrating with enthusiasm. "I've already interviewed some of the staff about suspicious activity." She pulled out a wax diptych and slid it open, splattering it with a bit of the gravy from her lunch. "Oops! Anyway, a lot of people fingered Cyril, because he's out at night a lot, and, uh, well," she looked guiltily at Claude, "Almyrans don't actually burn people as sacrifices to their gods, do they?"

Claude paused, a skewer halfway to his mouth. "Spilling blood on a sacred fire usually means the whole thing has to be extinguished and re-consecrated, so...no."

"Yeah, I thought that was a little far-fetched." Annette giggled nervously. Claude went back to eating, pretending that it hadn't bothered him. "People also suggested Professor Hanneman, Balthus, Shamir, Yuri, and you, Hubert."

The Black Eagle pressed his fingers to his brow and sighed. "Are any of these suspicions backed up by anything more than personal dislike?"

"Uh…some of them…"

"I can see how Balthus could theoretically be involved," Claude jumped in, "he's got a criminal past and he always needs money. Anyone who actually knows him knows he wouldn't hurt a kid, but I would still feel better if he had a solid alibi. Why don't you keep interviewing people, Annette? Establish everyone's whereabouts on the night of interest."

"I think we should also establish Flayn's whereabouts on the night of interest," added Byleth.

"If we figure out where she was in the monastery, that would help the search a lot," said Ignatz. "This place is so big. It has a lot of unused rooms, and even underground tunnels. I've been down there a little, but – it was honestly kind of scary."

"There is also the forest," said Petra, a Black Eagle from Brigid whose skill with a blade far outstripped her fluency in Fódlani. "I was in there some times. One could hide there. There are not many…big animals. Unless the wyvern, but it is shy."

"Careful Petra, that forest is off limits to students," replied Claude. "I mean, I've been in there too, but – you said you found a wyvern?" he said with some consternation. "I've never seen a wyvern there."

Petra nodded. "Yes! It is white! I was not knowing there are wyverns of that color!"

A few other students chimed in their agreement. Byleth pondered – had she heard a story about white wyverns once? The phrase sounded familiar somehow.

"Those are so rare," Claude sighed. "Now I have to see it."

Petra held up some of her meat. "I can show you after the meal. It is willing to emerge for food."

"Probably not a wild one, then. Does it have its adult antlers yet, or—"

Hubert interrupted. "Unless you think the wyvern kidnapped Flayn, I believe this conversation should be saved for another time."

"I believe we should consider the possible motives at play," proposed Maegelle. "Flayn is related to a powerful man, so one's first thought is that she is being held for ransom, or perhaps to obtain some concessions from the Church. The problem with this idea is that we have yet to recieve any demands from the kidnappers."

"There's another possible motive," said Annette. "She has a Major Crest, and you all know how rare those are."

"Ah, no," said Petra. "How rare are those?"

From the end of the table, so quiet that no one had yet noticed him, Linhardt von Hevring raised up his mossy head. "According to Hanneman, she's the only person alive with a Major Crest of Cethleann, and he's been wanting to study her for ages. Which, I presume, is the motive Annette was talking about?"

"Yep!"

He denied her flatly: "Not likely. He has his hands full with the data from Professor Byleth. Plus, he does have access to other people with the Crest of Cethleann. Like me." With that, Linhardt lowered his head again and appeared to be fast asleep within seconds. How rare, to find a human even better at sleeping than Sothis.

In fact, she was sleeping now, so Byleth was spared any punishment for that thought.

"What about Flayn's motives?" asked Maegelle. "It's still possible that she did this of her own free will. Those of you that know her better than me: what do you think?"

"Her brother's overprotective," Sylvain said immediately. "Smothering, even. If she ran away because she was sick of him, I wouldn't be surprised."

Ignatz sighed. "Yeah. Seteth cornered me in a hallway once and interrogated me because he thought I was making 'inappropriate advances' on her. We were just talking. I really don't think I was doing anything wrong…"

"There's an idea," laughed Sylvain. "Maybe she eloped."

Ingrid reached over the table and slapped him.

"Ow! What was that for?"

The blonde girl's cheeks were a furious red. "This isn't a game! I won't let you joke about this while a girl might actually be in danger!"

He sputtered, "I was – I was making a real suggestion! If she found a beau that she knew Seteth wouldn't approve of, that's a good reason to run away!"

"She's too young for that!" Ingrid roared. "If she has been seduced by someone, then she still needs to be rescued!"

"Is she too young?" asked Hubert. "How old is Flayn?"

No one at the table could answer.

Flayn, it was determined, had disappeared sometime late at night, her room undisturbed. Even the most optimistic had to admit that she would have packed her bags if she were planning to be gone for this long. Assuming it was possible for stress alone to send a man to the grave, Seteth looked as though he were inching closer and closer every time Byleth saw him. A curfew was set for the students as Rhea worried that one of them might be next.

As above, so below; in a week, the worry of the higher-ups oozed down to coat Garreg Mach Monastery in a layer of suspicion and anxiety. Byleth started spending evenings huddled in her father's office with a mug of tea, alternately venting about the stress and reminiscing of freer times. Jeralt himself was suffering from being Rhea's new shoulder to cry on now that Seteth was unfit for the task. Although the Archbishop's way of relieving stress was not something you would guess to look at her…

"Just a sparring session, don't give me that look," he told Byleth, wincing as he sat down. "Oof, that woman packs a punch."

"Really? Rhea?" The Archbishop looked as though an oncoming weapon would melt rather than touch her perfect skin.

"Haha, yeah." He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms out over his chair, coaxing muscles that would hopefully not be too sore tomorrow. There were not many people she knew who could give her father such a hard time. Somehow this new information – that the serene, otherworldly Archbishop was dangerous in a way that you would never think of – cast Rhea in an ominous light. "I've been ignoring her invitations to tea, but I guess she figured out that I'd welcome a chance to punch her in the face. She won't be showing a single bruise tomorrow, but that's just because she's so good at white magic." His eyes narrowed a little. "More's the pity."

Byleth stared at him as he drank. Finally, prodded by Sothis, she asked: "Dad? Is there something complicated between you two?"

"…Well I didn't leave the knights for no reason." He sighed at distant memories and took another swig of whiskey. "You don't have to worry about it, kid. You were born after all of that."
He wasn't done, though; Byleth could tell. Feelings easily pushed aside during those long years of wandering were now clamoring to be heard, to be listened to. Bound half-willingly as a knight again, a servant of the Church, surrounded everywhere by Rhea's influence and watched by her gleaming eyes – it stirred up passions that that she still did not understand. And today they had been brought to flaming life in a fistfight, of all things. Byleth waited as he chewed on his words.

"She's a…When I met her…She's a good priestess, okay? She does good work and she has literally saved my life. I spent a lot of good years as her knight. She just…keeps a lot of fucking secrets, and goes 'Mmm, yes, fear not, this is all the Goddess's plan,' even when she's actually in a crisis and everything's going wrong. So when she tries to pull that routine on me…It doesn't work. I've seen her do it to other people too many times. You know what happened to Miklan Gautier? Not the first time, by far. Fuck, you should see what happens when something goes wrong with Thyrsus." He gave a genuine shudder. "Straight from the Goddess's own nightmares."

Byleth felt something cold run through her. "That's the Gloucester Relic. Lorenz said his father agreed to pass it to him after he proved himself against Acheron…"

"Uh, well. Shit. Look, he has a Crest of Gloucester, he'll be fine. Almost definitely. Rhea said what happened to his great-grandfather's uncle was just a fluke." Jeralt shifted uncomfortably under her demanding gaze. "I'm serious! People usually only turn into monsters if they don't have Crests, or if they have the wrong Crest for the Relic! If the whole thing starts glowing brighter than normal and he starts screaming and shit, get it away from him, but…well, I can only hope that will work."

Hmm. I do not wish to distract from an important topic, but frankly I think you need a distraction from this. While your father is so willing to talk about the past…

"How old are you, Dad?"

"What?" he said, taken aback by the sudden swerve. "Ah, don't worry about it, kid." His usual response.

"I talked to Ingrid. Aisamere von Galatea was born more than two hundred years ago." Byleth's voice was even, matter-of-fact.

Jeralt cursed under his breath. He rubbed his face – craggy and lined, worn by sun and scars, but it was the face of a man in his fifties. He said, finally, "When I tell people 'I don't remember', that's the truth. I stopped counting a while ago."

"Okay." She considered this. "…Are you my real father?"

"If I'm not, your poor dead mother sure did a lot of lying about how much she loved me!" There was something stormy in his eyes now; he emptied his glass and stood up. "Come on. It's late. We've talked enough for one night." Grabbing his cloak, he pulled it around him and stepped out, into a covered walkway open to the chill autumn night. It was the Horsebow Moon, when grain was reaped and animals were at their very fattest.

Byleth followed him, her own cloak in hand. "G'night, Dad."

He turned back, pausing in his walk; already several doors down, and almost swallowed by the shadows. "Good night, Byleth."

Standing in the illuminated doorway, she said, "I'll put out the candles."

"Oh, yeah. Thanks. Might as well save 'em."

Byleth went back inside. Is it not nice to find out something relevant to the mysteries of your own existence? Sothis asked, smugly. And all you needed do was ask! Why, if a relative of mine were here, I would be badgering them without cease.

Cleaning up was the work of mere minutes. The young woman stepped out to a silent monastery, what little nighttime activity there was all extinguished by curfew. She looked up at the glowing moon – a waxing crescent, like the Crest of Riegan – and began padding her way home by its paltry light.

She knew her way around the monastery well by now. So when she heard a splintering sound, she was able to easily identify it as originating in the training yard. To be fair, such sounds were not at all unusual in that place, where cheap targets and wooden weapons were broken and replaced all the time, but – it was late. There was a curfew.

The thought occurs to me that anyone skulking about right now might well be one of those who kidnapped Flayn, Sothis said, a little spooked.

Byleth's hand was halfway to her hip before she remembered she didn't have a sword on her. Huffing her displeasure, she snuck up to the great wooden doors, saw they had been unbarred, and attempted to subtly push one open with a foot.

The loud cre-e-e-e-a-k that followed was anything but subtle, and Byleth vowed to complain to the maintenance staff at the next opportunity.

"Who's there?" someone shrieked, sounding more on edge than Byleth and Sothis combined.

The professor pushed the door the rest of the way open. "It's Byleth," she said.

Down in the dust of the training yard, moonlight illuminated Hilda's snow-white hair. She was panting and sweaty despite the cool air. The pieces of a broken training axe were gathered in one arm, and the other held the splintered haft as if she had been preparing to defend herself with it. "…It's you. Is it really you?"

"When I heard a noise, I thought it was one of the kidnappers," Byleth said. She walked forward. "You really should be in bed, Hilda."

"No! Don't come closer!"

Beyond the doors, a covered stone walkway surrounded the yard proper. Byleth stopped at the edge of the flagstones.

"You need to prove that it's really you," the girl said. Still breathing hard, and not just from exertion. "Show me your Crest."

Moving as delicately as if she were trying to stalk a deer, Byleth raised a hand. Light swam out, in a moment inscribing the complex tapestry that was the Crest of Flames.

"Oh," Hilda said, drooping. "I guess…sorry." She slouched over to a bin in the corner and dumped the remains of her weapon. Meanwhile Byleth hopped down to join her. She looked up at her professor, not saying anything. She looked…scared.

"What's going on with you?" Byleth asked quietly.

She gave a sigh. "Couldn't sleep. It happens sometimes. If I make myself as tired as possible, it helps." Byleth gestured, and Hilda started following her back to the doors. To the dormitories. "I can't get it out of my head, what they're going to do to Flayn. Claude says—" she bit something back. "He says it will all be okay, but he can't be certain of that. We should never have let them take her."

"What are you afraid is going to happen?"

"Same thing that happened to me, maybe," she muttered darkly. Byleth looked over, but her expressions were so hard to read in this paltry moonlight.

"And what's that?...You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Hilda stayed silent, and Byleth thought that was the end of it. It was only after they had made their way past several doors and a flight of stairs to Hilda's room that Hilda, inviting Byleth in with a wordless tug on her cloak, locked the door behind them and spoke again.

"Where did you get that Crest, Professor?"

Byleth shrugged. "I was born with it. That makes it a gift of the Goddess, right?" The room was even darker than the training grounds had been, but a shaft of moonlight from the window still illuminated Byleth's face. She hoped that Hilda saw something to trust in it. "Why do you care, Hilda?"

Hilda raised a hand, tugging down her sleeve. In the emerging silver light Byleth saw scars: rough welts from ill-tended bondage and others that were slim, white, surgical. The latter followed the lines of her arm as perfectly as seams on a doll and continued out of Byleth's view. Soon enough, she was distracted, as it became clear what Crest Hilda was summoning.

It was not the Crest of Goneril. It was not the Crest all of Fódlan already knew she had.

Stars. Oh, stars. What could this mean? How awful.

"I care because you have the same Crest as me," Hilda said bitterly. "I guess you came by yours honestly, though."

Byleth could only stare. "What?"

Blood reconstruction, I suppose. With the right donor material and a way to suppress the immune response – But look how awfully she was treated!

"Crests don't just come from the hands of the Goddess," she explained. "If that's even true. They can also come from the hands of humans. Humans who don't deserve to be called that." She kept her voice low, even as she broke off, extinguishing the Crest of Flames and stuffing her arm back in her sleeve.

"What happened to you in Almyra?" the professor asked. Brow furrowed, voice grave.

"The first thing you need to know is that it wasn't the Almyrans," she burst out. "Everyone assumes it was them, and I can't stop them, I can barely stop people from saying racist shit about Claude and he's the heir of the Duke." She paused, breathing heavily. "There's this Almyran legend," she said. "About a city of sorcerers that got in a war with the god of the sun, and when they lost they had to go underground and never see the sun again. And they're still down there. And they come up at night to kidnap children because they need blood and shit for their horrible dark magic. A-and they're called the No-Eyed Men because living in the dark has made them blind – that's not really true, they're not blind, but a lot of them do have really fucked-up eyes…ah," she caught her breath again, holding on to coherency with a deathly-stubborn grip no matter how she clearly wanted to collapse into tears.

"So you were captured by the No-Eyed Men," Byleth prompted, hoping to take the burden of saying the words. "And then you escaped. With Claude?"

Hilda shook her head. She could barely squeeze the words out. "We didn't escape. They let us go. They're still…watching us. Watching you. Professor, you have to be careful. They can take a dead person and wear their skin. Do you understand? Anyone could be them. They can't do Crests, though. None of them have Crests." She grabbed Byleth's arm, horribly intent: "If you tell anyone what I told you, they'll find out. I'll kill you myself and it'll be better than whatever you can expect from them."

Byleth gave her a hug. It seemed like the thing to do.

Hilda whimpered. She did not push away.

"I will not tell anyone," Byleth said. "Don't worry about me, Hilda. I can protect myself." Sothis's powers made for a good defense against surprise attacks, after all. "I…I am sorry that happened to you and Claude."

"Thank you," she said, as grateful as if it were her first time hearing such a thing. Perhaps it was. "We…we…we've been trying to handle things on our own, but…maybe we do need help." Hilda disentangled herself from Byleth's clumsy embrace. She was breathing more calmly now. "So, now you know why I'm so worried about Flayn."

"You think the No-Eyed Men have her?" Hilda nodded.

Hmm. A faction from underground…perhaps we should be looking more closely at Garreg Mach's tunnel network…

Four days later, Ignatz presented the classroom with a map, lovingly inked and annotated. "We focused on exploring the areas where Leonie could tell that people had recently passed through – those are marked in red. As you can see, there are well-trafficked routes here and here, from the teachers' quarters to the abandoned chapel, and here to an exit that actually leads out into town. So we know someone has been entering and leaving the monastery undetected."

"And when we say teachers' quarters," Leonie added, "We mean specifically Instructor Balthus's room."

Ignatz laughed nervously. "Yeah, thank the Goddess he was out when we stumbled through his wall."

"But he has an alibi for the night Flayn disappeared," Claude pointed out immediately. "It's not a very tasteful alibi, sure, but unless you want to accuse Professor Manuela of lying for him—"

"That passage is being used regularly, Claude," Leonie shot right back. "Who else would have access to his room?"

"Professor Manuela, apparently," Maegelle coughed. "Forgive me, I couldn't resist. But some of the monastery staff do have keys."

Raphael spoke up. "Well, just because someone uses the secret tunnels doesn't mean they're part of the whole Flayn thing. Balthus could be using them for any reason, and he has an alibi, so I don't think we should be suspicious of him."

"Raphael is right," said Ignatz. "Moving on, the passage into Balthus's room isn't even the most important thing we discovered." He indicated a mostly-blank area of the map, outlined in green. The routes that led to it all cut off, as if the mappers had encountered some danger and decided to turn around. Which had been exactly what happened. "Someone's living and working here. There are lights, there are noises, there are marks of big loads being dragged around. Leonie and I don't think we were noticed, but…"

Leonie took over, jabbing at the map with a finger. "We have to investigate this, obviously. With more people. If they know we're coming, then they'll be preparing defenses. Which makes it important that we go as soon as possible."

When the Golden Deer arrived at the combat instructor's room, bristling with weapons and anticipation, they were put even more on edge to see a section of wall already open, and the room's owner sprawled nearby in a pool of his own blood.

"Balthus!" Hilda shrieked. Claude and Marianne ran to him immediately, propping him up against the wall and helping him shakily bandage his own wound.

"You still with us, friend?" Claude asked, receiving a weak grunt. "What happened here?"

"You told me someone might have been using the secret passage in my room," Balthus said blearily. "So I came back to check and this squirrelly little guy in black was here. Fucker stabbed me in the gut and ran right back into the tunnels." Considering how big the combat instructor was, 'little guy in black' was not a very helpful description.

"Can you describe him in any more detail?" Byleth asked, mindful to keep her out of the healer's way. A thought struck. "What were his eyes like?"

Balthus stared blankly. "I, uh, really didn't get a good look."

Marianne finished her healing spell. Resolved, she told Balthus, "You've lost a lot of blood, and gut wounds have complications so easily. You must go to the infirmary."

"I'll bring him," Claude immediately volunteered. "You guys can go ahead without me – they clearly know we're onto them now, so if we delay they might escape."

Byleth considered – did she really want to lose Claude at this juncture? He was her lieutenant, and could see in the dark better than any other student. But he was also an archer – not well-suited for tunnel fighting. And Balthus was clearly important to him. In the end she nodded, and the House Leader disappeared out the doorway with his stumbling friend, promising to come back with reinforcements.

The other doorway yawned wide, a once-hidden staircase that led down into the oldest layers of Garreg Mach. It would be so easy to slip on this steep, crumbling, unlit descent, down past reams of scraping, slimy masonry. So Byleth led her students with care, and did not give into the temptation for haste until they were on level ground again.

In addition to Maegelle's light spell, three Relics burned away the darkness with their holy glow: Freikugel, Hilda's sun-disk axe. Blutgang, Marianne's gracefully-curving sword. And the Sword of the Creator, once of King Nemesis but now grasped in Byleth's hand. Eyes wide and hearts thumping, the Golden Deer followed the directions of Ignatz and Leonie. They went though empty halls and abandoned chambers of esoteric purpose until their guides called a halt.

"This is as far as we ever got," Leonie said. "If you don't mind, I'd like to check that door for traps." She meant the tall portal of ancient, glistening wood, set deep within the crumbling stones.

Of course, traps. It's what I would do, if I were operating underneath an enemy base.

The door banged open, and Leonie leapt out of the way. Standing there, scythe already in hand, was the Death Knight.

Then again, if I had a Death Knight, I suppose I, too, would be tempted to forsake cleverness and throw her at all my problems.

"What are you doing here, Death Knight?" demanded Lorenz. He brandished his lance. "What do your masters want with Flayn, and the Church of Seiros?"

The Death Knight ignored him. That helm, featureless as the ocean at night, turned instead to Byleth. "You are called Byleth Eisner, the Ashen Demon, correct?"

Sword raised and ready, Byleth gave a small nod (ignoring the whisper of an unknown student, "they called her what?"). "Do you have a name, Death Knight?"

The woman gave a throaty chuckle. "Yes, but you have yet to earn it. Are you looking for the green-haired girl? She is right here. Take a look." The Death Knight stepped back, into the chamber.

The room was low-ceilinged, but long. Who knew what its original purpose had once been, when Garreg Mach was young? Now it was filled with metal tanks and half-dismantled equipment, crates welded shut or still half-empty, and tables only mostly clear of paraphernalia. This had been a laboratory, and men in anonymous black were still trying desperately to pack.

They were being directed by a stooped old man hung with jewelry, pale as the moon and Cethleann's tits he did have fucked-up eyes – milky irises floating in sclera black as ink. One of them bulged, unblinking, bracketed by black piercings, and at the moment both eyes were wide with fear and fury. He turned to the Death Knight and shouted something vehement at her from across the room.

I – I know this language! Ah, let's see, he's saying, "What are you doing you idiot?" and she's saying, "Stop being greedy and get out of here! I'm stalling them!"

The students, who couldn't hear this, were more interested in a flash of green on one of the tables. "That's Flayn!" yelled Raphael. He started to run to her, but the butt of the Death Knight's scythe whipped out – faster even than Byleth could track – to crack his head and send him groaning to the floor.

"I am still not interested in the flailings of children," the Death Knight informed them archly. Rolling Raphael's unconscious body to the side with an armored boot, she took up a place before Flayn's table – before nodding graciously to the twitching Marianne, who rushed forward to start tending to her friend. "The Ashen Demon, on the other hand, intrigues me. You who would claim to be Nemesis's successor – what are you? A mere beast? A true warrior? Or a calamity wrapped in flesh?"

"I have never claimed to be any of those things," Byleth replied. "I am a woman with a sword."

"Is that false modesty, or are you actually blind to the poetry of your existence?" the Death Knight snapped. Of all the things to get under her skin…Byleth really didn't get people, sometimes.

"I've given you my answer. Now give me the girl."

"You've given me little," the Death Knight scoffed. He scythe rose out of rest position, hovering almost weightless in her steady hand. "I would take the measure of you myself, through battle. Win or lose, you will have Flayn at the end – I give you my word as a knight." From the other end of the room came more outraged screaming from the old man. The woman sighed harshly. "Ignore him."

Byleth…this woman is very skilled. More than that, she is – she has – ugh, I cannot remember what she is! But her capabilities are beyond human. If you try to overwhelm her with your little ones, I do not think we can count on her to keep showing mercy. And if you fight her by yourself…

She didn't have to win, though. She just had to stay alive. "Deal." She gave the other No-Eyed Men one last look – some of the lower-ranked ones were sneaking towards them, badly. "Deer, deal with the others." The Sword of the Creator glowed like an iron fresh from the fire. It pulsed warmly in her hands. She wondered, briefly, if this was what a heartbeat felt like.

The Death Knight turned her head back to the old man, saying something careless. "Solon, use the damn teleporter before you get mobbed." Then she put words aside for her scythe, sweeping in high and fast. Too high, and not fast enough – Byleth foresaw a feint, and put her sword in the right place to catch the true blow. Black witchmetal ground against serrated bone; Byleth saw the sorcerous lightning crawling over the knight's blade and vowed never to let that thing touch her. The knight bled momentum against Byleth's bruising muscles and turned her scythe back the other way, bringing its reinforced butt up in an unexpected blow that Byleth barely dodged – and in an instant, the blade was coming back her way again. It tore through her arm and into her ribs. The violet lightning went even deeper. Byleth had only just started to scream when time stopped, extinguishing the sound.

I will be ready to catch you, Byleth.

Sothis put her back on her feet again. This time, Byleth parried the first sequence of blows. The Death Knight made an approving sound, and began to fight in earnest.

She was as strong as Jeralt flaring his Crest, and as fast. No, faster. She was still not at her utmost! One attack flowed smoothly into the next, always gaining speed, conserving her momentum, whirling her scythe in a flowering, perfectly-drilled mandala of death.

Byleth skidded back, trying to get some room. She couldn't ever get in an attack like this. Unfortunately, the Death Knight knew not to let up the pressure. Her powerful legs cracked the flagstones as she loped forward, blade slicing the air before her, searing electric-purple afterimages into the eye.

Then she pivoted. Momentum that could have bisected Byleth instead diverted an oncoming axe-blow. Weapons locked together, Hilda snarled, "I won't let you hurt her!"

Perhaps the Death Knight was surprised, beneath that helm. That would explain the momentary pause in her dance of death, during which nothing moved but the lightning crawling up Freikugel's spines.

To Byleth, it was a golden opportunity. Her hand flicked, and the Sword of the Creator rippled, extended; its segments going from tight-packed serrations to beads on a black cord. She found her footing, out of that scythe's reach, and brought her bladed whip to bear. A sharpened point dove forward like a striking viper seeking prey.

The Relic-whip was an eerie thing, driven as much by will as by any law of physics. It was still much harder to control than a simple length of sharpened metal. Control: the skill of knowing exactly how to move and what force to apply to achieve one's desired results. Unlike simple strength or speed or any attribute that could be granted by a Crest, it only came from long practice.

And the Death Knight knew her scythe much better than Byleth knew this damned whip-sword. She saw it coming, and with decisive precision twisted her scythe – blade caught in Freikugel's spines – to force Hilda to shuffle half a step to the side. The striking viper found flesh, and Byleth found herself spilling her student's own blood.

Hilda screamed, Byleth withdrew the whip as fast as she could, and the Death Knight broke their lock and kicked the girl in the stomach. "Awareness, little one!" Her gaze rose back to Byleth. "Brilliant weapon, though you do need a little more practice. Shall we have the children clear out so that you don't accidentally skewer any more?"

Where were the rest of the students? Byleth suddenly became aware of a clash at the other end of the hall – familiar voices and the black-violet glow of dark magic. She gritted her teeth. "Hilda, get out of the way."

The white-haired girl staggered to her feet, axe still held tightly. "No."

She looked unwilling to be convinced. Macuil's sword, if only Claude were here – but no time for what-ifs. "Fine!" Byleth snarled, unfurling the whip again and sending it forward with a recklessness that could only be justified by the power to reverse time.

A raised scythe tried to deflect it, but the Sword of the Creator snaked back anyway, and wrapped around the Knight's scythe-arm. Hilda marked where it was heading and dashed forward, dragging Freikugel. The Death Knight laughed, as if being ganged up on by Relic-wielders was a grand lark. Nevertheless, her entangled arm failed to parry and Hilda's blow fell ruinously on her chestplate. Cracks spread from the impact, leaking violet light.

"Ah! Well done!" Annoying woman. At least she sounded out of breath now.

The Death Knight dropped and rolled, jerking Byleth forward like a fish on a line. The sword's hilt slipped from her grasp – it was that or be pulled to the ground. Hilda's next blow missed entirely. She rose some distance away, a sigil in blue-black light following her fingertips. Because she was a mage too, of course.

Byleth screamed in frustration, charging forward to grab her weapon. Bereft of its animating force, the whip had slid off and clattered to the ground. Dark lightning raked her as she bent low, the Sword of the Creator once more burning in her hands. Hilda leapt in to cover her teacher, and the Death Knight abandoned spells for her scythe once more.

She was, once again, too fast. Perfected techniques, married to a mind that submerged in battle as easily as a fish in the sea. Hilda flared her Crest – her first Crest – as the lightning-coated blade dipped into her blood. Byleth made haste, Sword of the Creator hissing through the air. This time, the knight didn't try to deflect it. She just dodged. With grace that no one in that much armor should have, she spun between whip and axe both, grabbed the cord as its momentum was ebbing low, and tugged herself toward a stumbling Byleth. The scythe, once again, hurt like fuck.

Sothis was still there. Kshatriya, she spit, with newly-remembered heat. Their bones are metal-clad and their muscles are skeins of lightning. These things were made to slay dragons, Byleth. Beware!

Back to less than a minute ago. "Ah! Well done!" the Death Knight said, and Byleth struggled to remember what was coming next. She ordered the whip to disengage just as Hilda swung and her opponent started rolling. The Sword of the Creator reformed in her hands, only to lash back out again as the Death Knight summoned her dark lightning. The spells forked between them, burning Byleth and Hilda with their painful sting. But the woman's hands were still as she concentrated on the spell, and the head of the whip was able to find a seam in her armor.
For the first time, the Death Knight made a sound of pain. The Sword of the Creator withdrew, its tip coated in oily blood. Hilda grinned and prepared to charge.

"Don't. Don't engage her at close range, Hilda!"

The girl looked at her teacher, infuriated. Gestured to her Relic axe, which was decidedly close-range only. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"I told you to leave!"

That was all they had time for before the Death Knight reached them. She had her own opinion on the matter, and it was that they ought to die by her scythe. Did she intend to kill them? Byleth couldn't tell. She didn't seem angry, in truth.

No, she was laughing. Like a madwoman, like a soul in the throes of bliss. Her blows had none of the carefully-drilled precision of before. They flowed like the wind of the storm, like strokes of abstract paint, asymmetrical and unpredictable. Still imbued with so much awful power, but less of that awful intelligence. As she dove for Byleth in a reckless strike that left her open, Hilda struck, driving more cracks across her armor. The Death Knight barely seemed to care.

Byleth's eyes were wide. She stumbled back again, trying to keep out of reach; the Death Knight followed and Hilda followed her. How long could this go on? Every moment was hard-fought, and it was only a matter of time before she slipped up again…

A wide white shape, quickly oncoming, interrupted those thoughts. Sailing down the length of the hall, wings outspread, it gave a rumbling cry. Byleth and Hilda barely got out of the way in time before a fucking wyvern crashed into the Death Knight from behind and slammed her to the floor.

"Sorry, friend. I tried shouting, but you were having a bit too much fun to hear me." The speaker atop the white wyvern bent down, addressing the furious woman pinned – just barely, it was a small wyvern – beneath his mount's sword-sharp claws. The Death Knight roared, pushing at the foot on her chest. The wyvern shifted uncomfortably – dear Goddess, was she actually moving it? The newcomer continued calmly, "Solon has retreated, and reinforcements are coming. Do you want to fight all the Knights of Seiros by yourself? Ah, scratch that – do you want to deal with Thales's reaction to you fighting the Knights by yourself? There's only so much I can spin off as 'intelligence-gathering.' And if you get tied up in meetings – or, gods forbid, transferred back home – how are you going to make it to that ball next week, hm? I have it on good authority that your lady love is preparing a special surprise. If you miss it, I'm sure she'll be heartbroken, and then she might start asking questions about where you were…"

"All right, all right!" the Death Knight snapped. Her struggling had faded, and she sounded ragged. And a little embarrassed. "I am back in the realm of sanity. You can stop yammering!"

"Glad to be of help!" chirped the figure on the wyvern. Byleth took the chance to study them: masked, much as their comrade, with a voice further distorted by some trick of their costume's construction. All in gold and white where the Death Knight was black and violet; though enameled armor was visible, it was largely covered with cinched trousers and an elegantly-tied outer coat. Same for the gilded helm wrapped by a white scarf. "I'm sure you berserked because you thought your life was in danger. Not for some silly reason like, say, wanting to test the Ashen Demon's limits. Right?"

The Death Knight stayed silent.

"Professor!" came the call from deeper in the hall. "Are you all right?" Frazzled, battered by dark magic, the remaining Golden Deer formed up between the room's crates and tables. They all looked with wary confusion on the newcomer in white. "The malefactors managed to activate a teleportation spell and escape to a man. Now who is this?" demanded Lorenz.

Their fine white riding boots landed daintily on the ground; the wyvern lifted its claws and let the Death Knight begin hauling herself to her feet. "Glad you asked, Gloucester. I have been waiting for this moment for a long time." The face painted on their mask – an empty grin, a simple slash of black – leered at them all. "Tell me, have you ever felt that something was wrong with your homeland? That the ways and traditions you grew up with are simply accepted out of inertia, and not because they have any merit or truth? That those in power only care about accumulating more, and not for bending it to worthy ends?"

Tired and fearful as they all were, Byleth saw some of the students turn inward and consider those words. Maegelle glared bitterly, Leonie gave a short sharp sigh, and Marianne and Hapi shared a single look with a depth of communication only siblings could achieve.

"Do you plan to eventually get around to answering the question?" Lorenz asked dryly.

"I want to know how you got a wyvern in here," added Hapi.

"Excuse me," said the Death Knight. Seemingly quite recovered, she gestured threateningly with her scythe. "But my friend and colleague has been preparing this speech for several weeks. The least you could do is listen."

The students fell quiet.

"Thank you," they said. "Now, to answer the gentleman with the bad haircut, I am a reckoning." They gestured at their spotless costume. "I am rectification. I am here to bring about the crashing destruction of all that is old and worthless. To uncover truth, remove barriers, redeem generations of debt. I am an omen that shines in the darkness. I am the Apocalypse Star."

This is all a bit much, Sothis said, to Byleth's silent agreement. They became aware of noise in the rooms nearby – shouts, and tramping boots.

"Truly, it has been a pleasure to meet you like this." The Apocalypse Star bowed, and when they rose, the Captain of the Knights of Seiros had reached the entrance of the hall, Seteth half a step after him. "Oh, perfect timing."

Jeralt stayed silent; Byleth could see his gaze roving, trying to assess the situation. Seteth, meanwhile, pushed his way forward. "Flayn! Where are you? Is she—" His gaze fell upon the gathering in the center. Upon the Death Knight, in her armor of gloom.

The woman flinched.

Seteth mouthed a name she could not hear. "How dare you set foot in this place? How dare you still draw breath!?" His green eyes were wide with disbelieving fury. He stepped forward, without a single weapon, and still the Death Knight leaned back. "Whatever you have done to her you will regret for the rest of your days, you evil creature—"

"Time to go," muttered the Apocalypse Star. Looping one arm around the Death Knight and pressing back against their wyvern, they reached for something within the folds of their headscarf. With barely a flick of their gloved fingers, the group of three disappeared, in a warp more efficient and smooth than any Byleth had yet seen.

Vocalist · Aug 28, 2022

"Ah. Professor, Captain. Thank you both for coming." Seteth, who had once looked at Byleth with such skepticism, now seemed happy to see her and her father walk through his office door. Rigidly organized piles of paperwork had been taken aside, clearing the desk for tea and cakes. It seemed he did not subsist entirely on bread and water as some of the students gossiped.

The office of the Archbishop's assistant (he didn't seem to have any title beyond that, existing on some mysterious level outside and above the Church's standard hierarchy) could be found on one of the upper floors of the Main Hall, intimidatingly close to the Archbishop's audience chamber. Byleth had never lingered here before, only stopping by to hear Seteth give a curt answer to a pressing question. But today, he had invited her and her father for some strange combination of debrief and…social call?

As Byleth watched him search a cupboard awkwardly for tea leaves, she guessed he didn't do this too often.

Sothis was uninterested in food and drink, of course. She had drifted off to poke around the room, invisible. She skimmed past the bookshelves and the burnished weapons mounted above them, coming to a small painting hung near the door. Hmm? Now what's this?

Byleth herself was more interested in the weapons. She had marked them on previous visits, and a closer look confirmed that each was unique. A round bronze shield in archaic style, a chipped axe filigreed in patterns that reminded her of Srengi artwork, a longsword whose hilt was formed into an Imperial eagle with ruby eyes. Many of them bore marks of use, and most were not the sort of prestige piece that usually adorned a wall – with the exception of the eagle sword. That was the sort of shit the Emperor handed out as a mark of favor. But all were clean, polished, and mounted without prejudice.

"Professor, does this tea meet your standards?" their host called. Her enthusiasm for the drink was well-known in Garreg Mach by now. Hurrying over, she signaled that the tea was acceptable, and the three of them settled down.

The tea was not, as a matter of fact, good. It had a pale color and a dusty taste that could probably be blamed on the several years it had spent sitting forgotten in a cupboard. But Byleth had more than once brewed tea that was infested with weevils – they all floated to the top when you added water, just skim them off and continue as normal – so she was perfectly willing to tolerate this.

Seteth looked pleased with himself and she decided not to enlighten him. Instead she said, "Do you want to begin with some small talk, or go right to business?"

A small smile danced on his lips as he said, "As much as it might be amusing to watch the two of you struggle to come up with opinions on the latest fashions from Enbarr, I think there are some topics we are mutually eager to discuss. Firstly, my sister." He fixed Byleth with his gaze like he thought he could hammer in his message through sheer earnest looking. "Thank you for rescuing her. She is all I hold precious on this earth. You have saved us both."

"Well, you're welcome," said Byleth.

"Happy to be of help. How is she?" asked her father. "Last I heard she was mostly intact, just ill."

Seteth took an uncomfortable sip of tea. "That is essentially correct. It seems the kidnappers were…draining her blood. For – ugh. Some sorcerous use. I have never cared to learn the details of such ill practices. But Flayn is recovering, yes. Though she is confined to bed for now, her bright spirits have already returned." He sighed, letting out some tension. "And you, Professor? You dueled the Death Knight. And your students stood against other members of her…cabal."

"I was uninjured," she replied. She and Sothis shared a pained look. "…Luckily. And Hilda, well, she heals fast."

Her father chimed in, "Her brats are determined not to be left out of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. It's still a month away, but everyone's so focused on that, they've just about forgotten the nightmare that was Horsebow Moon."

Seteth nodded, "Lady Rhea thinks that the upcoming mock battle will serve well as a distraction from the troubles so far. And while I agree that the students and townsfolk need to be kept calm, those of us in positions of guardianship should not allow ourselves to get swept up in the festivities."

"You think the worst is yet to come, then," Jeralt said. "That's what I think as well. Every indication is that these people can walk in and out of Garreg Mach as they please, and the amount of attention they've been giving us suggests that they'll be back." He clicked his tongue. "Actually, now's a good time to bring up what my knights have found." The Knight-Captain listed off the results of his investigation: tunnels mapped, inventories taken of the laboratory's mysterious remains, experts consulted. "On the one hand, it seems like they were warping in and out. So they wouldn't necessarily have needed inside help to get here."

Seteth was paying close attention. "But? Is there a reason to think they do have accomplices in Garreg Mach?"

"The wyvern," Jeralt said grimly. "I found out from some students that there's been a white wyvern living in the forest since the beginning of the school year. They've been giving it treats and so on."

"That forest is off limits to students," Seteth muttered.

"Oh come on, they've been getting in there since the beginning of time. At least this was just some animal lovers."

"As opposed to actual lovers?" Byleth asked.

"As opposed to twenty students holding a drunken revel and accidentally starting a forest fire," her father answered; across the desk, Seteth gave a sympathetic shudder. He continued, "But I'm getting off track. White wyvern, living here. White wyvern, making a big entrance with Sir Apocalypse Star. Given how rare those things are, we have to assume it was the same creature. And that means that the Apocalypse Star was living here too."

"So, take away that mask and that costume, and reveal someone we recognize?" Byleth felt the itch of paranoia starting up as she spoke the words, fluttering over the nape of her neck. "Is the wyvern still there?"

"Nope," Jeralt said, with just a touch of grim frustration. "Hasn't been seen since the day it swanned all over the Death Knight."

"So if any denizen of Garreg Mach disappeared around that time…" Seteth prodded.

"We're looking into it. No good leads so far." Jeralt looked down unhappily at his empty teacup. Waving Seteth away from refilling it, he instead pulled out one of his flasks. After taking a drink he said, "Rhea told me you were looking into some old church records that mention something similar to the Death Knight and the Apocalypse Star and their – ugh, we need a name for this group. I'm not calling them all individually by their ridiculous titles."

"What about the No-Eyed Men?" suggested Byleth. The other two looked blankly at her. "An Almyran legend. An ancient civilization that lost a war with the sun god, got forced underground, and occasionally raids the surface to kidnap children and drain their blood for dark magic." She wondered how much of Sothis's insights it was safe to reveal. "They have sorcery and artifice like no one else, and their very bodies are enhanced in some strange way." Seteth was looking increasingly wide-eyed, like one of her students realizing in the midst of a lecture that all the answers they had been so sure about were actually completely wrong. "Hilda and Claude identified them as the ones to kidnap Flayn."

"Yeah, I think I've heard a few of those stories over the years," Jeralt agreed. "Real spine-chillers…Sound familiar to you, Seteth?"

"No, unfortunately," he ground out. "Church records do indicate a group of twisted sorcerers who found refuge underground and did horrid experiments with blood and bone. They also indicate that said group died out a thousand years ago, and we only know about them because the last four survivors sought refuge in the arms of the Holy Church, thereafter becoming the heroes known as the Four Apostles. There was, naturally, no effort made to look out for them since then." Massaging his brow, he continued, "And this legend is well-known in Almyra?"

"Well, my daughter and I both heard of it, so…"

"There is apparently a great deal of truth to be found in folklore these days," Seteth muttered. "I don't suppose there is any other crucial information that the commonfolk have been aware of for hundreds of years? The location of lost Crests, perhaps? Pagan cults? Are there any other dragons wandering about?"

Byleth thought. "…Lake Teutates is supposed to have this magic turtle that grants wishes."

"Oh, I know about that one," Seteth said, calmer now. The discussion continued, going through the No-Eyed men's possible goals, plans, and history, until Sothis called out, The little one is coming.

"Brother! Captain. Professor." Flayn strode through the door and curtseyed. "How lovely that I was able to catch you here." Turning back to the hall outside, she called, "Cyril, will you go now? I most certainly do not need your assistance here!"

"Flayn!" said Seteth, all alarmed again. "You should be resting!"

"On the contrary, I am physically recovered," she declared. "Observe how I walked here unaided from my chambers, down and then up several flights of stairs!"

She is very well put together, yes. I wonder if she spent time in front of a mirror right before this, trying to look as capable and impressive as possible.

Flayn was talking over Sothis: "I must give you my sincerest thanks and strongest praise, Professor! It was exceptional, the way your group tracked down those malefactors and set them to flee." She sidled closer to Byleth.

"Yes," said Seteth, "we were just discussing that. It is most likely that you are still in danger from said malefactors, which means, well…we will have to move you to a safer place, Flayn."

"Such as the Golden Deer!" Flayn said, loudly and very quickly.

"I—no, actually I meant—"

"Worry not, brother, for I had the same thought, and Rhea agreed with me – we know for sure that they can be defeated by our loyal, capable students, so surely the safest place for me is among them! I am so enthusiastic about the idea that I came here immediately to ask Professor Byleth to include me in her class!"

"The Archbishop approved this?" said Seteth, disbelieving. No, despairing.

"Ah, kid, isn't your class getting a little big?" asked Jeralt.

"This is fine," Byleth said.

"Hello, Baltie! I brought Marianne!" Always much more willing to train late at night than early in the morning, Hilda trotted into the dark training yard, followed by a much less enthusiastic Marianne. Balthus waved at them, setting up torches.

"I'm…not really feeling up to this," Marianne said. She shifted the bundle in her hands awkwardly. Even wrapped in cloth, Freikugel's spikes were obvious – but with Marianne holding it instead of Hilda, at least its glow wouldn't draw attention.

Balthus heard. "Come on, I heard the professor is letting you skip out on afternoon drills in exchange! You've got to try, or else it won't be fair!" he said, coming closer and trying to sound encouraging. "You know, you two have the best setup here – I guarantee all the other students are doing secret night practice before the big battle, but you're friends with the guy with the key to the training yard!"

Marianne glanced at Hilda. The worry was clear on her face.

"You can trust Baltie, don't worry. He knows how to keep a secret." Hilda held out a long, thin bundle. "…Come on, Marianne!" Begrudgingly, her classmate traded Freikugel for the other bundle. Beneath the cloth, both of them started to glow a burnt orange.

Balthus couldn't help but let out a whistle. "I see how it is, then. The Eagles and Lions are going to have one hell of a surprise on their hands." Marianne stared at him stiffly – a little defiantly, even – as she unwrapped the covering of her curved Relic sword. "Hey, I won't say a word about it. Like Hilda said, I know how to keep a secret." He called on the power of his mother's bloodline, and enjoyed the bamboozled look on her face as she beheld the Crest of the Sun.

Hilda laughed. "Get your sword, Baltie! It's time to get to work!"

"The dark magic reading group is on hold for fear of espionage," Mae complained to Sylvain over a lunch of fried fish. "It's terrible! I could have learned so much about the Black Eagles, but Hubert's damn paranoia has me blocked. And what's worse, I need his help to finish my Luna Λ spell!"

"So you can't ask for his help without letting him get a look at your secret weapon?" Sylvain was smirking. He clearly took great enjoyment in her trouble.

"Don't get cute with me, you red fox," Mae grumbled. Her bad mood could mostly be blamed on the fact that she had stayed up late the night before, with nothing to show for it but a headache and a hundred flawed sigils.

"What's wrong with the spell, anyway?" he asked in between bites.

"I would need to spend an hour explaining how it's supposed to work and how it's going wrong. You don't want to hear it."

"But Annette does something like that when she's stuck with a spell. She has this little figurine of a duck – it's named Sir Guillaume, but that's not important – and she just explains to the duck what she's trying to do. And she swears that she always comes up with the perfect solution when she talks to him about it." His grin was terribly amused. "Go on, try it. Let me be your duck. I think it'll be cute."

Mae took a long drink of water. "Fine, fine. If there's a chance it'll help. So, the goal of Luna Λ is to completely bypass the enemy's magic resistance. It does this by travelling along a vector alien to normal space. This vector has variables for magnitude and direction, of course, but also for the rotation of the anima relative to its initial state in the animus…"

The town market was bustling and their loads were heavy, but to Flayn and Ignatz, it was a welcome break from the intensity of all their classmates. One simply couldn't have a conversation that wasn't about the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. "I still can't tell if Claude is joking when he makes plans for poisoning the Blue Lions and Black Eagles," Ignatz complained.

"In my view? Whether or not his more outrageous ideas are 'jokes' always depends on whether the people around him are willing to accept them or not – usually just the professor. She is the one who keeps him in check." Flayn checked her list – filled out with requests from multiple hands. "We have almost everything! Now, I do believe a bit of personal shopping would not go amiss."

"There's nothing I really want," said Ignatz. "I have plenty of art supplies. I've just been too stressed to paint, lately. No inspiration."

"Oh, that's a shame. Surely after the battle, things will quiet down. Ignatz, could you hold this, please? Where is that list – Claude gave me a few names. 'Anna, red hair. Imported curios and exotica.'"

"Oh, I know her," Ignatz says. "Lorenz sends me out every few weeks to ask if she has any new magic items in stock. She's right over here…"

Following his directions, Flayn found a smug-looking woman with a cart and a stall. "Greetings, my good woman," Flayn chirped. "Have you any novels for sale?

"Novels?" Anna raised an eyebrow. "I do have a few. All rare, the sort of thing you can't find easily these days. Are you looking for a particular language?"

"Oh, just Fódlani, please. Although," Flayn thought about the other languages she knew, and whether any human would have likely written a novel in them, "well, you likely don't have anything in Old Faerghan."

"I have two scrolls of an epic poem about Lamine's quest for immortality," Anna said immediately. "A wondrous historical treasure, over nine hundred years old."

"Oh my!" Ignatz said. "That – that's not something you pick up for light reading!"

Flayn wondered if the poem managed to capture Lamine's utterly unlikeable personality as well as her ambition and genius. "Two scrolls out of how many?"

"…They're labelled number two and number eight." Anna sighed at the look on her face. "If you'd prefer literature that's in order, miss, I have the first four volumes of Fate of the Black and White, a thrilling, dramatic, historical-fantastic adventure written by a personal friend of mine. All resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Volume five coming soon!"

"I would prefer a complete work." She crossed her arms. "…Is there, perchance, romance in these novels?"

"In these books you will find an enormous cast of attractive characters and multiple love triangles!" Anna assured her. She leaned in closer, almost whispering. "There are two versions of the books. The sweet version, and the spicy version. Uncut."

Flayn gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. "I'll take it!" Father must never find out about this…

When Byleth went speculatively to check on the wyverns, she found Claude there too. They stayed in silence for a while, watching the great beasts grumble in their sleep, chained to the ground. These were big ones, bred for war – lying down, they still came up to her chest. Although slower and clumsier than a pegasus, a wyvern could tear a pegasus right in half and eat the rider for dessert. They struggled against magic, of course, and volleys of arrows, but they could close the distance fast on those, or simply get out of the way. And a formation of light infantry against a wing of wyverns was simply crowfood.

I wonder how the wild ones are different. It's astonishing what humans can do with only selective breeding.

It was said wyverns had first been tamed in the hills of northern Almyra. To this day the Almyrans were their undisputed masters, fielding more wyverns than anyone else. Still, the dozen kept at Garreg Mach were scary enough.

Byleth guessed what Claude was thinking. "Do you know how to ride these?"

"Mm?" He looked at her, blankly.

"I recognize your style with an axe. And I haven't missed how wyverns get you all excited."

The blankness broke and he sighed. "Yeah. My father taught me. Not something I can practice now, though."

Byleth disagreed. "The stables here are for students to use. I heard Petra's been sneaking out to practice in the forest." Wyverns were not hard to miss, so the Black Eagles' failure to keep that a secret was entirely unsurprising.

"It's more complicated than that, Teach. Others in the Alliance are always looking at me, wondering how foreign I am. And to make things worse, this wyvern-riding villain just showed up. I can't do anything that draws suspicion because, well, because I'm not judged by the same standards as everyone else."

Byleth considered this, and found that it was bullshit. "Claude, there is a point at which you have to stop listening to unreasonable people and just tell them to go fuck themselves. If you like wyverns, then go ride one. It'll be good for you and it'll be good for the Deer." He looked at her, wide-eyed.

Then he gave her a sad smile. "Teach, you—"

"Claude. I will make sure you don't get punished for this. If a student starts giving you shit, tell me. I'll put an end to it. If it's one of the knights, my father will put an end to it. And if it's anyone else, I am willing to go to the Archbishop herself. She'll give me anything if I say it's for the good of the class." Was it wrong to take advantage of Rhea's weird affection for her? Not for Claude's sake.

Byleth, I've only just now realized this, but I think you might be one of the most powerful people in Garreg Mach.

Huh. True. Bizarre.

"I will protect you, Claude, for as long as you're my student."

Claude…didn't say anything. His mouth was open, he seemed ready to start – more than once. But nothing came out. Somehow, Byleth had rendered Claude von Riegan at a loss for words.

On Sothis's advice, she hugged him.

Vocalist · Aug 31, 2022

When the Officer's Academy set out for the mock battle, it was in a procession so great that observers might well believe there was a war on. Carts, porters, students, professors, and whole battalions of church soldiers streamed into Gronder Field. This vast prairie was the location of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, named for the real battle that had taken place there four hundred years before.

There were plenty of people gathered to watch. The banners Byleth saw were intimidating in both variety and prestige. She saw the imperial eagle at least twice, and wondered how much of Edelgard's family was here. The flatlands were covered by a forest of tents, while the battle itself would take place on more interesting terrain – an old hillfort that stood alongside a river that ran into a forest. Byleth, Hanneman and Manuela all watched as Seteth placed colored stones in a bag, and each took one when asked.

"Black stone?" Hanneman held up his hand. "Professor Hanneman, your class gets the southwestern fort. Professor Byleth, your Deer will be north of the river."

"Does that mean the Blue Lions get the forest?" asked Manuela. Seteth nodded.

From where he was watching, Byleth heard Dimitri say, "Well, we planned for this. Yuri, you did pack the salve that repels insects, right?" He was whispering, but not very quietly.

"Yes, your Highness. I packed it. Now keep your voice down, will you?"

Seteth seemed about to give more instructions, but the sudden entrance of a shouting woman brought it all to a halt: "HERE you all are. Ugh, you brought so many people, it's so confusing, I had no idea where to find you – where's El? Why is everyone here so tall? And I especially mean you by that, Prince Dimitri. What have you been eating?" A noblewoman dressed in a gown with split skirts for riding was waving and poking at everyone with grand gestures. Her butter-blond hair seemed ready to escape its ragged knot, and she was obviously drunk.

A look of dread upon his face, Ferdinand von Aegir bravely stepped forward. "Your Highness, this is a private meeting."

"Oh, little Ferdinand!" She leaned forward, about to ruffle his carefully-coiffed hair (he put a hand up to protect it), then stopped. "Wait, don't talk to me. You're the one who drove my sister from the Black Eagles!"

Edelgard, having squeezed free from the crowd, took the woman's hand. "Grete, please. We can talk later, but for now—"

"No, no!" said Grete von Hresvelg, second princess of the Adrestian Empire, who was notorious enough that even Byleth had heard of her. According to rumor, she had celebrated the end of the Brigid-Dagda war by fucking the Dagdan emissary in the imperial throne room. "I am here to deliver a MESSAGE! To your classmate Mercedes von Martritz!"

"That's me," said the Blue Lions' willowy healer, curtseying. The students were split between amused and horrifically embarrassed, but Mercedes was the former.

"Yes, well, Mercedes – you're so pretty, darling, by the way—"

"Thank you, your Highness."

"It's about the Marquis Hrym. He does not want to see you," proclaimed Princess Grete.

"Um…very well? I don't believe I've ever met him before," Mercedes said, in response to this baffling message.

"Nope! And he wants it to stay that way!" Princess Grete said. "Jeritza von Hrym is terrified of you, Mercedes! He almost didn't come here! He's going to be glued to the Crown Princess's side this entire trip, so if El goes to see her, Mercedes, you should not come. And if the Blue Lions win and get invited for tea, you should not come." She winked very hard. "And if you do come, you shouldn't block the exits that he can use to run away."

"I think…your intentions are a little unclear," Mercedes said. "Would it be a good idea or a bad idea for me to see Jeritza von Hrym?"

"It would be hilarious, that's what it would be!" Grete cried. "He's a very pretty man, Mercedes. Just as pretty as you." She cackled like a demon as Edelgard dragged her away.

In her absence, the meeting tent was suddenly so much quieter. Everyone heard Mercedes muse, "Was she trying to give me romantic advice?"

With assignments done, the classes dispersed to survey their territories and strategize in private. Byleth went over the fine details, made some final adjustments, but it was time for her to step back. Joining the other professors on the rocky outcropping that overlooked the battlefield, she heard Rhea give the signal to begin. Behind them stood a good portion of Fódlan's nobility, watching hungrily for a sign of their loved ones. Trumpeters in Church white played an overture that could be heard across the battlefield.

It began.

The Eagles moved quickly – a squad of archers dashed forward to capture the central hill. The ballista there would be so useful to whoever held it. It seemed that they had also fortified their little territory further with layers of wooden fences. Byleth couldn't fault their preparation. It seemed Ferdinand ran a tight ship, and what's more he learned from his past mistakes.

A roar drew her attention back to the ballista tower. A brown wyvern was speeding towards it, keeping up the pace even as a ballista bolt tore through its wing. It crashed into the wooden platform, bowling the poor operator over. Two people dismounted from the wyvern – Flayn and Claude – then there was a flash of magic, and one more appeared. That would be Ignatz.

Byleth's lips quirked a tiny bit upward in satisfaction. Her enemies could teleport all over the place. It was so nice that now her class could do a bit of that, too.

Flayn was kind enough to heal Bernadetta, after she healed the wyvern. It did a little something for the poor girl's mood, but not much. "I was the first person to get killed in spring's mock battle, too," she whined. "I'm just no good."

"You're an appealing target!" Claude was already winging off with a grin, too quick for a reply to reach him. He was filled with a daredevil energy today.

"I think you've just had bad luck," Ignatz told her. He stepped up to the ballista – thank the Goddess he'd had practice time with one of these. "Will you be all right heading up to join the audience on your own?"

Bernadetta cringed. "Um…I saw the Varley banner, so I think my father must be here. With that in mind I'm going to be…somewhere he won't find me. If you don't see me at all until we're back at the monastery, that's a good sign!" She scrambled down the hill and away across the field.

Ignatz and Flayn shared a concerned look, but eventually they had to attend to their assigned missions: Flayn to Rescue and Heal comrades in trouble, Ignatz to lend ballista support.

Far away on the edge of the battlefield, Hilda led Marianne and a squad of Church soldiers across the river and into the forest. The Blue Lions knew about this ford leading into their territory, of course. Swordsmen met them in between the trees.

Hilda raised a palm and beckoned them forward with a cocksure grin. "I was expecting this. Come at me!" Hungry bone pried into their armor and knocked them to the ground.

Are we not killing them?

"It's a mock battle, you moron!" Not even Freikugel could dampen her mood today. Today they were going to win. Claude fully believed it and so did she.

Arrows came, from a shadow in the trees. Hilda marked their source – and gave chase. Branches rustled; Hilda snapped right through. She flared her first crest, and closed the distance. That was Ashe – not her target. But he was, no doubt, leading her to his backup. Satisfied, she slowed, and let him vanish. Best not to follow without some of her own.

Hilda's followers caught up, panting, and she gave them a few seconds to rest. "Ashe went that way," she told them. "He's told others about us, most likely. We're going to meet stiff resistance soon."

"Why do you say that with such a smile on your face?" a woman asked.

Hilda giggled. "Hey, you all volunteered to be here! Remember – cash bonus for anyone who lands a hit on Prince Dimitri!"

Before long, shadows solidified between the trees. Archers let arrows fly. Flaring her Crest like a battle-standard, Hilda charged. A blunted arrow hit her and bounced right off. They had the time to fire more, maybe, but she could see them pausing, hesitating. Winding up Freikugel for the first blow, Hilda let out a war cry. "Haaaaaa—"

The ground collapsed under her. "—ai! Ow! Fuck!" She tumbled down, into a messy cut in the earth. Why hadn't she seen this? Oh no. Oh Goddess, it was a pit trap. She'd fallen for a pit trap. Above, there was the sound of confused fighting. She searched for handholds – rocks, or something, that she could use to climb up.

Ashe poked his head over the edge. His bow was drawn, and it sent an arrow – tip bound in a ball of rags – to bounce painfully right off her forehead. "Sorry, just have to make sure you're 'dead.'"

Hilda let out a scream of disbelieving rage. She could only grasp some catharsis when Marianne appeared in view to whack a giggling, distracted Ashe with Blutgang. "Ow…well, this is still a fair trade, in my view," he said.

"Where is Dimitri?" Hilda screamed.

"Aaaall the way on the west side," Ashe said. "Along with just about all my classmates."

Hilda's head spun. She'd discussed this with Claude before the battle. "Then why did he bring up insect repellent if he wasn't going to be hiding in the forest?"

Ashe started giggling again.

"Hilda, I think we've been fooled," Marianne sighed. In response to Hilda's wails, she said, "Well, I'm going to take the rest of the soldiers and try to join the main battle in the west. Um, see you later."

Hilda continued her attempts to climb out of the pit. It was just taller than her, why was this so hard? Ashe settled down at the edge, watching. "You know," he offered, "Dimitri wanted me to tell you something. 'Please convey my apologies for not meeting Lady Hilda in person. It is a sign of her fearsomeness, and my high respect for her as a warrior, that I devised this plot solely for the purpose of removing one woman from the battle. Sometimes, personal ties must be sacrificed for the good of a larger outcome.' Also, there's going to be a celebration after the battle, whoever wins. He wants to know: are you going to be wearing the dress you bought for my brother's wedding?"

Hilda stared up at him, the fight gone out of her. Instead she stewed in something hot like embarrassment. "…I didn't bring that dress. I didn't know there was going to be a party."

"Oh, well. I'm sure he still wants to see you anyway. Let me help you up – I've got a rope somewhere…"

The west side of the battlefield was chaos. The Black Eagles had the most defensive situation of all (thank the Goddess they hadn't managed to hold on to the ballista) and they were using it to fend off Lions from the east and Deer from the north. Eagles took cover behind wooden fences and old stone walls, peeking out to fire off shots at those advancing up the hill. They fought viciously for every inch of territory. It wasn't a question of holding out longest – the winner in this battle was the class that 'slayed' the most enemies. So Ferdinand was quite content to see everyone coming for him. Imagine if the Lions and Deer stole points from him by fighting each other?

At least, that was what Marianne imagined as she tracked the prince of Faerghus. It seemed that she was absorbing something of this warlike education. That was probably…well, probably not a bad thing. "Courage!" she said aloud. "You'll need it, to face him!"

Fifty paces ahead, Dimitri Blaiddyd and Yuri Leclerc fought side by side to gain a gap in the walls. They never spared a look behind them, where Marianne was forming the sigil for Fimbulvetr. "On my signal…Go!"

Dimitri found that the air around him was suddenly ice. Yuri whirled around, eyes wide, to face her charging soldiers. "Tch, they've caught up with us!" In moments he cast a healing spell on Dimitri, who was already breaking free. Oh, thought Marianne. It would have been better to hold the spell for just before the charge reached them. Give them less time to recover. Already, Dimitri was lance-to-axe with one of her soldiers. Oh well.

Marianne drew Blutgang and advanced. "Is that a Hero's Relic?" Dimitri asked, still grappling with someone else. He was surprised. She stabbed him. He screamed. Blutgang screamed too, with joy. The blood had awakened it.

Then he grabbed onto the hilt of the sword and tried his hardest to rip it from her hands. She wouldn't let him. It was a contest of pure strength – two Crests flared – after a single molten second, Marianne saw surprise again on Dimitri's face, and thought, Wait, I'm actually winni—

Then he headbutted her and she fell to the ground with a yelp. He didn't finish her off, though – the roars of a wyvern told her someone else had arrived. She waited for her vision to settle, wiped away some of the blood pouring from her nose, and saw Petra of the Black Eagles throwing an axe at Yuri while her wyvern grabbed the prince. As the circle of Flayn's Rescue spell enfolded her, Marianne saw Dimitri forced to the ground.

A little to the north, Mae finished bombarding a layer of the Eagles' defenses. Under her superlative suppressing fire, which included a nicely-timed Luna Λ that took out Linhardt, her teammates advanced. Now it was her turn. No hesitation! She scrambled over a pile of rocks, hoping desperately that no one had the free time to attack her in this awkward moment. She slid down the other side – ugh, damn all this dust – only to see her classmates in another skirmish. The Blue Lions, huh? They'd penetrated deep.

Sylvain winked at her as if he could hear the opportunity for a dirty joke. He brought his horse around to face her as a sigil finished forming in his hand, shooting off as a fireball aimed at Leonie.

"Cichol's spear, since when does Gautier know magic?" Leonie cried.

Mae smirked. She didn't find it all that surprising. He'd been pressing her for details of her studies for months. "Does the little fox want to show me what he's learned?" she cooed, already weaving her spell.

"Don't go easy on me, Professor," he said. "I want to earn this."

"Well, if you insist," said Mae, unleashing a bolt of pure lightning. It flickered past a charging Sylvain, hitting an indignant Edelgard instead. And now she had nowhere to dodge, with this pile of rubble at her back. Frantically she started to cast another spell.

A shadow passed overhead, and a well-aimed arrow caught Sylvain's horse and caused it to stumble. She heard a trace of Claude's laughter on the wind and then he was gone. Darting away, Mae laughed victoriously as she let summoned a swarm of shadowy insects to harry and slow him still further.

Sylvain could have still pursued her, tried to get close enough to use his lance. But he started casting a spell instead. Mae was confident in her ability to resist whatever amateur efforts he could bring to bear. But the spell that caught her was no conflagration of fire or wind – nothing from the natural world. Her vision went dark, and she was simply – attacked. Left weaker. Her vision went dark, and for a second it was hard to breathe, and that was not nearly all, but it was all she could describe.

Maegelle von Ordelia screamed in rage, for she recognized how he had just attacked her: with the same Luna Λ she had proudly showed him not four days ago! She heard the hoofbeats as he advanced to finish her off. She wouldn't let him! No, he thought he could steal her spell and her victory out from under her? She called together all the lightning anima she could find. The sky darkened. "You devious, lying, traitorous, dishonest WHORE!" she screamed. "I'll make you PAY!"

From the overlook to the north, a group of Imperials chatted as they watched the fight. "The clouds are coming in," warned Jeritza von Hrym. "Rain seems likely."

"Oh, are they?" Constance von Nuvelle poked her head out from under her lavender parasol. The news seemed to please her. Far below, in the thick of the fighting, there was a white explosion. "There goes Miss Ordelia! I have been keeping my eye on her. She has some talent, but, well. Perhaps a lack of finesse, as you can see. Monica, does friendly fire give anyone any points?"

"Friendly fire is negative points," said Monica von Ochs.

"It's a lesson every new mage must learn," said Theodora von Wagner, in a wry tone. "Though I would hope that she had learned it by this point in the school year."

"Nevertheless…" Their leader had been nearly silent, watching the battle with watchmaker's focus. So when she spoke a single word, everyone quieted to listen. "The Golden Deer have just taken out the last of the Blue Lions, even if they've lost points in the process. It's now a contest between the Deer and the Eagles." She tapped her lip with a lacy fan. "I do hope Ferdinand knows how to take advantage of this."

"Even the great Prince Dimitri has trouble wrestling a wyvern, it seems!" Flayn giggled as she inspected Marianne. "Or…ooh, oh no, oh dear, he's not supposed to hit you so hard!"

"What is it?" asked Marianne, who rather thought she could still fight.

"You have a skull fracture!" Even Flayn's healing spell felt a little angry.

"You know, this is why I think mock battles like this are a bad idea. It's just impossible to completely prevent dangerous injuries," Ignatz commented from up on the ballista. "Did you know that a student died one year?"

"I know about that, Ignatz. It's the reason we do not allow fire traps anymore. But you!" Flayn turned back to Marianne, who was beginning to feel queasy now. "You have a concussion! So you are now OUT of the battle. Completely! Lay down your weapon, and you will not cast so much as a single spell for the next three days." The tiny maiden spoke with force, as if to ward off fools who would challenge her authority on medicine.

"So you would have me go back to my tent?" said Marianne, who knew well how concussions were treated.

"Indeed! But…" Flayn looked over the edge of the ballista tower, scanning the battlefield. "I rather think you should stay right here for now. Until someone comes along who might escort you off the battlefield. Neither Ignatz nor I may leave our post."

So Marianne curled up between beams of wooden scaffolding, set Blutgang off to the side so that it could calm down, and closed her eyes. She couldn't sleep, of course. The screams and clashing blades were far away, but the ballista was far closer. clank, clank, clank it went as Ignatz wound it up. And CLANK when it fired, shivering her whole body. Ignatz and Flayn kept chatting, too, to break the monotony of their lookout.

"So, to pick up where you left off – the two armies had gathered on the border?" asked Ignatz.

"That's correct…Oh, Ignatz, I don't wish to spoil the whole climax of the book! If you like the story so much, you should read it!"

"No, I don't think I have time. Keep going, please."

"Fine. So the armies of Nohr and Hoshido are ready to fight. The royal families are both there! They start quarrelling with each other about where the twins really belong. And the twins have been trying to escape back home to Nohr, but now Corrinne's doubts are too strong. So she tells her brother that she cannot return to serving King Garon, who killed their mother with such an evil plot. But her brother Kamui disagrees. He refuses to abandon his beloved siblings!"

"Oh no," said Ignatz.

"The twins cannot come to an agreement, and they choose different sides! Kamui takes Azura and the sacred blade Yato over to the Nohrian camp!"

"Oh no! Wait, the wyverns!"

"Her name is Princess Camilla. She has an interesting reaction to this – while some of the Nohrians are ready to condemn Corrinne as a traitor, including Camilla's own retainer Beruka, Camilla declares that her love for Corrinne will not abide any—"

"No, Flayn, look up! Petra and Claude are duelling!"

Khalid loved the white wyverns. Their nesting grounds were high in the hills, next to the summer palace. When the season was right, he would sneak out at sunrise and not return home until afternoon. He had to get there early, to see the dances.

Wyverns danced, or duelled, during mating season. They darted around in the air, tracing a shorter and shorter perimeter. If neither one backed off, they would advance – get stuck together with jaws and claws, antlers locking, tails lashing, wheel, wobble, break apart, bright spots of blood staining white scales. Repeat. The first one to land, he gathered, was the loser.

These were not real battles, he knew. Wyverns at war could tear off wings, chew through necks, slice open bellies. Or so books told him – he was far too young to watch those yet. When he was old enough, though, he would be given a hatchling from these very grounds. He would raise her with his own hands until his scent was as familiar to her as his own. They would learn to fly together. And when they were both full-grown, they would go to war together, with his father and his brothers.

Byleth stared, captivated, at the two wyverns tangled together in the sky. It was impossible to tell who was winning, or where one ended and the other began. They just – lashed at each other, drifting drunkenly lower and lower.

One of the dark shapes tore free and spun away, flapping up higher towards the sun. The other skidded lower, crumpling onto the ground in a bad landing. Byleth saw the rider, a red-haired girl, untie herself from the saddle and fall out. A healer was running her way.

To the west, Byleth saw a new flag rising above the fort, a golden flag. "Is that everyone?" she heard Seteth mutter, in conversation with several other priests and look-outs.

He raised his voice. "And that concludes this year's Battle of the Eagle and Lion. The result is – a tie, between the Black Eagles and Golden Deer!"

Disappointed murmurs could be heard from members of all three nations. A tie, really? That was hardly a victory at all! But the woman at the head of the Imperial contingent only had an amused smile on her face, half-hidden behind her fan. "And I thought I'd planned for every possible outcome," she said. "Congratulations, Jeritza. You won't have to deal with the Blue Lions just yet."

"I appreciate when you refrain from making fun of me, your Highness."

"Ah, but some fun does a soul good! I think you are in sore need of it, in fact. Try to have some while you're here." She lowered her fan, revealing a wry smile. "That is an order from your princess."

Jeritza von Hrym had a whole library of glares, and he chose to respond to this with one of his colder ones. But even he would not gainsay Adela von Hresvelg, Crown Princess and next Emperor of the Adrestian Empire.

"Theodora, dear, I need you to write two new letters. Congratulate the Eagles and the Deer; I'll be having both house leaders over for tea." Promptly, Constance offered Theodora her hand. Adela's mage warped her secretary away; the two of them would have the letters sealed and delivered by the time the students got back to camp. It would seem to them as if Princess Adela had foreseen it all beforehand, and that was just the way she liked it.

Vocalist · Sep 1, 2022

Morning found Gronder Field well, especially in the students' section, filled with the thick, satisfied quiet of young people who had partied themselves to exhaustion the night before. No one saw the need to be up and about before noon, save for Edelgard, Ferdinand, and Claude. They all had invitations to morning tea with Crown Princess Adela, and it would not do to be late. So Edelgard stumbled through her hangover and made herself presentable.

It was a mild hangover, mind you. She was not Grete, she had not done anything truly irresponsible last night. But it had been her self-appointed task to watch over Dimitri and Hilda as the both of them drank like fish, so one did feel a certain encouragement to partake. Her task had found success nonetheless – she found a note in her pocket that must have been meant for Yuri, informing him that the courtship was going swimmingly – or, well, "gloin swimmmly." She should just throw that out and tell him in person.

One of Adela's servants met her at the section of field claimed by the Crown Princess and her entourage. She was shown to a table sheltered from the weak fall sunlight by a canopy, richly set with crystal and gold ware; virtually all of it from the gold spoons to the upholstered chairs had the twin-headed eagle painted, inscribed, or carved somewhere. In addition to herself, Claude, and Ferdinand (who were all drinking a lot of water) the table seated a few of Adela's many retainers. She never made an appearance without her flock of impressive birds. Claude asked politely for introductions, and Edelgard stepped in front of Ferdinand – this was Hresvelg territory! "This is Constance von Nuvelle, Countess Nuvelle, bearer of the Crest of Macuil, who has made a name for herself in magical research; this is Theodora von Wagner, Adela's secretary and financial manager; and Princess Henriette von Vestra, who is both Marquis Vestra's heir and Adela's wife." She smirked. "By the Crown Princess's standards, this is a small entourage. She prefers to outnumber her guests."

Claude smirked back. "Ah, but are you a guest today, or part of the entourage, your Highness?"

Edelgard had to think about that one. She was officially invited as Adela's sister, but it struck her that each of the Academy's three houses had a member present. Did Adela want to announce something? "That depends on what my sister wants to accomplish here, I suppose." She sighed, "I hope this is merely a celebration and not some political scheme. I haven't seen her in months, so I think I am owed some simple time with her." Claude seemed about to reply when voices approached the table – it was her two oldest sisters. Grete said something that made Adela laugh, before blowing Edelgard a kiss and galloping off to carry out some wicked scheme. Edelgard smiled and returned the kiss; Ferdinand looked visibly relieved that Grete wouldn't be joining them. Edelgard wished she could inspire dread like that. Everyone bowed to the Crown Princess.

"El, Ferdinand, a pleasure to see you two again. Enbarr has not been the same with you gone." Adela's smile was genuine, and she took the time to kiss her sister on each cheek. It surprised Edelgard how gladdened she was, how much she had yearned for this. "And you…we meet for the first time, Claude von Riegan." She offered her hand, which he kissed gracefully.

"It's about time, I think," Claude replied. "Some things you can only learn in person."

"Indeed," she beamed. "Now, what have my lovely chefs prepared for us today?" Adela indeed kept a very fine staff. There was a variety of delectable small pastries, and the tea was an astringent, flowery bergamot black. Surprisingly, the honor of pouring Adela's tea went to Claude, earning him a jealous look from Ferdinand. While he filled her cup, she looked over the food. "…Where are the pear-almond tartlets? Are they on the other side of the table?"

"I do not see any, your Highness," said Ferdinand.

"Hmph. Well – no, don't get up. No use interrupting this over something so small." She flicked her finger and a butler ran off to solve the problem. "Now, my guests, allow me to congratulate you on the skill you showed in yesterday's mock battle. You must be learning so much at the Academy."

"Indeed, it has been a productive and vigorous year…" Ferdinand began, and the students fell into an easy conversation about the skills they were learning. Edelgard said a few things about her dark magic, which set Constance off on a tirade about outdated ideas and artificial boundaries – she was writing a treatise, apparently, on a new, better classification system. The others gently stopped her before she talked for too long.

"Constance, dear, I'm afraid the fine details will go over our poor heads," Adela said. There was always a fan hanging from her wrist. She snapped it open in a chiding motion, and her guests got a good look at the pattern for the first time. "As for unique skills, young Claude put on a stunning aerial show the other day."

It was wyverns. White wyverns on sky-blue. Edelgard and Ferdinand shared a concerned look. Princess Adela wore nothing but red and gold, but her fans, those were always different, and always significant. If court gossip were a grain mill, her fans could feed half of Enbarr.

"You'll have to thank Petra as well for that," Claude replied. "Of all combat, wyvern-to-wyvern is the most exciting to watch. You have an interest in them?" He had noticed the fan, too.

"I've been doing a bit of reading," Adela said coyly. "There is the matter of their role in an army, of course, but their history is fascinating as well. The white wyvern has a particular significance, for example."

"Yes, one of those crashed onto the stage in a worrying way at Garreg Mach," Ferdinand said.

"It must have been rather frightening for you," said Henriette, Adela's wife. "But it's all a Church dispute at heart. I'm confident we can keep it from spilling into the Empire."

"Goddess keep the Archbishop, and us as well," Edelgard prayed.

"Yes – beyond that," said Adela, "I was referring to more distant history. Specifically their role in Almyra."

Claude raised his eyebrows. "That's true. They're a symbol of kingship." Now that everyone was looking at him, he explained: "It goes back three hundred years, when King Ardashir asked his mother what aid she could give him in his conquests, and she gave him the white wyvern Mahin. He conquered the hills, the plains, and the desert, and became the founder of modern Almyra. Since then, white wyverns as mounts have only been permitted to the royal family."

"Why didn't you bring this up before?" asked Edelgard, shocked.

"This means the Apocalypse Star is of royal blood!" said Ferdinand.

"I highly doubt it," Claude drawled. "The Almyran Crown is shattered now. Nothing's preventing a man from strutting about on any wyvern he pleases – if the Apocalypse Star even is from Almyra, which I also doubt." He took a dismissive sip of tea.

"But even so…" Ferdinand seemed to be thinking hard. "If we analyze this in terms of Almyran symbolism..."

"What makes you so certain that the Apocalypse Star is not Almyran?" Adela asked, searchingly.

If it made Claude nervous to have the Crown Princess focused on him, he didn't show it. "Motivation. Almyra is currently in anarchy. No one has the time to meddle with the Church of Seiros, which is only relevant in Fódlan." It felt awkward to hear him speak so dismissively of the Church, but Edelgard supposed his words were true. "Even if we imagine that some minor prince or princess escaped the purge – which is possible, I suppose – what would that person be doing here, instead of in Almyra, reclaiming their kingdom?"

"Claude," asked Edelgard, "who killed the royal family? I was young when the civil war started. I didn't pay attention at the time."

He sighed. His casual air was fading. "It was either a cabal of evil sorcerers, or an army of assassins sent by the king's younger brother. The palace burned down and so did most of the capital city, so reports are…confused."

"Much of value was lost that day," Adela said. "The royal capital, Alimah, was said to be a fragrant jewel among cities, with many gardens. But now it is mostly abandoned."

Claude nodded. "It had water year-round, thanks to the lake. It…is where I was born."

"Your memories remain." Adela held her fan up to the weak autumn light, contemplating something. "Might you build something with them, here in a new land?"

He laughed weakly. "I don't quite know what you mean, your highness. You know I'm half-Fódlani too, right?"

Adela turned an immaculate smile on him. "I only wish to get your measure a little. It's not a quiz. I'm sure your professors give you more than enough of—"

"Your Highness!" A scrambling servant called out. Adela looked over, perhaps expecting her favorite tarts, only for her eyes to narrow in some very well-hidden emotion. Her smile, however, stayed fixed on her face. She rose – confused, everyone else rose with her.

A young man dressed in stiff black and gold marched up to the table. The servants trailing him gave Adela pleading looks: he was not supposed to be here, but neither was it in their power to turn him away.

"Otto," said Adela. "You should have made an appointment with my secretary."

"Your Highness," said Otto. His gaze passed over the rest of them, stopping briefly on Edelgard. "El. You're looking well. Looking…healthy."

"You've grown a beard," said Edelgard, trying to smile. Hoping fruitlessly that he was just here to talk to her and Ferdinand, to say hello and pass on some news about opera, rather than…

"I know I am not welcome in your domain," said Otto von Hresvelg, bearer of the Crest of Seiros and third in line to the throne. "I plan to make this quick. Believe me, I would not have come myself if this could afford to wait." Edelgard and Ferdinand shared a look of mixed dread and relief. They both remembered horrible dinner parties, the pain of listening to two loved ones verbally flaying each other for hours on end. Everyone would benefit from keeping this mercifully quick. But the sort of crisis that could induce Otto to come here in the first place…that inspired the dread.

"Well then." Adela held her fan by her ear, a guard position. "You have my permission to speak."

Edelgard could see the gleam of indignation in her brother's eyes before he suppressed it. Stiffly, he said, "Bernadetta von Varley is missing. Her father's men have searched the entire camp for her. Save for certain secure areas, such as this one."

A small lift of Adela's eyebrows betrayed nothing. "Is that so? Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

Constance von Nuvelle cracked open her own fan. "What, is that all? Count Varley could have easily sent a messenger. Does he have you helping him dress, too?" She had a grating, scornful laugh – unnaturally so. Edelgard knew she cultivated it to better annoy her enemies. "Oh well, with how close the two of you are, I suppose it was only a matter of time."

"Given the urgency of the message and your secretary's penchant for losing his letters, he asked me to deliver it in person. As a favor," Otto said, looking fixedly at Adela.

Serenely, the Crown Princess replied, "Theodora treats all letters from the Minister of Religion with the same care he shows her annually-filed request for divorce."

"Petty grievances aside," Otto continued, "the heiress to one of the Empire's great houses has not been seen since the mock battle yesterday! A girl known to be delicate, agoraphobic, and mentally unsound!"

"Now to be perfectly fair," interjected Ferdinand, "she has improved in all those areas since joining the Academy!"

There was a brief silence. No one dared to sip their tea.

"You all seem quite calm about this crisis," Otto said, unfairly. Edelgard would never characterize this silence as calm.

"Retaining a cool head is a quality I prize highly in myself and others, Otto," Adela said, fanning herself.

He snapped, laying bare the accusation: "Did you kidnap the Varley girl? It would not be the first time, Adela; we all know she was lifted from her father's house and delivered to the Officers' Academy in a sack."

After being a silent presence for the whole conversation, uncomfortably avoided but always there, Theodora von Wagner finally spoke: "That was done on my behalf, and I do not apologize for it. As young Aegir just said, it has clearly done her good."

Otto's fiery gaze turned to Ferdinand, who tried not to show his nervousness: "My interest was to advocate for a friend and comrade," Ferdinand defended himself, "not to take sides. Surely we can all agree that Bernadetta's safety is the chief priority here?"

"You are right, of course," declared Adela, closing her fan and catching it in both hands. "I will organize a search of my own camp, and make the news known if she is found."

There was another silence. Adela's fan stayed closed. The prince did not move.

"…Was there anything else, Otto?"

When he spoke, the fire had faded into the ash of bitter sarcasm. "Will she be found, conveniently just as the students are about to leave, in one of your retainers' tents?"

"She will be found as the Goddess decrees it, my sweet little brother."

Otto took the entire platter of pastries as he left, because neither of them were above using petty annoyances against each other. It was still a relief to see him go, and to see Adela unfurl her fan once again. "Oh, those men just love tormenting me. Where are those tarts I asked for?"

Ferdinand stood, interrupting the princess as she was about to call for another servant. "Your Highness, I beg your pardon, but I believe we should not delay in beginning the search for Bernadetta. She is not the first student to disappear this year, and the possibility exists that she is in severe danger."

Adela's mouth twisted into an indulgent smile. "You're a bit protective of that girl. Well, you may trust me when I say that she is perfectly safe."

"So you did take her?" he said with a scandalized gasp.

It was Theodora von Wagner who responded: "Hardly. It's simply that Bernie is smart enough to head to the one place in Gronder Field her father would never dare look."

As Edelgard puzzled over this, Claude spoke. "Oh," he said, only now realizing the shape of this conflict that the Adrestrians were already unhappily familiar with: "You're Bernie's mother! You're Countess Varley!"

"I no longer use that title," said Lady Wagner. "I have been trying to get a divorce for twelve years."

"And – excuse my ignorance – what's stopping you?"

"Well," said Ferdinand, always eager to explain, "in the Empire, the power to dissolve a noble marriage belongs to the Minister of Religion. And the Minister of Religion is a hereditary title passed down through House Varley. So, as the law stands, her husband can simply refuse to end his own marriage."

"Well that's an unfortunate edge case." Claude actually laughed a little. "Is he just keeping her tied to him out of spite, or…"

"It's largely spite," Theodora said tiredly.

"That man's capacity for spite should not be underestimated," Constance agreed.

"But there is a practical reason as well!" Ferdinand rallied. "As long as their exclusive marriage contract is in effect, neither of them may take a second spouse. This does not trouble count Varley, who already has a Crest-bearing heir—"

"And he's never in his life found happiness in another human being, anyway," added Theodora.

"Goddess!" Ferdinand huffed. "I was saying, as long as Lady Wagner remains married to him, all the children she's had since – Bernadetta's half-siblings – are officially bastards. With the attendant lower standing and inheritance rights and so on."

"He also loves writing me letters about how he's going to have them killed in horrible ways and no one can stop him," Theodora continued.

"It's bluster, of course. As if I'd let such a thing happen," Adela said harshly.

Theodora continued, "I don't even read them anymore. But he still sends them."

The table fell silent at that, grappling with one of the unpleasant truths of Adrestian politics: that a person, born into the right position in the right family, could become indispensable and un-ignorable despite being utterly terrible. Thus, everyone was relieved to see a servant approach, carrying a tray.

"Good morning? There was a kerfuffle of some kind in the princess's kitchen, and an entire tray of special tarts got dropped. I'm from the Church staff, we got asked to step in," explained the small, dark boy Edelgard recognized as Cyril. Adela caught her sister's eye with a fierce smile. She waved at her guests to partake of the selection of sweet tarts. Edelgard salivated over her choice – the apricot and custard, she decided. Everyone else took their own, mindful to leave the one pear-almond tart alone.

Save Claude. His fingers met Adela's on that little round pastry, and she blinked at his cheek. At his ignorance.

"Uh…is that one special, or…" Cyril trailed off.

"I think so!" Claude chirped. His hand did not move. He did not look away from Adela's gaze. "I've never tried this kind before, but I've heard they're excellent!"

Cyril walked away. Edelgard heard him mutter, "Fine, sure, it's your funeral," but the rest of her attention was on the tart.

A smile returned to Adela's face. "Dear Claude. I planned a pleasant morning, and it's turned unexpectedly stressful. It would not surprise me if my favorite tarts were ruined because of Otto's sabotage. Graciously stand aside."

"I think I know how you feel," he told her. "Once, my uncle gave my older brother a scorpion and he put it in my shoe." Claude's smile was exactly as impenetrable as Adela's. "Fifty-fifty?"

"…Darling Ferdinand, please take a knife and cut the tart in half."

Edelgard's astonishment at Claude's boldness did not stop her from thoroughly enjoying her own tart. Otto's departure earlier had left them with nothing but tea. She'd be going after him later, she decided, to demand a share of those pastries before he ate them all.

"So, Riegan, does the precious tart live up to your expectations?" asked Constance.

"Are you hoping I'll say I'm disappointed?" he replied, full of smugness. "No, actually, I am entirely satisfied." He scooped up the final morsel and gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I am not so conceited as to say my personal tastes necessarily represent the peak of Adrestian culture," remarked Adela. "But," she coughed, "in this case, I think they do coincide. Consider how the ground almonds are mixed with butter and sugar – two simple ingredients to coax out and make blossom their hidden sweet flavor. And the crust, so crumbly when eaten, yet it resists becoming soggy. And to complete our golden trinity, we have the pears, poached in—" she coughed again, a veritable fit. "Oh, Goddess!"

There was blood speckling the white napkin when she took it away from her mouth. Henriette von Vestra stood up. "My lady, are you…" She stopped. She gazed across the table, where Claude was quietly having his own coughing fit.

"Oh, this isn't good," Claude muttered.

"POISON!" Henriette screamed. "You, get the doctor! You, go with him!" Adela was hunched over the table, tears in her eyes. "Constance!"

The mage's hands trembled anxiously. "My-my knowledge of the human body is rather theoretical. And esoteric."

"STILL! Do something, Constance!"

"I am not a trained healer! I am a magical researcher! Do you think all magic is the same, Henriette?"

"Goddess, Goddess, it hurts to breathe…"

Across the table, with no one holding onto him, Claude slipped from his chair.

Edelgard was not a trained healer either, but she knew that breathing was easiest when someone had a straight spine. That was one thing she could do. So she dashed to Claude's side, dragged his crumpled form out straight, and kept his head elevated in her lap. He grasped her hand. He was shaking, drawing painful, shallow breaths.

"Edel-augh—" He convulsed. She rolled him to the side and he spat out blood. "I'm…sorry…"

"It's fine, Claude. It's fine." So what if there was some blood on her dress? People were in between life and death!

He kept trying to speak: "You don't…deserve…"

"Concentrate on breathing. Do not waste your breath! Damn it, damn it, where are the healers?"

Bernadetta hummed to herself, a work song she had heard in the Garreg Mach kitchens, as she paged through her sketchbook to where she had last left off. She loved to sew, to make soft little things, but it was never as simple as "just start and keep stitching until you're done" – no, anything with multiple parts needed a pattern first. And patterns could be easily sketched up here, in her provisional shelter, to be realized later in her room with all its supplies. Now, this project could be divided into two main parts: the pitcher plant's belly, and its lid…

She did not know how long she had been working – it was surely not noon yet? – when she heard the ruckus of several people entering the luxurious tent. Bernadetta's senses went on alert: she heard Jeritza von Hrym, and some women she didn't recognize. They were talking over each other – agitated, even. Oh, no, that was not a good sign. But they did not pull down the curtain over the tiny sleeping nook where Bernadetta was. They stayed in the main space, and kept talking.

Bernie wondered what to do. She was allowed here. Jeritza had said so himself, had said to make herself comfortable. She trusted him; she knew from her mother's letters that this horribly tall and scary man worked for the Princess Adela and appreciated sweets, which meant that when she approached him with a bar of nougat and marshaled all her courage to ask if he could take her to a good hiding place he had led her to his very own tent, which was by Bernie's reckoning an ideal outcome. Even her father, she thought, would be afraid of this man, a whole foot taller than him, unhealthily pale, who had killed at least two men in duels and overall reminded her of a certain creature of Faerghan folklore, the vampyr, of which she had read in Dusserre's Wondrous Bestiary. Nevertheless, being tolerated here did not mean she was welcome here, in that she was leery of transgressing against her host and possibly getting kicked back out, so Bernie decided that the best and safest course of action was to sit silently among these cushions and remain unproblematic, ideally unnoticed.

"Do you have anything to drink here?"

"Water."

"Eugh."

"I do not drink alcohol. You know that."

Focusing on her pitcher-plant-purse was impossible, though. She was too tense, senses still on alert, not to eavesdrop. Once she got enough evidence that these were nice people and nothing bad was going on, she could calm down. Discreetly, she flared her Crest, the sign of Saint Indech sharpening her hearing.

"Forgive her, Jeritza. It's been a day. A marathon day. And it's not yet noon."

"Nevertheless, your Highness, it would be best for us all to keep our wits about us."

Oh Goddess, she was eavesdropping on the Crown Princess.

"You're right. We should be on high alert for another assassination attempt. As it was, only luck saved me from getting a lethal dose of poison this time."

Oh motherfucking Goddess and all her saints!

"Was it luck? I find myself wondering if Claude von Riegan knew about the poison."

"Hmph. In hindsight, my instincts should have warned me. That morning was constructed to make me impatient and hungry enough to immediately bite into a tart of unknown provenance. I thank the Goddess his instincts were working."

"Instinct? Fair enough, but wherever would a sellsword's son learn such things?"

"You don't have to use that tone, Henriette. I'll admit that you were right; his father was probably more important than he's letting on. I think he might have spent time in Almyra's royal court. He made a good showing of himself, at least. Do you think I impressed him?"

"You cannot fail to be impressive, my love. Despite the fact that you still don't know how to flirt with men—"

"Initial meeting, Henriette! Testing the waters, that's all!"

Jeritza's quiet voice cut in. "If he ate poison for you, that should be all you need."

"Quite. Well, in between dodging further assassins, I think I'll move on to next steps. Can't seem like I'm meddling with the church, so no visits to Garreg Mach. Let's keep it to letters until he graduates."

"Hopefully he survives that long. The students are having a hell of a year."

"You two are both so negative! You know I'll have to find a husband or two someday, Henriette, and you agreed with me on that young little foreign heir desperate for political support!"

The women are silenced by Jeritza's long sigh. "You came here to talk about security, yes? Not the Crown Princess's quest for a husband? Because I can only help with the former."

"Eugh. Yes, yes. The first thing is to avoid further poisoning. We don't have a food taster here, but as soon as we get back to Enbarr—"

She is interrupted by rustling – the entrance of someone else, Bernie supposed. "Um, hello. I got told to come here because you wanted to ask questions? About, like, there was something wrong with the tarts this morning? I'm the one who served them." She recognized that voice. That was Cyril, who worked at Garreg Mach.

"Oh, what's your name, boy? What an excellent idea, Henriette."

"I didn't ask him here. Not yet."

"Neither did I."

"Well, someone did," Cyril whined. "She was one of your people. Had eagles on and everything." There is a silence. "You can't get me in trouble for coming here when I was told to. It was a good idea, even! She admitted it! I haven't had a good morning, you know. Do you know how terrible it feels to carry a poisoned cake to someone, and then they eat it and don't even die?" That last, loud sentence was punctuated with a wet sound, a tearing sound.

A woman let out a cry, and even then it took a few slow moments for Bernie to gather that someone had just been stabbed.

Then, the sounds started coming more quickly. Flesh tore in a violent rhythm. Cloth rustled, trinkets clinked and broke as they were upended onto the floor. Screams started and were quickly cut off. The wet sounds continued, and then Cyril started talking again.

"I mean, really. Really. It was all his plan, his fancy clever plan, 'oo hoo hoo we'll trigger a civil war with one death I'm so clever, no need for stabbing,' and then he fucking eats half of the cake himself? The tart, whatever, fuck!" Something made of cloth tore apart, and then the sound of violence continued. The room's other occupants were making no noise at this point.

Neither was Bernie. She just stayed there, hands on a pillow, feeling the cloth press into her fingertips. Feeling the thin curtain flutter in the passage of the man on the other side. The small oil lamp on her side kept flickering. She wondered if it projected her silhouette through the curtain. She didn't dare move to extinguish it. She did, however, stop flaring her Crest. It didn't help; he was talking too loudly now.

"I don't even know what goes through his fucking head! It's like he tricks you into thinking he's a real, like, thinking person, and then NOPE! Nothing but empty space in there!" Glass shattered.

If anyone outside heard some of this, Bernie thought, they were probably too scared of Jeritza to come check it out.

"…Light burn me," the killer panted, "but it's been way too long since I got to stab someone." He let out a satisfied sigh. Water poured from something into something else, and splashed lightly as he cleaned himself. The heavy cloth of the tent flap thumped. Bernie still didn't move.

She breathed. Her fingers pressed into the pillow. Her breaths became less shallow. Her thoughts still did not move. Her body did not move. Even when someone else's voice sounded outside the tent: "I've been to Otto's; I managed to get an apology, and some of the pastries back. I know you probably haven't eaten lunch yet…"

That voice very quickly turned to screams, too.

Crimson Wind (A Fire Emblem: 3 Houses AU)

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