It would have been naive to think that defeating Edelgard would ensure a generation of peace. Byleth had known this at the back of her mind even as she and Dimitri had walked from that throne room, the blood of the emperor’s pierced heart still dripping from Areadbhar. 

That was why she had been so determined that Dimitri did not look back – he had to keep walking forward.

One enemy had been vanquished, but there would be other trials and tribulations before Dimitri would be settled on the throne: internal struggles, rebellions and uprisings from both former imperial and Alliance territories; external threats from the frigid Sreng region to the mysterious western continent of Dagda; and unquestionably new enemies never before encountered would crop-up, bringing with them new dangers Byleth hadn’t even considered yet.

It was the way of the world. Human nature would always ensure conflict somewhere, and all they could do was face it head-on.

Dimitri had accepted this fact with a tinge of sorrow. Yet he believed this would be his redemption, his means to make amends for the countless lives he ruined during the Five-Year War of Fódlan. Darkness might have consumed him, but thanks in no small part to the sacrifices of those who believed in him, he had been saved. Haunted by voices crying for vengeance, he hoped to appease them by writing the wrongs of the past, by making their deaths count for something instead of giving himself over to their demands with blood.

Dimitri would make it his calling to rebuild the realm from the bottom up rather than top-down.

“That, I believe, was her mistake,” he had told the packed Church at his coronation after Archbishop Byleth – and fiancée – had placed the crown on his head. “The Adrestian emperor erroneously antagonised the Church and targetted people’s faith. She sought to flatten the cultures of Faerghus and Leicester to become the sole hegemony of Fódlan and enforce the changes she desired without opposition. Without allowing the people to choose their faith over her ideals.”

He seldom called Edelgard by name anymore, as though to do so would give her ghost power.

“I assure you I will not be so arrogant as to presume I know what’s best for every barony. Instead, I will rely on others to educate me on every corner of my realm.”

Determined to leave the Kingdom a better place than when he found it, Dimitri would rebuild from the ground up – and Byleth wanted nothing more than to help him see it through.

Byleth found the world such a complicated place. 

Eight years ago, she had fully expected to remain a mercenary until her death: by old age, illness or sword. Probably the latter. That said, right up until that night at Remire Village, when her life changed forever after she met Dimitri, Edelgard and Claude, she had yet to find a soul who came close to even leaving a scratch on her.

Not a single one.

Yet there was something much simpler about her before-life as a sellsword. A job ended when the intended target was dead, and when that mark was dealt with, the contract ended. And Byleth was very good at her job, a quick, powerful and effective killer.

The ‘Ashen Demon’, they called her, for two reasons: her calm demeanour on the battlefield and her almost inhuman quality off of it. When people spoke of her and called her that, it was in awe, with a sense of neverending fear. 

The Ashen Demon doesn’t feel like ordinary people.

The Ashen Demon doesn’t bleed, for she’s made of stone.

The Ashen Demon is beyond human understanding.

And Byleth hated it.

People would snidely scoff and insult her as a ‘monster’ or ‘evil thing’ because of her apparent apathy towards her work. Byleth didn’t understand why. If anything, she thought mercs who couldn’t stomach killing died or outright took pleasure in the act were far, far stranger than she was. Day in, day out, she moved from one job to another and did what she was told. Killing, killing, killing. A neverending grind of flesh and bone. It was a simple yet empty and monotonous life. She hated being the ‘Ashen Demon’. It gave her no pride, no emotion, no fulfilment. 

So, she didn’t miss it when those three lords stumbled into her life and took her away from it forever.

She had a limited understanding of her feelings, but she felt so strongly about the mission that she believed this had to be what her father had meant when he left her mother’s ring to her.

His voice still resounded in her mind:

“One day, I hope you love someone as well as I loved her.”

And honestly, Byleth loved her students dearly: sweet Ashe, prickly Felix, gentle Dedue, kind Mercedes, cheerful Annette, genteel Flayn, sensible Ingrid and flippant Sylvain. 

Then there were the others who had joined their ranks, from the wistful Dorothea to the conscientious Ignatz, from friendly Hilda to wise little Lysithea. Bold Leonie, who had admired her father Jeralt so highly, came to look upon Byleth as an elder sister. The fastidious Lorenz, whom Byleth had pulled to his feet after he lay defeated at the Great Bridge of Myrddin, fell an enemy but arose once more a friend.

She still loved the ones she could not save: bright Petra, naive Ferdinand, and cheerful Caspar, the sight of their broken bodies haunting her to this day. 

She feared the worst for Linhardt, Raphael and Marianne, none of whom she had seen in years. Even Edelgard and Hubert lingered in her mind – though neither had been easy to love.

Well and truly, Byleth adored them all. 

Each had needed her at one time or another – but above them all, Dimitri needed her the most. Above them all, Dimitri adored her the most. That was why she had accepted his proposal of marriage.

On the Twentieth Day of the Horsebow Moon, the Year 1186, Byleth’s twenty-somethingth birthday, King Dimitri took her as his wife – by all accounts, an incredibly beneficial marriage for both parties.

Dimitri’s heart longed for decentralisation of power that would allow the commoners, the burgess, civil parishes and districts to have a more significant say in the governance of the countries and duchies within which they resided. However, there was no denying that giving away too much power to others would undermine his position in the long run. The key to survival was to be fair yet threatening.

This was where Byleth’s role came in. 

After all – it was she who had crowned Dimitri. Her perceived divinity was vital for many reasons. From the founding of the Adrestian Empire, it was believed that the emperor’s power was derived from the Goddess through Seiros, Her representative on Earth. 

Then, when Loog the ‘King of Lions’ had won independence for Faerghus, it had been the Archbishop who acknowledged the new Kingdom and blessed it within the eyes of the Goddess.

Rhea had made no secret of her belief to the apostolic conclave that Byleth was nothing short of a holy avatar of the Goddess-on-Earth. Akin to, if not greater than, Seiros. This made her consecration as Archbishop before the College of Cardinals for the Church a reasonably smooth affair. From there, the cardinals dispatched their ‘little birds’ to spread the words down the clerical food chain that the Faith was in good hands. After all, it was important for the commoners to view Byleth as the undisputed spiritual leader of Fódlan and for the nobility to perceive her as one with supreme authority on Earth.

Archbishops were by nature conduits for the Goddess, or so Byleth learned through Seteth’s instruction. When Loog, the King of Lions, had won independence from the Empire, his recognition by the Church had provided significant weight to his legitimacy. Now, it was through Byleth that Dimitri was crowned the undisputed King within Fódlan.

He was the Saviour King, anointed by the Divine Byleth – and they were married, joining Church and State as one. To the outside world, Byleth would be the Seiros to Dimitri’s Wilhelm in the founding of a new age.

It seemed perfect.

Some questioned whether an Archbishop could marry, let alone wed a monarch. However, there was no order within the sacred scriptures of the Church against an Archbishop marrying, and many saw it as a highly desirable match given the exceptional circumstances following the war. At the very least, and somewhat surprisingly, the cardinals had conveniently deemed it permittable. 

Their main concern had been drawing the lines of power. It was understood that as queen-consort and Archbishop, Byleth’s duties would overlap – but they were ultimately separate. There were no privileges to be made for the consort of an archbishop. Her title was not hereditary nor subject to dynastic struggles. Dimitri’s power began and ended with Faerghus. In other words, Byleth wore two hats: the episcopal tiara of the Church and the queenly circlet of Faerghus, while Dimitri wore a single, clear crown.

Of all the regions within Fódlan, the aptly titled Holy Kingdom of Faerghus was by far the most religious and beholden to the Church. So, Byleth’s position as the latter likely outweighed her role as consort to their King. Yet, in some ways, she suspected it thrilled them that their very own Saviour King was one step away from the divine.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

But whatever doubts Byleth already had, she ignored and busied herself with the task.

Now he was King, Dimitri’s main wish was to see through the ambition that had once been his father, the late King Lambert’s. He sought not to be the absolute ruler of Fódlan but to open up the government to the commons and reduce the Dukes’ influence over the lesser nobles and laity who answered to them. A large part was to change how people thought about blood and crests.

“A man should be judged by the content of their character,” Dimitri had announced to the first meeting of his Privy Council, “not by the crest they may or may not possess.”

Many of the nobility had immediately pushed back, looking to the Archbishop-Queen for clarity. With Seteth’s aid, Byleth put on her best ‘Rhea voice’ and gave numerous sermons to promote this new point of view.

“The Goddess loves all of her children. The time has come to cast aside these crutches such as crests and relics.”

Sylvain and Ingrid swiftly became the pioneers of Dimitri’s stance against ‘crest supremacy’. Newly handfasted and keen to prove a point, both surrendered the Lance of Ruin and Luin to the Church, remarking that they would “use the same weapons as any other knight.” That single act struck a chord with people better than Dimitri or Byleth could have said.

By far, the Srengish of the north were the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus’s most aggressive neighbours, and Sylvain was a greenhorn Margrave charged with defending the marcher lands they bordered. All and sundry were convinced that Sylvain was a fool to surrender his family’s prized possession and awaited the day when he would beg Byleth for it back.

That day did not come.

Over that first year, Sylvain’s ability to deal with swarm attacks and raids from Sreng as quickly as they began without the Lance of Ruin gave some pause. Not much pause, though, as much to Sylvain and Ingrid’s annoyance, people still attributed their success to their crests rather than their skills as Warrior Margrave and Margravine.

But Sylvain was determined to put his money where his mouth was.

Shortly after their marriage, Ingrid fell pregnant with their child. Then, on the Twenty-seventh Day of the Garland Moon, the Year 1187, Conor Frederick Gautier was born healthy and utterly crest-less. From his birth, he had been the centre of his parent’s world. They were swift to declare him as Sylvain’s undisputed heir, regardless of whether they later had a child with a crest. Letters from them recounted every detail of his growth: his first laugh, babbles that might be words, first actual words, rolling over, standing up, walking and more…

Conor was an adorable little boy with a tuff of red hair, a musical giggle and a wonderful smile. So happy and merry – what did it matter if he didn’t bear a crest? The sight of that sweet little toddler waddling around had been one for sore eyes, making Byleth’s lips curl up, but her heart sting. After all, it had been just over a year of marriage, but her womb was still very much empty.

Garreg Mach swiftly became a respite from Fhirdiad’s Royal court for Byleth. Intrigue could be exciting, but as the months rolled on, she grew weary of the gossip being mainly about her. Specifically, her not yet being pregnant despite Dimitri’s ‘valiant efforts’.

Sex was an occupational duty of a queen, one she accepted whenever Dimitri sought it from her. The act was nice enough, though Byleth didn’t quite see what all the ‘fuss’ was about. Not back then, at least. She could tell there was something enjoyable at the back of the act, somewhere, just out of reach. Frustratingly she did not know what it was, how to describe it, nor seek it out. So, she stayed silent. But that sense of ‘something’ missing remained. Heart dull and heavy, Byleth wondered if there was something wrong with her. Maybe her status as a Goddess Vessel meant carnal pleasure was beyond her.

It was better to focus on more important things, anyway.

Discussing how change might be implemented was fun for Byleth and her former students. One vision Dimitri had, in particular, was to replicate the Church of Seiros’s military model and build a standing army of professional soldiers rather than relying on lords to raise levies.

“Excellent idea, boar!” said Felix during the Wyvern Moon Privy Council meeting. Now the new Duke of Fraldraius, he had recently returned from his honeymoon in Derdriu, having married Annette two months prior and made her his Duchess. “We might actually get some half-decent soldiers if we do that instead of shoving peddlers and farmers onto the frontlines.”

Byleth had agreed.

As the Archbishop, Byleth found herself at the head of a large, imposing army, which Rhea had used to ensure any deviation from the teachings of Seiros would be quashed with ease. No doubt centralising the forces would benefit a king seeking to change civil affairs.

Byleth knew none of this would be achieved without a fight.

This was a practical side to Dimitri’s marriage to her – a slight against the King was now an attack on the Church and vice versa…

Now, it was nearly Faerghus Foundation Day. Tonight there would be celebrations, with dancing and merriment. Then tomorrow, the main event. A day-long feast at Court and across the city of Fhirdiad and beyond. Though it had once been a holiday only observed in the north, now all of Fódlan was encouraged to eat, drink and be merry.

She and Dimitri were taking breakfast with Ingrid, Sylvain… and Conor. Byleth’s eyes were firmly on the child, enjoying his little garbles of “dada” and “mamon” and “lie-lon” — referring to the toy lion Dimitri had gifted the child with earlier.

She gave him a little wave, which he gladly returned.

After the plates were cleared, they remained seated, speaking of their progress surrounding crests, relics and Dimitri’s plan to form a professional army.

“You know we agree with you, Your Majesty,” Ingrid declared excitedly, bouncing Conor on her knee. “A standing army won’t only improve the quality of troops.”

“You can say that again,” agreed Sylvain, waving the plushie in his son’s face. “It would allow commoners to develop something of a ‘trade’ in the army.” Little Conor grabbed the stuffy, immediately shoving it in his mouth. The Margrave turned his attention back to Dimitri. “Think about it! They couldn’t dream of holding rank in an army before now–“

The lion toy flew past his head, landing with a squeak in the middle of the table. Everyone chuckled as Byleth retrieved it. It was covered in drool, but she didn’t mind.

“Thank you, Professor,” Ingrid nodded sheepishly. “He’s teething.”

Byleth knelt, handing the toy to the little person. Conor gave her a gummy smile, and her chest felt tight. “My pleasure,” the queen whispered, a crack in her voice. She couldn’t bring herself to meet her husband’s eye.

Sylvain continued. “Ahem, as I was saying, commoners rarely held rank in an army unless they were part of a mercenary company or in the Church army. And even then, the latter tended to favour people from established, crest-bearing families.”

“Indeed,” Dimitri nodded, fingers tapping against the wood. “I’ll admit this is an ambitious plan. But the tides are turning in our favour. Thanks to your efforts, people are starting to see one can defend their borders without a Hero’s Relic.”

“Aw shucks, Your Majesty!” Sylvain chuckled with a playful wink. “We didn’t do much. Your encouragement and your lovely queen’s sermons laid the groundwork for us.”

“It sure did!” Ingrid concurred, adjusting Conor on her knee to brush his soft, red hair out of his eyes. She turned to Byleth, offering her a mind smile. “I’m eternally grateful for your support in mine and Sylvain’s decision to–aww, Conor!”

The baby chucked the lion toy across the room. It bounced, rolled and landed at Dimitri’s feet.

Sylvain laughed again as the king scooped it off the ground. “Should I take offence?” Dimitri asked teasingly. “It was I who gave him this stuffy, after all.”

A cute little blue lion cub. Byleth smiled, remembering how somebody once called her students her ‘cubs’, too. “Maybe he’d prefer another animal?” she suggested.

Dimitri handed the lion to Conor. The child grabbed brashly, immediately biting on one of its ears. He chuckled, patting him on the head.

It made Byleth feel sick.

“Fódlan is changing,” Dimitri suddenly declared. “And with it, our outlook. We need to be careful as we implement these changes. Adrestia is still an unruly child of Fódlan, and Leicester is in a transitional phase, still. But we must strive to do our best for all the people in our land.”

The Archbishop-Queen smiled. It made her proud to see Dimitri finally voicing the ideas he had once only spoken to her in confidence. In some ways, she still saw him as a student. The satisfaction she derived from Dimitri’s triumphs in public was enough to distract Byleth from the lack of physical passion she felt when they were in private. 

If only you could give him the one thing he needs from me, she thought to herself. If you could, maybe you wouldn’t feel so wretched. 

“But let us push further discussions until after the festivities,” the King decided then with a thin smile. “We’ll have much to discuss at the next council meeting, I wager. Something tells me the coming year will be one of great change.”

A turning point, indeed. 

Sure enough, the course of history would change forever. 

After all, it was on the twentieth day of the Red Wolf Moon in 1187 that it happened. Claude von Riegan returned. The prodigal Duke of Riegan, who had waltzed off into the sunset just over a year prior. As abruptly as he had flown away, Claude flew back into their lives just as suddenly in the most unexpected way imaginable. 

None of them sitting at that breakfast table had any idea that, at that moment, a desert storm was rolling in from the east, carrying the wind of change. And Byleth would discover that ‘something’ lurking in her desires, previously out of reach, would soon be in her grasp…

Hundreds upon hundreds of leagues from Fhirdiad, Byleth battled on the frontlines of a battle. She fighting an old enemy thought to have been vanquished, the mysterious mages of Edelgard who had fled during the siege of the Imperial Palace. They had seemingly returned to carry on the imperial fight despite the death of their ruler, using Caspar’s elder brother, Jakob, Count of Bergliez, as their new figurehead.

They had crossed the Gwydion bridge, just downriver of Myrddin, and had laid waste to the small township on the Gloucester side of the Airmid, killing the Baron.

The betrayal of his deceased peer’s sibling had enraged Dimitri – but Byleth had purposefully planned to combat the uprising in the south before a single word of the matter was spoken to Dimitri.

And she would achieve it without him.

He is not in the right mind to deal with Adrestia, or that’s how she justified her choices. Dimitri had good and bad moons, but this year was harsh. The tensions between Faerghus and Sreng, the public pressures of kingship clubbed together with their personal difficulties in producing an heir, had flung him into a ‘sensitive’ state.

This betrayal by Count Bergliez, aided by none other than the fiends who created Edelgard’s monsters and abetted her most heinous acts, only added to Dimitri’s growing temper.

Byleth knew the best course of action had been to occupy Dimitri with another task. She reasoned that her husband was better placed in Fhirdiad, aiding Sylvain against the northern menace, the newly-elected Srengish Konunger Wilfrith, instead of coming south where his unguarded fury towards the remnants of Edelgard’s faction might get him killed.

To spare Dimitri’s pride, she had told him and the Privy Council that, as Archbishop and geographical neighbour to Gloucester, it made more sense for her armies and those of Leicester and its allies to handle the uprising in the south. She had been more than relieved when they agreed, and several months later, she felt the same despite her lack of military resources with Dimitri at home.

In fact, Byleth lacked many of her best people in general.

Hilda was in Gloucester nursing her newborn daughter, Susannah Geneviève, and managing the estate in Lorenz’s place while he accompanied Byleth to war.

Dedue, these days more a steward and bodyguard than a general, had rightly remained with Dimitri.

In Gautier, Sylvain and Ingrid were naturally on the frontlines against Sreng, holding on as best they could so as not to call on their King for aid. Felix was assisting the pair while Annette was heavy with their child and soon to enter her confinement. He had left her at Garreg Mach to await his return and the birth of their child. Mercedes was at the monastery also, running a home for Fódlan’s orphans, and preparing for her best friend to give birth.

Bernadetta was there, too, though not assist with any baby-delivering; her main focus was teaching Mercedes orphan children how to sew – at a good distance. As for Flayn, Seteth had outright refused to allow her to endanger herself in this particular skirmish, ordering her to remain with Mercie to await the wounded.

Byleth could not take any chances, so she had left Captain Alois to command her remaining forces back at Garreg Mach, should they be needed elsewhere while everyone else was away. Shamir had left Fódlan a while ago, while Manuela had not stepped on a battlefield for years, nor had Dorothea. Elsewhere, Yuri never left Abyss unless ordered to by Byleth- but she preferred knowing his ears were still close to the ground at home. He was always more a spy than a soldier, anyway.

Constance had long since left, returning to rule Nuvelle and doubtless on standby to provide aid to either Dimitri or Byleth should she be asked, while Hapi continued to wander Fódlan, doing her best to avoid sighing. Byleth had no idea where Balthus had slunk off, though he was likely just as fleetfooted, avoiding money collectors.

All that remained with Byleth were Ashe, Lorenz and Leonie as her commanders, though she thanked Sothis within her that she could always rely on Seteth, Cyril and Catherine as well. She kept Lysithea close by as her skill with all forms of magic made her a vital adjacent for the archbishop-queen on the frontline. Together they had marched the Kingdom and Church platoons to meet the imperial dastards at Gwalchmai’s Mouth.

Byleth had terrorised them upon the battlefield with her Sword of the Creator. Then, becoming the infamous Ashen Demon once again, she had mercilessly run them down with her battalion until their line had been broken, pushing the enemy back. Back and around until they slammed into another army headed by Fódlan’s most significant and closest ally: the newly crowned King of Almyra.

In truth, the only success of the year had been securing the treaty with him.

Claude had looked magnificent atop his glorious ivory-toned wyvern as he commanded his mounted Almyran archers to lay waste to the dark mages while the Holy Kingdom’s knights cut down their rear. Most of the enemy fled, scrambling over rocky hills soaked from earlier rainfall and their own blood; those that remained found themselves trapped in the pincer envisioned by the two greatest strategic minds of their day.

Or so everyone praised once the battle was over.

It had gone down as beautifully as it had when they had conceived the notion together a few nights before. Byleth’s body lurched at the memory of the moment when she realised they could use those mountains and Claude’s fliers to their advantage; then lurched again at the remembrance of his lips upon her neck and breath against her ear, praising her thinking.

Right now, she had to be the model of professionalism.

They needed to prepare for the clean-up and the next battle, which meant another strategy meeting. Byleth called her commanders in. Lorenz’s arm was in a sling as he had sustained a burn to his shoulder. Ashe had a nasty cut above his right brow. Leonie and Lysithea were more or less unscathed, as were Cyril and Seteth; Ashe rather anxiously recounted how Catherine had taken a Bolting for him. She would be fine but was still receiving treatment.

Claude informed her then that most of his own commanders had sustained only minor injuries, with the worst being Nader. He had dismounted to attack an enemy commander better, only to slip on a wet rock and gash his arm. The older, burlier, proud middle-aged man laughed it off, noting that he “still got the bastard, didn’t I?” But, looking at him now, Byleth could see that the injury was little more than an irritating scratch – though one that should probably be treated.

“I thank you all,” she began stoically, looking between her own men and the Almyrans. “Every single one of you secured this victory and this turning point in our struggle against the Dark Mages of Edelgard.”

“We must now pursue them with all haste,” Claude added immediately. “Those who have sustained the worst injuries will be sent back behind the lines to Garreg Mach and remain there to bolster our reserve once they recover. With any luck, our next battle will be the final one that ends. Finally.”

Byleth knew it was all fluff – Claude knew as well as she did that there was no ‘final’ in war.

“We cannot allow them to regroup,” he continued. “The archbishop and I will devise our next strategy tonight; at first light, begin our plans to run them down once and for all.”

The Almyrans (save for Cyril) cheered with the gusto one would expect of them. While many Fódleans might look upon their eastern neighbours as aggressive and belligerent, their seemingly unshakeable spirit in the face of death made them a vital asset. Though tensions had been initially high between her own Kingdom-Church forces and Claude’s foreign army, they ultimately helped boost one another’s war-weary morale. The quiet dignity of the Fódleans and the loud zeal of the Almyrans had made for a complementary match. “Put two enemies together and then point them at a bigger enemy – they’ll quickly figure out how to play nice,” was how Claude summed it up.

“We will hold another meeting this evening once we have ascertained the enemy’s whereabouts,” Byleth declared. “For now, rest and savour your achievements tonight. We’re back to work tomorrow. All but Seteth, Ashe and Cyril, you are dismissed.”

Neither she nor Claude looked at one another as the commanders filed out, leaving only themselves, the clerk and the two sentries remained.

“Are you well enough to scout for us, Ashe?” Byleth asked immediately.

“I am,” he promised.

“I need you both to head in the direction the enemy retreated and find out where they went.”

“You both know the drill,” Claude nodded. “Try to get a good idea of the terrain. The Archbishop and I can only do so much with a few scrawls on a map. You must let us know if there are any nasty surprises ahead.”

The neighbouring sovereign King handed the younger Almyran a copy of the map. Cyril bowed firmly, “You can count on us.”

Seteth watched as the two young men departed from the tent before turning to his leader. “What did you need me for, Lady Byleth?”

“I need you to ensure that our wounded make it safely back to Garreg Mach and that our reserves have a clear path through should we require them,” the archbishop-queen decreed.

The older man flinched, his scowl deepening the fine lines of age on his face. “I must leave you here alone?”

“I am not alone,” she assured him with a tiny smile. “You know I am not… but I need someone I completely trust to do this. You are a capable commander, more seasoned than anyone here. That’s why it must be you. You will leave after the meeting tonight.”

He concurred but certainly did not look happy.

“What about the King? Do you wish me to compose an update for him of our victory here today?”

Those were his two usual tasks: command of the church armies and writing Byleth’s letters for her. She found herself glancing over to Claude to check how he felt about this. The mention of Dimitri had not phased him; he stood with his usual smile, the one that never reached his eyes. Then, realising that she wanted his opinion on whether updating Dimitri was wise at this point, he gave her a sideways nod of approval before she turned back to Seteth.

“Yes, if you would,” she said finally. “Though allow me to read and add to it before it is sent. We must not be too hasty in resting on our laurels. Again, tonight.”

Seteth bowed his head with a repeat of “tonight” before taking his leave of them. “Your Grace,” he spoke to Byleth and, “Your Royal Highness,” to Claude, tone a barely concealed acid.

Their eyes watched as he departed and left them alone with several half-full wine cups and the large map spread before them. Byleth let out a deep sigh while Claude stretched his shoulders and neck before grabbing his own rather full cup to take a sip.

“What now, ‘Your Grace’?”

She ignored his facetious tone, reaching for her own barely-touched drink as she leaned over the map and tried to take it in. “I hope they find something we can use.”

“Ashe and Cyril are two of the most reliable lads you could have put on this task,” he assured her. “If they don’t notice anything, then our job here–” indicating the map with a pinky finger, “–will be much simpler.”

Byleth’s own fingers drummed against paper and table.

“Where do they disappear to after the retreat?” she wondered aloud. “We’ve been at this for the last moon, and have you ever encountered an enemy camp?”

“You’ve been wondering about that as well?”

He put the cup down and pointed to a particular spot. “When I was out there, those who made it out before we encircled them went this way. Perhaps they have a permanent settlement nearby if they aren’t returning to a campsite?”

Byleth scowled at his finger. “The nearest village is some four- or five leagues away. I suppose it’s possible, but I know for a fact that a competent mercenary group is stationed there who would tell me if a single one of those dark mages reared their heads.”

“Oh, would they?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “They are my father’s company. I know us mercs have a reputation for selling to the highest bidder, but they wouldn’t betray me, no matter the price.”

Claude sniggered. “I bet they wouldn’t dare.”

She watched as he marked the village off with a token. Then, his finger ran against the painted lines until it found her hand. Placing his palm above it and linking their digits together, he indicated the area around where the enemy had lumbered off to.

And Byleth let him.

“With that in mind, we can presume then that they are heading no further than the village,” their fingers came to rest in the valley that stretched from the battlesight to said token-shaped village. After a pause, Claude hummed with interest. “Notice anything interesting?”

Byleth tilted her head, making no move to retrieve her hand.

“The valley, the cliff-sides… there are a few caverns and grottos–” She blinked and looked at him.

His dark-green eyes glimmered with the same realisation. “Exactly.” “They are using the cave systems?”

“Well, why not? It’s as good a theory as any right now.”

Biting her lip, she stared at the map and tried to identify all of the cave entrances that the cartographer had known. “Hiding in the pitch black,” she spoke under her breath. “Perhaps they’re hoping we’ll pass them by. Then once we are far enough away from our vantage point, they’ll appear right behind us.”

“Hm,” Claude mumbled uneasily, envisioning such a disastrous situation. His brow creased, and he tightened his grip on her hand, squeezing it gently. “I’ve read that a great network of caves exists beneath the earth, many of which are interconnected. You could probably enter one in Fódlan and come out in Almyra if you zig-zagged through them long enough. Thinking on a smaller scale, some of these caves could also be connected, allowing these bastards to pop out wherever they want.”

“But,” Byleth interjected, “wouldn’t we see the light from the caves? Surely they would need torches to get around? They aren’t moles.”

“I suppose.” His arm encircled her torso, pulling her in towards his own body and provoking another sigh from her. “Though,” he added, bringing his face closer to hers. “If they are deep enough within the cavern, we wouldn’t see them… and as capable as I think Ashe and Cyril are, I don’t fancy sending them on a fact-finding mission to tell us for sure. Not if we ever want to get them back. Right now, I’ll settle for it being a ‘working hypothesis’.”

He placed a kiss behind her ear.

“Behave yourself! We’re supposed to be working.”

“We are working,” he snickered, giving the lobe a small nibble. Despite Byleth’s words, she leaned back against him with a pleased hum. “I think we’re making excellent progress.”

She might have just melted there and then… but she still tried to maintain some semblance of resistance. She smiled despite herself. “Oh, and you think you deserve a break already? You’ve always sought rewards for even minimal effort, even at school.”

“I can’t help if I’ve always responded best to the positive reinforcement of my favourite Teach.” His free hand made its way along her body, brushing her bare abdomen and making her shiver.

A content hum escaped her. “Some might call it vain.”

He snorted. “You’re only now figuring this out about me?!”

The wandering hand found its way to the top of her corset before beginning to delve inwards, caressing her mound, then pinching a nipple. 

At this, Byleth snapped out of her lust-induced haze, speaking in a harsh, frantic whisper. “Wait! Stop! Someone might walk in.”

“They won’t,” Claude assured, breath tickling her ear. “I left instructions we were not to be interrupted until the official meeting tonight under any circumstances. ‘We can’t strategise if people keep distracting and obstructing our thought process,’ so I said.”

He teased her teet between index and thumb, making Byleth hiss.

“This isn’t supposed to be distracting?” 

Claude began to kiss her neck. 

“No,” he mumbled between caresses, “this is supposed to get you in the mood.”

It was working. Byleth was barely cognizant of anything beyond his hands down her top or mouth against her pulse. 

“Claude,” she moaned, “what if… ugh!” her loins leapt with want, “people hear us!” 

He pressed his body against her, and she felt his quickening heartbeat and growing desire jutting against the small of her back. Cupping her chin, he kissed along her jaw, voice low and gravelly, “Then you better keep it down, Your Grace.” 

“Claude, for goodness sake!”

At that, Claude whined in almost-comedic frustration and spun her around. His grip was much firmer and steadfast, starkly contrasting the fragility Byleth felt gathering in her limbs. She was grateful for his hold lest she was to collapse into a puddle on the floor. They were face to face for the first time that day, since the last time they were together like this.

“They didn’t catch us last night,” he contested, voice playful but eyes dark with hunger. “Or the night before that and the one before that. No one suspected when we snuck off to the storehouse, then the convoy, then the forest… oh! Remember that time in the forest, after the battle – now that was risky of you. Even I was impressed! But even then, we weren’t caught.”

Byleth quivered at the memory of each ‘dance’. Many of their dalliances were quick, where she would drop to her knees to swallow him- or he to his to drink her like tea. Sometimes there wasn’t time for that, forcing them to use only their fingers to dabble out tiny bursts of pleasure from each other. But Byleth preferred to have Claude fully, to feel him buried deep inside her.

We shouldn’t, her mind whispered, just as it always did. But, that voice was getting weaker as the days and weeks passed. Then, swiftly, it was replaced by the scream of her heart and blood, begging to give herself utterly to this beautiful man.

But someone might walk in!

“Claude…” she puled.

“Never been caught in your chambers at Garreg Mach, either, or hidden behind the walls. Not to mention in Ansah-“

“Claude.”

“When we first made love-!”

“Shush!”

Her hiss almost crossed the line from whisper to dangerously loud.

With a heavy exhale, Claude’s shoulders dropped. Taking a step back, he lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. Let’s reconvene in ten minutes – no, let’s make it fifteen minutes. Twenty tops. I just need to- ahem, sort myself out, so to speak.”

Byleth stumbled backwards into the table, gripping the edges for support. She felt so weak, as though her bones had lost all purpose. He had such power over her; that it drove her insane. 

Taking deep breaths, she stared into space for a few seconds before she dared to look at him again. He expected her to provide her approval of his “plan”. Instead, she closed her eyes. 

“I’m not saying ‘no’; I’m saying not here.”

It took her another moment before she felt capable enough to stand straight, take his hand and lead him beyond a partition into a small makeshift study. 

They weren’t Byleth’s official ‘quarters’ in camp, which were somewhat grander and befitting an archbishop-queen, but it was comfortable. Due to Byleth’s habit of staying up late to fiddle about with her plans, write non-Seteth approved letters or simply read, the cot was handy for comfort and cold nights when she felt too tired to walk back to her own tent. She had lived as a commoner most of her life, so in some ways, this set-up felt more ‘her’. Amidst the stacks of books, piles of papers and rolled maps, there was a small desk and an ordinary chair set against it with a modest, well-worn cushion atop it, and to the side of that was a cot.

That cot had seen a lot of use this month, she thought wryly. It was made for one but had borne the weight of two several times, not to mention the brunt of excited, desperate sex.

Placing the partition back across, Byleth enveloped his neck with her arms, pulling him into a deep and long kiss; the sound it induced from him was a sigh that was nothing short of utter relief. 

Claude placed his hands on her back and tilted her sideways, slipping his tongue into her mouth. With an approving moan, she accepted him, arching her back as far forward against him as she could, offering herself to him- as she most certainly would again before the war’s end.

Byleth broke the kiss.

Eyes locked together, she tenderly linked their fingers to lead him to the cot.

“We shouldn’t be too long,” she warned quietly, beginning to disrobe. “Someone could still walk in and hear us.”

He stifled a chuckle, mumbling, “quick and quiet, gotchya!” under his breath as he moved to loosen his sash.

Byleth shivered as she lay back, parting her legs in anticipation. “Oh, that’s perfect,” he whispered, throwing his ornate garbs aside piece by piece, eyes fixed on her. “You look so good, lying there, waiting for me…” His words burned, but she only felt warm once he had finally freed himself entirely. “I really do hate to keep you waiting.” He propped himself above her, naked skin pressed against her own. That made her writhe, wanting to feel every inch of him against her. “Gods, you’re gorgeous, my stars!” He kissed her, rubbing intimately against her. “Oh, you’re so wet,” he growled as he touched her delicately. “Feels like silk.” Her body was buzzing, blood scorching, pulse-pounding, and if her heart could beat, it would have skipped too. 

“Ready to be quick and quiet, By?” She felt him brushing against her, cursing him for teasing her like this, like always.

“Please,” she rasped. “I want you.”

Claude didn’t make her wait. 

Smothering her mouth to catch her whimpers, he took her. A mew of approval escaped Byleth’s lips, enjoying his snug feel. He hummed happily, continuing to kiss her as they found their rhythm.

They began to make love.

Through the haze of pleasure and joy, Byleth locked herself around him with her arms and legs as if to clutch him was to cling to life itself. His lips smirked with approval, sinking deeper and deeper with each focused thrust, provoking more mewls of euphoria from her. 

Then, she squeezed her walls around him, something she knew he loved. 

He fought back a howl akin to a beast.

“Oh yeah,” he muttered weakly. “Do that again.”

She did, and he swallowed a throaty growl. “I love it when you ‘hug’ me like that…” he professed. Like being caught in the best trap on Earth, was how he had described it once. It made him feel extra superb, too, each roll of his hips hitting the mark inside her. 

“Claude…”

He brushed the hairs from her eyes. “I love it when you say my name like that,” he purred, making her curl her legs tighter around his waist, “and when you hold me like this…” then he slowed his pace slightly, making her whine, “and make these amazing sounds for me…”

“Don’t stop. Please!”

The strangled laugh that escaped him reverberated through her. He kissed her firmly before picking up the pace again. “I won’t, I swear. I won’t stop until you’ve come.”

That made her cry out in suspense.

Byleth knew this was wrong. She was married, an archbishop and the queen-consort. Dimitri’s queen-consort. His wife! She should only be doing this with her husband. She ought to feel guilty for this, yet any regret she might have felt was repressed by how perfect being with Claude felt. 

When they were together, it was like she had found the other part of herself. And when he was right there inside her, she was complete. She felt understood. She felt loved. And he could make her come.

Claude pressed his forehead firmly against hers, speaking as though he had read her mind.

“We belong together. Mithunatar. No matter the distance between us, we are two parts of one whole, like… bookends!” 

Byleth giggled, her vibrating body making him curse in delight.

Still, what he said was funny. He could have likened their unspeakable bond, fateful love, and ruinous affair to anything but — bookends? She supposed she understood the sentiment. They were apart more than they were side-by-side. Yet they were as one, and whether abed or planning their next course of action in battle, Claude made her feel whole.

It was ironic, really. Thinking back to the Academy, of all the students she taught across all of the houses, from the Blue Lions to the Black Eagles and his own Golden Deer, Claude was ultimately the one who had needed her the least. Quietly observing her from a distance, he took her lessons to heart, never seeking validation from her. Claude proved his progress by doing. 

During the Five Year War, he had held the Alliance against Edelgard with little more than his wits, avoiding the conflict through diplomacy. After that, Claude travelled to many lands beyond the borders of Fódlan, united the warring clans of Almyra, and then rose to take the crown with his father and his people’s blessing. He had achieved so much, primarily through his own mastery. 

Sometimes Byleth wondered if she had chosen to lead Claude’s class instead, would Dimitri have achieved as much, or would he have been another broken body upon the field of Gronder, one of the many that she could still see in her mind’s eye?

Close. Byleth closed her eyes, feeling her growing ecstasy. So close.

She gripped her lover’s shoulders firmer, indicating how near she was getting, prompting him to go faster, wilder…

Claude would still be here, though. She believed that no matter what. He would find a way to win, no matter what. Even if they were enemies and her sword was the one hovering above his head, he would escape and live another day. He would always find a way to survive. Always find his way to her like this. Win her trust and her heart. Not because he needed her but because he wanted her.

Because fate couldn’t bear to part them.

Byleth keened. Claude muffled her cry, and his own, with one last heavy kiss. Her body quivered from her orgasm, the heat of his own release aglow deep inside her.

The evening came quickly.

After dinner, the commanders were called back into the war tent to discuss the plans for the coming battle – and to receive Ashe and Cyril’s report. As suspected, they had caught sight of some unusual activity at the lip to one of the cave entrances, feeding into Byleth and Claude’s theory that the caves were serving as a shelter for the enemy. The only question was, how would they use this to their advantage?

Claude stated that it would be most helpful if they could somehow draw them out under false pretences. Then, taking the tokens and markers for the map, he explained the plan – what his army would do, where the Kingdom-Church army would come in, how they might introduce the reserve if needed – and he pointed towards the village.

“The archbishop has allies stationed at the village; we have already sent word to them to stand ready to defend the settlement should it become a target.”

“Jeralt’s mercenaries!” Leonie gasped, eyes bright as she looked at Byleth. The archbishop-queen just nodded and smiled, eyes settling back on Claude.

He was so animated, thorough, and controlled the room – revealing nothing. Byleth hoped she gave off the same aura, lest everyone there – Fódlean and Almyran, young and old, and Seteth – suspect how “the two greatest strategic minds of their day” had spent half of their secret tactics-talk today enthralled in adulterous lovemaking.

He’s such a fantastic lover, she mused blithely, admiring his handsome profile. I never stand a chance.