Afterglow

In Almyra, the Wise One was believed to exist within every living being, and Its presence took the form of a flame. The Zodatan-atar. That fire was your soul. Legends asserted that there were only so many of these fires within the universe. So, at the beginning of eternity, a single flame had to be split between two people. Just as the fire was once whole, the pair completed one another and were forever twinned by fate, destined to meet and fall in love.

Mithunatar.

The moment the sweethearts met, their souls would cry out to one another, and their hearts would connect. Like moths dancing around a torch, it drew them together and consumed them from within. They would be utterly captive to their passions, powerless thralls to their love; nothing could tear them asunder. Kings, countries, skies, the very stars could fall about their ears, but their bond was absolute. 

Almyran romances were filled with these lovers, blessed (or cursed) by God’s fire. Sometimes the endings of their stories would be grim. The man would go mad and scratch out his own eyes, or the woman would die from grief after being forced to marry another man, or they would enter a gruesome death pact so they could be together in the next life. Then, they would return to the braiser at the centre of the universe for the Wise One to reforge into new bodies, bodies that might be granted a kinder life once they returned to this mortal coil…

The idea of a literal half-fire burning in his heart seemed silly to Khalid as a boy. From a young age, he had set his heart on lofty dreams. Finding his mithunatar couldn’t have been further from his mind. 

Yet as he entered what his father called “the summer of life”, Khalid’s mother was concerned that their teenage son would rush to and through, spreading his oats fast and wide. 

In other words, she’s worried I’ll take after Father in his youth.

So, Nader was tasked with giving Khalid the ‘talk’. Their reasoning was that it would be “less awkward” coming from him. 

Ha! No, this wasn’t a conversation Khalid wanted to have with anyone. He didn’t need a lesson in “the ways of life”, as if a precocious little scamp like him hadn’t researched it years ago by reading various books of anatomy that were way, way too adult (and advanced) for him. 

As for “sowing seeds”, there was nothing to discuss.

On that fateful day, when the topic was broached during archery, Nader had spoken in polite terms that were as amusing as they were childish. “Shahsennu must be careful where they sow their seed,” and “Wild oats can come back to haunt you if you aren’t careful.” Khalid humoured his instructor a while longer before he finally confessed that he was ‘keeping his oats to himself.’

That surprised Nader.

“You’re… untouched, eh?” asked Nader, still skirting around the issue. 

That euphemism sounded weird, too. 

Khalid cocked an eyebrow at him. Maybe he thinks I’m still young enough to be naïve but seriously! “If by ‘untouched’ you mean I haven’t penetrated a girl yet,” he blushed as he spoke, but it was funny to see the older man do exactly the same, “Then, yes, I am ‘untouched’, as pure as a fresh spring.”

In the body, if not completely in my mind.

The burly warrior’s forehead creased as if trying to solve a puzzle. “Huh, does it… Is it working okay? Can you get it hard?”

Dropping the indirectness, at last? Khalid cringed, now missing it. “It does, and I can,” he replied curtly. And yes, he’d checked. Multiple times. He was a “growing lad” after all. “I’m not impotent.”

“But no girls have caught your eyes, hm?” Nader’s mind went to the obvious. “How about boys? Do you think you prefer boys, as Hasim or Seyed do?”

The teenager shrugged, wondering why it mattered.

“Honestly, I’m not really fussed, Nader.” Then, he thought about it for a second. Whenever Khalid conjured a picture for his “self-explorations”, it was a woman’s form he fantasised about. Full-figured and trim, he imagined this was his type, what he found attractive enough to beat his rod. But never say never. Maybe if he met the right person, that preference would change. “Right now, though? The idea of putting myself in that position with anyone else feels… strange.”

Anxious, to be exact.

Nader chuckled. “Strange? Ha! Trust me, kiddo. Once you’re in the saddle and go, it’ll feel like the most natural thing on El-Maleekan soil.”

Khalid rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I mean by ‘strange’, Nader.”

To be fair, it might be hard for someone like Nader to understand. He had married Safiya at a young age and sired six daughters and one son (sadly deceased before Khalid was born) with her. Khalid liked Safiya. He’d only met her a few times, but, like Nader, she never treated him differently for being ahmixtan. She was devoted and faithful to her husband, despite him always being away at this battle or that. 

Outwardly, Nader had a good marriage to Safiya. Nevertheless, he was not faithful to her. More than once, Khalid and his peers accidentally walked in on him with a camp follower and had to be shooed off.

Khalid had been shocked the first time it happened. After all, if it had been Father they caught, Mother would kill him. He wondered if Safiya would do the same to Nader…

“That woman’s just jaende!” sneered Shahid, mocking his obvious concern for their taskmaster’s safety.

The younger princes had grown up between the capital Ansah and the war train, moving from battlefield to battlefield as the king and queen kept the clans in line. 

“Yeah, Khalid!” Paivand taunted, poking him harshly. Khalid was a good foot smaller than them in those days, and seeing them both tower over him made him feel tiny. “Do you really believe Father is faithful to your jebahnsen mother?” 

Khalid’s eyes widened. Did they know something he didn’t? Half the reason he was so scared for Nader was that Khalid knew his mother would not stand for Father behaving like that. She literally would kill him! And at that time, he couldn’t understand why Safiya would be any different.

Shahid laughed “Ha! You’re so ghaby, Khalid. Mark my words, Father will toss you barbarians aside, as he did with Paivand’s lowly mother.”

“Yeah–!” Paivand then realised that Shahid’s last jab had been aimed at him, not Khalid. “Wha–? ‘Lowly’?! W-What’s that supposed to mean? My mother’s siharaian!”

“Hm? Oh, true. But Father dismissed her in favour of my mother, who was far better bred. Doubtless, she would be queen now had things gone differently.” Shahid’s voice was bitter. Glaring at Khalid, he added, “Had Mother not died shortly after my birth, this thing wouldn’t even be here.”

Khalid said nothing, glancing off to the side and still wondering how Safiya would react to Nader’s promiscuity.

That was when Shahid gripped his earlobe and twisted it painfully. “What’s with that sheleban look, Khalid?!” he spat into the little one’s ear. “Hm? Do you doubt my words, you filthy little runt? You should be grateful even to be breathing right now because all I say is true!”

He only let go when Nader finally arrived.

Truthfully, though, their father Dariush had been a loose trebuchet in his youth. That reputation attracted the attention of many Yúdhyatahm daughters, keen to be mothers to a shahsennu. Dariush had been considerably less careful than Nader, too. His torrid affairs with various bedfellows resulted in numerous children, none of whom he had the heart to leave unacknowledged. Of the ten Royal siblings, all but two had a different mother, which was only because they were twins. Mustafar and Hasim, the twinned jewels of the celebrated House Shirin. Then came Alaya, the only daughter, sired by a priestess. After that came Dhahir, Kiyan, Radmehr and Seyed, all incredibly close in age and begot from women of various backgrounds during the last Succession War. Finally, Paivand, Shahid and Khalid were the children born after Dariush was crowned.

Being the “baby of the family” and child of the Shah’s legal wife and queen, Khalid was guaranteed a difficult childhood before he was even an indecent glint in his mother’s eyes. And yes, as a tiny child, Khalid feared the day would come when Father would lose interest in his mother. That day never came, and he remained the family’s much-disliked and maligned “baby”.

“I don’t think I’ll enjoy being with someone unless I love them,” Khalid told Nader. If his mate in life was out there in this big wide world, he wanted to wait for them. “Besides, you’re pretty prone when you’re naked. People might try to kill me. Too vulnerable.”

Nader snorted. “You’re scared to share yourself with someone because you’re worried they… might be a hired dagger?”

It hadn’t crossed Khalid’s mind until that moment, but he nodded. 

“Maybe. Thinking about it, if I wanted to kill someone, seducing them – or setting up a honeypot – seems a good way to do it.” It was amazing Shahid was still alive, considering how many posh girls he had deflowered. Had he been anything other than a prince, some siharai or marzpahn would’ve cut his dick off by now. “Nevermind that I could catch something nasty from a casual partner,” he added. He was pretty sure that’s how Paivand caught the pox.

“That’s a little paranoid, Khal,” Nader said with a carefree chuckle. But then, he saw the arrow Khalid was twiddling stop still. The lad said nothing because his face probably said it all. Think about who you’re saying that to, Nader! His teacher had the decency to look ashamed. “Sorry, Khal.”

He turned away to draw the bow, tiring of this conversation. “Look, it doesn’t matter. What I do know is that I don’t feel like having sex for sex’s sake. How will it make me feel happy, really? How does doing help me achieve my goals? All I can see it doing is leaving me open and bare.”

Nader scratched his head again. “What the hell kinda goals d’you have, Khalid? Becoming a eunuch?!”

Khalid loosed his grip on his bow, groaning. “Agh, okay, let me put it another way. What if I told you that you would meet your mithunatar one day, guaranteed? But it won’t necessarily be any day soon. Maybe you need to fulfil other goals before you can be with this person. Maybe your love relies on you living in the world you seek to build. Wouldn’t you put love on the back-burner in favour of that?”

It didn’t work as Nader looked even more bemused. “You sure do talk a lot of tosh sometimes, Khal. Did Alaya give you that option or something? Never known you to pay any mind to her crazy visions.” Khalid blurted out a laugh at that. It was true; Alaya’s visions in flames were very hit and miss. “But sex can be relaxing, kiddo. Some people do it just because it feels good. Frankly, you might benefit from getting all this nervousness out of your system.”

“I can make myself ‘feel good’ without the risk of disease or pregnancy. And I can meditate if I want to relax.” 

At last, the spahbad relented. “Ah, no worries! You’re like you’re Dad. Um, to an extent.”

Ha! ‘To an extent!’ 

Though, in all fairness, the comparison wasn’t too off-target. While Khalid had long since moved past the fear of his mother being set aside, he had only recently broached the subject with his father. Dariush had been a ‘womaniser’ in his younger days, and Khalid was curious why he had changed. Was it really because he loved his mother that much, or was it the fear that the infamous Daevabanu Rhoxana would turn his testicles into earnings if he ever stepped out on her?

Dariush had laughed. “A bit of both, sahzil. As you know, I met your mother long before we married, when I used to go on jollies with Nader over the border. Back then, though, I never imagined it could ever work out with her. That made me bitter. I behaved recklessly. I sought comfort wherever I could find it, but it never made me feel any better.” He then added quickly, “Don’t get me wrong– I have a father’s love for all my children. But if I could redo my youthful exploits, I’d have fought harder for your mother, convinced her to run away with me sooner. We’re mithunatar, after all.”

Khalid twisted an arrow in his fingers, returning to target practice to signal the conversation was over.

Nader regarded him thoughtfully. “So, you’re really ‘saving yourself’ for The One, huh?”

“I guess so.” If nothing else, he would learn from his father’s mistakes. If Khalid was going to be intimate with someone, he wanted it to be with someone he not only loved wholeheartedly but trusted beyond all measure. 

Nader’s expression twisted in amusement. You’re weird, kiddo, it said. It made the young lad grin to know he could stump the undefeated warrior over something as basic as his outlook towards sex. 

“It’s all fine, kiddo, but maybe keep all this to yourself when around the other lads. If someone like Radmehr or Shahid hear you’re living like a eunuch, they’ll probably make you one.”

“Yeah, I had no intention of shouting it from the rooftops.” 

Khalid didn’t want to discuss his love life with anyone. It would all stay safe and sound, buried deep within the confines of his mind.

“Welp,” Nader bleated, clapping his hands conclusively. “Good talk, Khal. Your mother sure will be relieved.”

Those had been the last words he had said about ‘the talk’ before he finally left Khalid to his practice and solitude.

“Yeah,” Khalid mumbled, drawing his bow, focusing squarely on his target. Loosing the arrow, it struck just off-centre. He sighed. “I’m sure she will.”

After their dalliance in the grotto, the King of Almyra and the Archbishop had sashayed back to camp utterly soaked, dishevelled and satisfied. Their state turned a few heads, tousled and wet as they were. Claude imagined her looked utterly undignified, but he didn’t care an ounce. As for Byleth, despite her unkempt appearance, she displayed such solemnity and divine-sternness that none would have suspected traces of Claude’s seed still traced her inner thigh. 

And knowing it did, excited the Almyran king.

Claude might have found their duplicity amusing had their circumstances not been as precarious as it was.

But he had passed the point of feeling ashamed over his love for Byleth. That had before their budding passions even bore adulterous fruit! The truth was when their affair began, all he had wanted was to be with Byleth. Dimitri couldn’t have been further from his mind, so desperate Claude was even to have a tiny piece of the only woman he had ever truly loved. Then, as time progressed, any stigma he felt about his love or acting upon them was surpassed by the conviction that they belonged together.

There’s a special place in hell for men like me. 

He wasn’t too concerned about the opinion of his pasban as they trailed behind him, back towards his quarters. Since he ascended as shahsharan, following the eighteen-millionth succession war since Almyra’s founding, Khalid had a reputation- fair then brutal. 

His father never gave good advice, at least not the sort of advice Khalid would ever seek to follow. However, there was one gem, told him as a boy of fourteen, that he took to heart:

“If people don’t trust you, they will never follow you.”

Claude always sought to sit down with his enemies and try to talk it all out. If they called off the battle and joined his cause, he would gladly accept them into the fold. But, if they antagonised him further despite having been offered the hand of peace, he would show them no mercy. But, sometimes, all talk breaks down, and you cannot find even the narrowest of shared views with your enemy, so there is no choice but to fight. 

He always made good his word and smiled as he did it, even if he didn’t want to. But, seriously, his father had consistently underestimated the power of a smile.

“By maintaining a smile, my rivals and enemies never know what I’m thinking and thus can never second-guess me.”

Those who yielded got Khalid’s smile. Now, they were soldiers in his army, prostrating before him and being the good little soldiers they ought to be. Those that hadn’t surrendered or did and later backstabbed him were dead; it was as he told Byleth if they didn’t bend, he broke them. And if they betrayed him, they got no second chances.

People know better than to cross me now.

It didn’t fill him with pride, but it was reassuring to know he only had to worry about the Fódlans.

It was lucky for them both that her ‘resting-blank face’ allowed her to carry herself in a manner that made her seem unapproachable. She was the empyreal Archbishop of the Reformed Church of Seiros, queen-consort to King Dimitri I of the Holy Kingdoms of Faerghus, Adrestia and Leicester… and unbeknownst to all, my mistress. 

My love…eshtâre’uyla-mi…mithunatar-mi…

Mithunatar. 

His deep, passionate, unyielding and undying true love. A love that cannot be cast aside for anything. Everything he felt for Byleth now. They were the two moths about a flame, the two limbs of a bow, or two magnets being pulled together. The closer they were, the greater the draw. Yet even when they were apart, the longing, dear Lord of Eternity, made him want to scream! 

If soul mates existed, Claude had no doubt that Byleth was his.

Claude sighed loudly as he entered his quarters, barely acknowledging Nader’s greeting on the way in.

Despite having found a moment of respite in that dank little cave sheltered by the shadows, there was already a part of him that felt bereft. Their lovemaking had satisfied Claude’s never-ending hunger for Byleth, but he knew it wouldn’t last. The void he felt whenever they came apart and had to part ways, even for a short while, champed away at his arteries like a mouse on twine, breaking his heart a little more each time.

“Enjoy your bath and stroll in the woods, kiddo?”

Barging into Claude’s quarters, Nader’s voice rang through him like a gong, and his hand slapping him on the back knocked Claude off-kilter. Good job, I’m decent — wait! Are those hickeys covered up? He quickly pressed his fingers against where Byleth had marked him, relieved to feel the cloth that safely hid them. “Good morning to you too, Nader,” he grumbled. “Don’t you mean, ‘How did the reconnaissance go, Your Royal Highness?'”

“Reconnaissance, huh?” said Nader, leaning against the wooden framework of the tent, shaking the entire structure for a moment. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Are you implying something untoward, Nader?”

“Not at all. But you were bathing for a very long time. Me? I prefer to get in, scrub the dirt off and get out, no hanging around and no need for some ex-teacher of mine to drag me out like a naughty kid.” 

A fleeting moment passed. 

“Of course, if that little lady was scouring my back for me—!”

The image of his lover scrubbing Nader’s back was not one Claude cared to have imprinted in his mind. “I hope you aren’t making comments like that about Archbishop Byleth around the camp, spahbad,” he scolded lightly, forcing a smile. “Referring to Lady Byleth as ‘that little lady’ alone is quite disrespectful; implying that she would scour your back is likely blasphemous.”

“What do you take me for, kiddo?” Nader chuckled. “Even if I were dancin’ a jig as I said, the lads would laugh at the image of her scouring anyone’s back. Fódlans can be pretty prudish, after all. Especially their holy figures.”

If only you all knew, the king thought coyly. 

A long-held assumption Almyrans had about Fódleans was that they were holier-than-thou and puritans and the Archbishop was the embodiment of that sexlessness — probably because they had all essentially been cut from the same cloth as Lady Rhea. The fact that Byleth was married did nothing to quell that stereotype, not least because she and Dimitri had no children. Claude had overheard one of his officers, a compable yet loud-mouthed twit, making a snide comment about Byleth for it the other day to a “professional” woman he’d trapped on his lap:

“Rumour has it the green-haired daeva’s barren, but how can anyone be sure, with a prig? That Cyclops king probably prays to their evil Goddess for the Ashibanu to open her legs. He might not get an heir, but at least he’ll get laid!”

Claude made an example of him during drills later that same morning by using him for target practice, citing it as punishment for endangering the goodwill of the Fódleans within their own country with his insensitivity towards a sitting monarch and a woman of the cloth. Honestly, it wouldn’t have usually bothered him what they said about Byleth or Dimitri (definitely not about Dimitri), but he drew the line at them poking fun at something he knew she was sensitive about.

“Even if it is ‘ridiculous’, I don’t think it is wise to say such derogatory things about Her Grace,” he finally concluded. “As I warned Muazid the other day, our Fódlean allies might see it as sacrilege if they overheard us sexualising their religious figurehead and queen-consort like this. I don’t think she would appreciate it either.”

To that, Nader threw his head back and laughed. 

“I dunno. She seems like a girl with a sense of humour about herself.”

“I’d sooner not test her patience, my friend.”

“As you say,” Nader shrugged, non-convinced. “I mean, from what I’ve heard, most of your men have a begrudging respect for Queen Byleth. Heck, I know I do!”

He then stared thoughtfully into space, the hint of a smile on his lips. 

“People will always talk about a lady like that, and you just have to live with that, kiddo! She’s an archbishop, a queen and a fearsome warrior, but she’s also an attractive woman with no scars on ‘er! Now that’s rare, and, if I might say so, considering whether or not there are any marks anywhere else–“

“You may not say so!”

“–Beneath the robes is prime material for their fantasies,” Nader finished, having already begun as Claude spoke his words. “Ahem, pardon me, Your Royal Highness.”

Byleth surprisingly lacked in battle scars, it was true. Claude had seen ‘beneath the robes’, and there was barely a scratch on her — save for one. A clean, white line ran vertically up her chest, lying at the valley of her breasts like she had been slashed with a surgeon’s knife. 

He had first noticed it during their first time but only found the nerve to ask her about it several liaisons later. 

Smothering it with kisses, Claude had been wary that his inquisition might provoke an unpleasant memory in her, keeping his tone light and airy. “How’d you get this little guy?”  

But Byleth had no answer for him. “I’ve had it as long as I can remember.” 

“Hm? Didn’t you ever ask Jeralt?”

“I don’t think he knew either.”

Odd. Claude recalled how he got most of his battle scars, indicating she had received them when she was a child. He contemplated that for a moment; it was as if she had once been sliced with precision upward across her heart… but that couldn’t be right, could it? 

His mind almost went off on another tangent, missing Nader’s point’s end.

“With the best will in the world, our men have eyes. Prude or not, Lady Byleth is a gorgeous woman. Plenty’ll have fantasised about her by now. Those plump breasts, that tight arse, and those showy legs wrapped around their—!”

“Don’t!” Claude growled, spinning around sharply. He usually enjoyed Nader’s grim humour, but this was too much. While Claude knew he couldn’t stop people from having these thoughts about Byleth, he didn’t want it rubbed in his face. “Don’t finish that sentence. Just shush.”

Nader titled his head. “Why so sensitive, Khal?”

Claude re-tied his sash, acting as dire as his nature would allow. “You can’t talk about her in that way.” 

“Oh, can’t I?”

“The Fódlans won’t take it well.”

“The Fódlans won’t, eh?”

Claude narrowed his eyes. “Seriously, this tone of yours is starting to grate! Remember, I accidentally broke your nose twice as a kid. Imagine how much it’d hurt if I do it on purpose.”

“A broken nose is a broken nose,” Nader rebutted with a shrug. “You’re lucky you still have one with the mouth you have, Your Royal Highness.”

Claude didn’t care. He didn’t want to hear jokes and japes made at Byleth’s expense, even the good-natured sort. And the fact that Nader wouldn’t let this go was starting to daunt Claude. 

Does he suspect something between us?

Claude would prefer the old guy to just come out with it instead of prodding and poking him if he did. The words tumbled out of him as he thought them: 

“Nader– if you have something to say, just say it!”

The famous general looked reticent. “I’ve nothing to say, exactly. I’m just trying to make banter.”

Claude sighed. “I don’t mind banter but choose your target wisely. Most Almyrans don’t care if Wise One’s name is taken in vain, but Fódleans are very different. They take the Goddess seriously. Yes, yes, I agree it’s daft, but it is what it is. By – that is, Her Grace Lady Byleth – isn’t just the Archbishop to them. They believe her to be the avatar of their Creator.”

And I’m ‘desecrating’ that avatar… 

Claude did not believe Sothis had been divine, not the way the Church of Seiros led to believe. The Goddess wasn’t in heaven but housed within Byleth. No, he was no worshipper of Sothis. However, he thought archly, of all men on earth, no one has worshipped at her ‘temple’ so devoutly, ‘prayed’ to her so ardently, nor ‘reverenced’ her so utterly as I have daily and nightly. Including in the cave by the lake just now. Puns aside, Sothis’s gifts had made Byleth powerful, but physically she was a flesh and blood woman, not some sacred statute mortal hands could defile. 

“She’s akin to the Goddess incarnate to them,” Claude finished.

“Hm, I can believe that. Those legs are pretty divine, aren’t they?”

Legs that an hour ago had been clamped around me like a vice. Claude almost tripped at the memory. He could still feel the delightful ache in his sides as she had tightly squeezed him, the scolding feeling at his core when he felt her come around him, and the heat that spread from him–no, stop, I can’t be thinking about this now!

“Enough, Nader!” he sniped. 

The older man held his hands up in defeat. “Fine, Lady Byleth’s visage is to be worshipped silently and from afar. Dually noted. “I just figured talking about it would… help you.”

The King of Almyra blinked, nervous for a second. “Help me?”

“Yeah, to let it all out, I mean,” Nader cleared his throat and leaned closer, weirdly surreptitious, “Look, Khal. I can tell you have… a thing, shall we say, for Her Grace.”

Claude tightened his smile. “A ‘thing’?”

“Yeah,” Nader nodded, scratching his cheek. “But given she’s the archbishop of that dragon-worshipping religion, not to mention a married woman, it’s not like you can act upon it, can you?” Claude had to choke back a self-loathing scoff. Nader continued, “This sort of thing has never been your forte. So, I figured you’d appreciate getting some things outta your system. Bit of brotherhood, y’know?”

Get it out of my system, ha!

He might have been able to control his feelings for Byleth if it had just been “a thing”. Arousal was easy to assuage and gratification quick to mastermind– he’d been doing it for years. But Byleth evoked a far more powerful and all-consuming sensation in Claude. Each time he held her in his arms, it was like reuniting with a piece of his spirit. It’s not just our bodies that are entwined but our souls too. Love aroused desire, and lust fed into love. It was enthralling. Now, he couldn’t imagine a world without her. When they were together, as close as two human beings could ever be, the universe seemed to shrink until all that existed was them… and Claude could forget she was another man’s wife.

Dimitri’s queen.

When sleep wouldn’t take him, and all Claude had was the thoughts whirring around inside his head, he wondered how they compared in Byleth’s mind. She had never really said much on the matter; Dimitri was a taboo subject for obvious reasons. Still, he remembered one time, back in Almyra, when they first started having sex. Byleth implied that her wedding night had been unsatisfying. Wrapped around one another in a damp, post-coital haze, she said: “I’d have enjoyed it more if it’d been with you.” Even now, he could feel the burst of pride that filled him.

Another thing he wondered about was guilt. Byleth never expressed remorse for their actions, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Claude no longer felt shame; it could never outlast the satisfaction he felt whenever he held Byleth in his arms. Had her guilt ebbed away into nothing, as it had for him? He didn’t want to ask her directly… even thinking Dimitri’s name brought him face to face with their circumstances. It made him feel awful. Not with shame but resentment.

I can hold her, kiss her and make her mine thousands of times, but Dimitri’s her husband, not me.

It infuriated him.

It should have been me. Byleth should be my wife.

His eyes met Nader’s, and he smiled.

“I appreciate the thought. But I fear you have the wrong end of the stick about Teach and me.”

Nader scoffed, clearly not taken in by his king’s characteristic smirk.

“Come on, kiddo! Be serious. You’re pretty good at hiding your feelings from most people, but I know you.”

“Nonetheless… stick, wrong-end.”

The general grumbled, shaking his head. “Oh really. Then, why are you crying, ‘Don’t say those things about milady Byleth!’? Trust me, your whole, ‘Won’t someone think of the Fódleans!’ excuses aren’t foolin’ me! Are you converting to the dragon faith now? Ha, I don’t think so.”

“See right through me, do you, Nader?” Claude sighed, exhausted by this conversation now. “Fine. Think of it as cultural sensitivity. You know the saying: ‘When in Morfis, do as the Morfisians do!’ We’re in Fódlan; we need to respect their culture. Lady Byleth did the same when she was in Almyra, so in that respect, we owe her.”

“She probably didn’t dare do otherwise.”

“And neither should we.” 

Now, time to end this damned conversation! 

“Get the other commanders together,” Claude commanded. “It’s near noon.”

“We’ve been ready a while now, janob’e-ahli.”

“Then make sure to keep pace with me.” 

Khalid had lived in complete ignorance of the Crest of Riegan. 

Before he was aware of its presence in his blood, everyone called him “resilient”. He didn’t get tired as quickly as his peers, and bloody scrapes and bruises healed within a day, sometimes only a few hours. It was odd, but it was his body. He never really paid it much mind. 

Then, one day, Shahid shoved an eight-year-old Khalid head-first down a steep hill during one of his fits of rage. To be fair, Khalid was pretty sure he’d said something to purposefully needle him. But that fall! He still remembered that rough descent, how he had braced his palms against the gravel to slow his fall, ripping the skin on his chin, neck, arms and palms to shreds. It had burned like fire. He could smell the blood and flesh.

When he finally ground to a stop, his big sister Alaya rushed over to clean and heal his wounds–

Alaya. Third eldest, only princess and budding maga in the Dahna, the nine royal princes had no reason to see her as a rival or threat. As a result, she was everyone’s “favourite” sibling, including Khalid’s. Not because she was particularly affectionate – she consciously tried to distance herself from all her brothers. But, in being distant, she treated them equally and fairly, never treating Khalid differently for being ahmixtan. 

Khalid recalled the look of shock on her face when she checked his palms only to find faint scratches. His blood was still painted across the yellow grass and grey stone… Yet Khalid bore no marks at all. Healed quicker and better than any white magic. His ability to “bounce back” from harm and hurt was nothing new, but this was impossible to ignore, especially for Khalid himself. 

It was scary. 

“It…It doesn’t look like he was that injured after all, mahzila.” Alaya had stammered, eying the Queen.

But the Demon Queen did not look shocked. Whatever just happened to her child, she understood it well. Yet when he dared to ask her ‘why’, she had been surprisingly dismissive.

“It’s a Fódlan quirk. People don’t understand it here in Almyra, so best keep it to yourself.”

That had only piqued his interest more! If it’s a “Fódlan quirk”, the resources available to him in Almyra to understand this “condition” would be lacking. And Rhoxana refused to be drawn further on the subject.

That was until a report arrived at court many, many years later. It carried the news that the Duke Riegan had perished in a monster attack, and Leciester was in disarray. “Prime for a skirmish!” his older brothers had taunted. But the queen had been pale. “Godfrey’s dead?”

Several weeks later, she sat Khalid down and told him the whole story. Of not only crests but about her. Her real name and family. House Riegan, the blood of one of the Twelve Elites.

Khalid had always been more limber than muscular. He wasn’t quite skinny as Kiyan or Shahid and was a good few centimetres taller than Dhahir, Seyed or Paivand, but he was far from the imposing presence of Mustafar and Hasim, who were built like houses and strong as destriers. Radmehr had been the tallest, though it hadn’t saved him from falling off his war horse and being trambled under its hooves.

The first death in their generation of House Arash.

But Khalid’s mysterious “crest” was power. Real power. And it was his and his alone. There was nothing any of his brothers had to compare. This gift could only be born by one such as him. A shelebu, a jebahnsen, an ahmixtan…

“If I really do have this ‘crest’-thingy, then I have a chance. A weapon I can use to further my goals…”

His mother disliked his admission to her that he sought to use the crest he’d inherited from her family line as a weapon.

“Your crest is a mark of my people’s goddess, not another one of your silly little tricks!”

Rhoxana didn’t get it. She had taken it for granted all her life that she had a crest while he was kept clueless. As much as Khalid respected his mother, the dreaded Demon Queen was cut from cloth similar to his father – punch first, ask later. Fists and a sword were her weapons of choice. No wonder she took Almyra like a duckling to a pond, where power and strength were valued above all else.

Everything is a weapon – smile, words, blood… and my crest.

And Khalid made his choice. He would go to Fódlan. No, he had to go to Fódlan. To see his mother’s land and what it was like compared to Almyra…

Moving to a country with more of these strange, magical symbols etched into our blood had been bizarre. Having only just found out he had the blasted thing, sixteen-year-old Claude had been called upon by his maternal grandfather. There he had been, the only grandchild of old Duke Riegan. None knew where he had spouted from: the Duke’s weird daughter, Tiana, had run away, and his son Godfrey was dead. Claude materialised out of thin air as if by magic to plug the hole his late uncle had left behind. Had it not been for that distinctive crescent-moon glyph etched beneath Claude’s flesh and pulsing through his blood, none would have swallowed the story, and civil war might have broken out in the Alliance.

Fódlan was so obsessed with damned crests that it was a free pass to recognition!

Then, when he’d heard that the fellow crest-bearing Imperial Princess and the Crown Prince were enrolling at the Officers Academy, he had told his grandfather it would be “bad form” if he didn’t do the same and attempt to foster good relationships with them. It was one of the few things he and his old man agreed upon; Claude could pursue his dream, and Duke Riegan could send his Almyran-born grandson to the fanciest finishing school money could buy.

Several months before, the school years started, Claude had an interview at the Officer’s Academy with Seteth had been… interesting. Though his grandfather pre-warned him that the Church “inspected” all students accepted into those hallowed halls, there had been a degree of suspicion surrounding the perplexing and miraculous grandson of old man Oswald. If nothing else, they had wanted Hanneman to verify that he did, indeed, possess a Minor Crest of Riegan. Once he had bled him and ripped a few strands of hair from his scalp, they verified the odd mark was there. Claude had found it fascinating to see the golden pattern that looked like a waxing crescent moon, just like the one on House Riegan’s shield.

Hanneman’s moustache had twitched as he updated Claude’s school record, signed it off and headed it to a stately-looking monk who took it next door.

“Your grandfather will doubtless be relieved,” the crest scholar declared. “The Crest of Riegan crops up now and then in the odd noble-house, but until you arrived, young Godfrey had been the only member of your family to possess it.”

That’s right, Maman had a different one, Claude recalled. She had shown it to him, projecting it with magic. It didn’t look as distinct as the Crest of Riegan.

Trying to remember what it looked like, Claude pointed to a sketch hanging on Hanneman’s classroom wall that resembled it. “What’s that one supposed to be?”

“Why–! That’s the Crest of Blaiddyd, Master Claude. Those who possess it tend to be blessed with phenomenal strength. As it happens, the Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus will be your peer this year –“

“What’s it supposed to represent, though?”

“Err, represent?”

“Yeah. My crest looks like a moon.” The seventeen-year-old pointed to another picture. “That one kinda looks like a spear.” The Crest of Cichol. Looking over some of the others, Claude thought most of them resembled creepy-looking eyes. “Huh, most of them look a bit abstract compared to mine, don’t they? I was just wondering what the pictures are meant to represent. What they mean.”

Hanneman’s eyes brightened. “Do you have an interest in the subject, Master Claude?”

“Sure do,” he nodded quickly, keeping his smile tight. “I’d never really heard about crests until recently.” The twitch in the teacher’s eyes betrayed surprise. “I mean, I lived in a pretty isolated community.” Yeah, let’s go with that. “We weren’t exactly the cream of society.” By Fódlan standards at any rate. “No one in my immediate family ever bothered to check if I had one, so I guess I never thought about it.”

“Well, if you have any questions about crests and the research that goes into them, I have many books on the subject. As it happens, a thesis regarding the emblems each crest represents was published a few years ago by a colleague of mine. He hypothesised that the symbols–“

Sadly, this impromptu lecture was interrupted when the prim monk returned, calling Claude to come next door to speak with Seteth.

“You are not accustomed to the trappings of the noble life, are you?” noted the scowling clerk once Claude was ushered into his seat. Those words had taken him aback. Seteth may as well have said, “what slime pond did your grandfather fish you out of?”

Through a forced smile, the boy had shrugged. “That won’t be too much of a problem, will it? My grandfather is dead-set on me being here…” He had wanted to add “at your fancy finishing school” but held back.

“Not at all,” Seteth assured him. “While the children of nobility often make up the majority of places offered to Adrestian and Faerghusian students–” 

Because of the exorbitant tuition fees, Claude thought but didn’t say.

“–The Leicestrian pupils tend to have a more varied background, shall we say? Owing to the strength of the Merchants’ Guild there. Nonetheless, you would do well to prepare yourself for the year ahead.”

‘Common’ was what Seteth meant. Not that Claude took him for a snob. Though he had a noble bearing, it clearly came from a lifetime of service to the church rather than the rigid upbringing in a noble household.

“I shall practice my manners in earnest with the assistance of my peers,” Claude promised.

Shortly after his ‘debut’ in Fódlan, the leaders of the roundtable had dragged their heirs and spares to Derdriu to size up the new (and conspicuously dark) Riegan heir, so he had already met Hilda, Lysithea and Marianne. Of course, there was good ol’ Lorenz, too. None of them had been unkind, though he wouldn’t exactly call them a band of brothers. Still, at least he knew what he was dealing with, so to speak.

“The heir of Gloucester, in particular, has taken it upon himself to keep me in check,” he added.

“Hmph. Think of it as practice for the day when the three of you succeed. I would also advise you to study the ruling houses of each country within Fódlan. Lady Rhea insists that you, the Princess and the Prince should lead your respective houses this year.”

Edelgard and Dimitri — twinned sticks in dried, hard mud. They were very set in their ways. There was no denying that Dimitri had been the more ‘approachable’ – not that that was saying much – and willing to talk to people outside his own house. He never seemed to be assessing Claude as much as he was making snap judgements and voicing them to his face. He especially liked telling him how distastefully he found his tricks and schemes.

“Have you no respect for your station, Claude?”

“Not really.”

“Well, what of honour?”

“Hey! I have honour,” he rebutted to the golden-haired princeling. “It might not be the fantastical, fuddy-duddy Faerghusian knight’s code straight outta a Loogian romance you follow, but it exists within my little heart.”

Dimitri’s eyes had darkened then, “Are you familiar with how the Loogian legends tend to end, Claude? Loog’s ideal fails. Believe me. I know better than most how absolutely unachievable it is to live by that code. I have seen the darkness that lies within men’s hearts. Those ideals do not exist.”

The way he had said those words had unnerved Claude somewhat though he was glad they agreed on something. 

He had also been more open to the idea of working together. There had been times when he had sought Claude for his opinion on some issues, especially when it came to predicting more underhanded strategies, like the sort that the creepy retainer of Edelgard’s liked to use. 

Even Claude thought Hubert could go a little too far at times.

“Forgive me!” Dimitri would say contritely. “I am sure you have many pressing matters to concern yourself with, but you have an adept skill at these things.”

“It’s fine. You can scratch my back as long as I get to scratch yours?”

He hadn’t told Dimitri his whole plan though he had explained enough to provoke his interest.

“I see. Well, I would most certainly wish to seek a mutually beneficial alliance with you… providing this ‘dream’ of yours does not interfere with my own goals,” His Princeliness had concluded. “I suppose the houses of Blaiddyd and Riegan should be close — we share blood, after all.”

Claude didn’t care much about houses and bloodlines, though if it helped get Dimitri on board, he’d consider it a win.

In stark comparison, Edelgard was as stubborn as a mule. Her Highness was too pig-ignorant to think she needed help from the likes of Claude. Frankly, he was confident that she had written him off as a fool.

He had tried to assuage her with topics she might find interesting. When that failed, he fell back on his other weapons: wit and craft, gumption and industry, insatiable curiosity and an unshakeable ambition to unwrap every heart he encountered. 

Flirting often helped with that last one, he found. 

His looks (and the desire they might inspire) were yet another arrow for him to shoot and see where it landed. Edelgard was no exception either. Getting blushes out of the stoic Princess had been a badge of honour, yet…

“I have my own dream to tend to,” she declared. And I have no use for the likes of you! her scowl added.

Her heart remained as closed as her mind. 

What a waste!

Then, Byleth came along. Meeting her was like being struck by lightning. Not a student but a merc, then Teach.

From the offset, Claude had been gagging to harness her skills, to land her unfathomable power. The more she gained, the more curious he became about her. He would go out of his way to sit in any seminar Teach held, resolved to soak up her knowledge like a sponge. She was a tactical genius, always getting the upper hand over any enemy. Claude enjoyed strategy classes, anyway, but receiving them from Teach was just… Perfect. He loved to bounce ideas off her, to see how she would counter them. It was an excellent means of seeing which schemes were predictable and which ones required a moment’s pause for her to puzzle out first.

The more he listened to her, the greater his desire to get close to her became.

But Claude would never forget that day. The one when she had led a seminar for the Golden Deer at Hanneman’s request.

Once the class was done and everyone else had left, he had purposely lingered behind to converse with young Professor Byleth, hoping to get more information about her background. See what makes her tick.

“If I could wield that sword of yours, I’d achieve all my dreams in a fortnight,” Claude declared wistfully.

“Nothing is ever that easy, Claude,” was Teach’s direct response.

Your crest says otherwise. It was by far the most powerful in existence. The fact Byleth carried it in her veins indicated she was a direct descendant of Nemesis, no less! It was weird, though. Nemesis wasn’t supposed to have had children; Saint Seiros, the Four Saints and the Ten Elites all turned on him and destroyed his entire bloodline. Then again, it only took one kid to keep the crest going. The real question was where Teach had got the crest from; was it passed down through Jeralt’s line or her mother’s? And who was Teach’s mother, anyway? Having Hanneman as a homeroom professor had some benefits, though. Aside from the fact he never turned up to class drunk (poor, poor Black Eagle House!), he would share round-the-clock updates on his research into Professor Byleth. He had even gone digging into her background, which Teach was not happy about (and Claude empathised on that front), but it didn’t matter because the old guy had come up empty. And as for Jeralt, it was well-known the former Captain of the Knights possessed a Major Crest of Seiros.

Maybe Nemesis and Seiros had a torrid love affair, and their break-up was the real reason for the war. Ha! Perhaps that’s why Teach’s so powerful…?

“My mother once told me a legend where the King of Liberation struck fear and wonder in his enemies with that sword.” 

“You want to strike fear in people?”

“More the wonderment. One story goes that Nemesis cut a mountain in half with that thing!”

Byleth stared at him, teal eyes lovely but stern. “I’m not cutting a mountain in half for your amusement.”

“Spoilsport!”

She rolled her eyes, turning her back. “Is there something you want, Claude?”

Claude’s smile had grown wider. “What do I want?” Teach probably meant that like, “why are you still here?”‘ but he found himself answering half-earnestly. Instead of a witty response, the eighteen-year-old spoke with all the frankness (and cheekiness) Teach seemed to (secretly) enjoy about him. He rested his chin on his hands, suddenly wistful. “I want to gaze into your soul, Teach. I want to know more about you, as much as possible. The truth is that I love a good puzzle box, and you’re the most captivating one here.”

Teach glanced over her shoulder. For a moment, Claude thought he spied a hint of regret there. What’s that about? he wondered.

She shook her head, sighing. “I fear you’re wasting your time. I’m not very interesting.”

“I beg to differ. There’s so much that doesn’t make sense about you. That’s still a mystery.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Nah, my secrets don’t amount to much.”

“Neither do mine.”

“Ha! Well, I guess another person’s secrets are always more compelling to an outsider, eh?”

“That’s probably true.”

“What if I offered a trade?”

“A trade?”

“Yeah. You tell me a secret, and I’ll tell you one.”

Teach turned to face him again. His heart skipped a beat, sure he spied the curl on her lips. A smile?!

“You’re very persistent, Claude.”

He held his hands up, backing off slightly. “Sorry, sorry. I know I can witter on a bit. I just find you that fascinating, like something inside me… is calling out to you, I guess. Ugh, I can’t tell you how much I wish you’d picked me.”

Claude’s mouth moved before his brain realised he had vocalised that last part. He tightened his jaw and laboured to keep smiling when he thought about his disappointment.

Recovering himself, he continued teasingly. “Hey, wanna know what I want more than anything right now?”

Byleth nodded. “Sure.”

“I want to know more about you. Not your secrets. Just… you. To know your mind. To speak with your soul. To understand what your heart says, beat by beat.”

She gathered up her books. “Hm. Is that so?”

Her tone was almost… playful. It made Claude’s smile twitch.

Oh, sweet, unflappable Teach. 

But it was what Teach did next, though, that flawed him. As she walked past him to leave, a more distinct smile graced her face in a rare show of emotion. Then, leaning over him, she whispered words he would never forget:

“What a pity my heart doesn’t beat.”

All Claude could do was gape. A jolt that passed through his body and he was rendered him speechless. No clever comebacks or witty witterings came to him. He just stared at Teach–at Byleth, wide-eyed and awestruck. That wasn’t all, though.

As Byleth sauntered off, leaving him alone in that empty classroom, Claude realised that she’d excited more than his curiosity in him. A spread of warmth boiled through his arms, belly… and modesties. That tiny simper she gave him was bewitching. He hadn’t appreciated it before, probably because she seldom smiled affectedly. It felt like a privilege to have witnessed it. His eyes pinned to the sway of her hips as she left him, the gait in her step as her heels clicked the stone floors. And he could feel his rod not only twitch but start to swell. 

She really was gorgeous. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

And a captivating puzzle box indeed.

He sighed wistfully.

Before now, Claude knew he needed her. The power she wielded was incredibly– no! Her allyship was necessary if he ever hoped to achieve his goals. Not only did she possess the King of Liberation’s legendary blade, but she was also open-minded. It gave him hope that she would be receptive to his vision for the world. Not least because he sensed she, too, knew what it was like to be mistreated for being different. Oh, he’d heard what Hanneman had been able to confirm about her! “Dreaded Ashen Demon, renowned mercenary, relentless killer and freak of nature.” Cold. Cruel. Callous. It seemed strange anyone could describe Teach as those things. Her stony-faced composure had given Claude pause, too– and it made him realise how quickly (and cruelly) people could jump to conclusions about someone who didn’t fit into a typical mould. The more Claude saw of good ol’ Teach, the better he liked her, and the better he liked her, the greater his sense that she ought to be with him, on his side, beside him, grew. Never mind that the mystery surrounding her existence ensnared him absolutely! 

But this was different.

What he was feeling now was… thrilling. Embarrassing, he admitted, awkwardly placing his hands in his lap to ‘comfort’ the bulge. But what just happened? It was exhilarating. She almost certainly hadn’t meant it to be, but it was! It was exciting. It was… Teach.

Byleth. 

All of her. 

Everything! 

The mind, the soul, the ‘heart?’ and the body that contained it all. Claude wanted to know everything about her, not just to satisfy his curiosity but to feel close to her. He’d never wanted anyone like this. Never had Claude wanted someone for the sake of wanting them until this moment.

The Almyrans had been the last ones to arrive at the belated meeting. As soon as Claude stepped inside, the delightful scent of chamomile greeted him. It surprised him a little as Byleth tended to prefer sweeter, brighter teas over earthy tones.

She probably knew we’d need help concentrating on this monotonous task.

His eyes immediately fell upon Byleth. She had tidied herself up, hair newly brushed and garments replaced. None would suspect those luscious lips that sipped on tea had been pressed against his earlier today. Sitting all prim-and-proper, pinkie in the air as she held her cup, Byleth was the image of a virtuous queen. Yet, only an hour ago, they had been in that cavern, damp and naked. Just one hour ago… The memory made Claude’s spine tingle.

The orbicular table was occupied by a tight circle of Fódleans drinking in-tune with her, pinkies standing to attention. Byleth was nestled between Leonie (who had nabbed Seteth’s old seat) and an old Faerghusian knight Claude couldn’t place. 

At the sight of the Almyran king, all but Byleth clambered to their feet reluctantly to greet him. A funny Fódlan tradition– when a king entered a room, everyone was expected to get to their feet to bow. In Almyra, subjects were expected to prostrate themselves further, to climb even lower to the ground if they were already sitting.

Both were such daft customs.

“Ah, Claude,” Lorenz greeted curtly, picking up the half-full teapot. A few of his commanders stiffened, not appreciating the lack of decorum afforded their king. One, in particular, named Sahm, vocalised it with a grumble in his local ‘low Almyran’ dialect, words that Claude was glad were not said in the koine-glótta. 

Fittingly, his old school friend seemed to sense the tension and defused it with all the dignity one would expect of the ‘scion of Gloucester’. 

“Love that you could join us,” the noble added.

Claude snickered. “Aw, love you too, Lorenz! So happy to be here.”

“Indeed. Will you and your men be partaking, Your Royal Highness?”

“Thank you, we will.”

The king around the table towards Byleth. 

Following his lead, his eastern officers shuffled into place between the westerners. Most of Claude’s men were home-grown, born and bred in Almyra, yet some old Alliance individuals had followed him when he handed the deeds over to Dimitri. Some were minor lords who had served House Riegan since the split from Faerghus, and others were third- or fourth-sons with no inheritance to keep them in Fódlan. Yet even they had darkened in the intense prairie sun and dry desert heat compared to their chilly cousins who stayed home. It always made Claude smile to see them side-by-side. Ultimately, everyone is just a person; the only difference is the environment.

Reaching the empty seat beside the Archbishop-Queen, he slipped carefully in between her and the unknown gruff knight. “Pardon me, my lord…!” Claude said cheerily, offering the grouchy-looking man a smile. Even as he did, he knew it wouldn’t land. By his “I hate everything!” face, Claude could tell this knight was struck in the old world fashion mould, where piety towards Seiros went hand in hand with disliking outsiders, especially beastly Almyrans. The next senior person in the room was probably Nader, though, unlike his old Master-at-Arms, this man was not young at heart. Claude almost felt sorry for him, wholly outnumbered by a tent filled with bright young things with (hopefully) more open minds. Almost.

Claude muttered into Byleth’s ear: 

“Remind me… this gentleman serves House Rowe, right?”

He could tell by the shield he wore on his cape.

“Yes, he’s Lynette Fae Rowe’s great-uncle,” she hummed quietly, raising her hand to cover the conversation. “Sir Nera of Cumhal. You remember Dimitri initially tasked him with bringing what levies could be spared from Arianrhod to supplement our rear guard at Gwydion, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. So, what’s he doing here?”

“Dimitri,” she responded stiffly. “He ordered him to find us.”

The King of Almyra felt uneasy hearing this. Do you know something I don’t, Dimitri? He could have sent Sir Nera to Garreg Mach or let them stay tucked away at Gwydion, the last settlement they had taken back from Count Bergliez before he fled into the forest. 

“Why?”

“Dimitri heard about the skirmish we endured several weeks ago.”

Ah. People were already dubbing it the ‘Ambush in Miach Forest’. It was not one of Claude’s (or Byleth’s) top-form moments. After they had uncovered the dead and gangrenous body of the late Count Jakob von Bergliez, they had travelled out with a handful of battalions, Ashe and Cyril as scouts and, of course, Seteth to survey the abandoned enemy campsite. They had only expected to stay an evening and return to their current military base. With Jakob dead, the rebellion ought to have been over.

That was when the enemy attacked– those mysterious hooded mages that resembled plague doctors that Edelgard once counted among her followers. Despite the death of Jakob, they had decided the fight was not done. Claude had been surveying the area on his wyvern Jamilah when the attack began; it still unnerved him how much worse that battle could have gone. Indeed, they had recovered from the ambush and beat them back at Afanc Falls. But Claude did not delude himself with how damned lucky they had been. The fact they had targetted the camp while only Byleth was there made Claude fear that she was a target for them.

To kidnap and ransom her to Dimitri – and the Church – or kill her.

He didn’t want to consider either possibility.

“Doubtless, Dimitri was concerned for your wellbeing, Your Grace,” Claude concluded.

Byleth let out an affirmative ‘hmph’. “Sir Nera informs me,” she spoke a little louder, addressing the knight directly, “That His Majesty wished to ensure that our forces were bolstered.”

“Intimidation tactics,” Claude muttered. Typical Dimitri– why use a pick to unlock a jammed door when you can hit it with a sledgehammer?

Still, Claude imagined that the enemy forces must be spread thin by now. After all, the Count was dead, and numerous members of the Bergliez army had deserted or perished. Frankly, Claude wondered why these flamingo-faced mages were continuing this fight. They were doubtless outmatched by the combined Church, Kingdom and Almyran forces…. why not slip away into the foliage, never to be seen again? Why keep up this fight? To avenge Jakob, or Edelgard? Were they even truly loyal to either, or where they both just a means to an end? Powerful benefactors, stepping stones to a higher goal…

It all made Claude’s head spin.

“So, Sir Nera’s spent the last month marching his men through the Ogma Mountains and then through Miach Forest, trying to catch up with us?”

“Just so.” Byleth narrowed his eyes, speaking a little louder. “But you would have heard all this had you arrived five minutes earlier when I introduced him.”

The king pouted. “Pardon me.” I was scolding Nader for perving on you.

Byleth stood. “Now that His Royal Highness has finally joined us let us discuss the matter.”

“Tell me about it!” Leonie snorted, tapping the ledger. “Lorenz and I have been sitting on our backsides for ages waiting on you, Claude.”

I suppose I did keep them waiting a while, too. 

“Do forgive our tardiness, brothers – and sisters,” Nader spoke up, ready to ‘defend his liege’. “His Royal Highness and Excellency can seldom face the day without a long, cool, refreshing bath. So, he took the opportunity to investigate the lake while making himself presentable.”

“Is dallying around in grottos part of his morning ritual, too?” Lorenz tacitly muttered, retaking his seat. 

Claude’s heart skipped, keeping his smile steady. He glanced at Byleth, her aurora-green eyes hooded beneath her lashes, revealing nothing as she gazed at the pretty white flowers floating in her teacup.

He cleared his throat. “Ahem, excuse me?”

“Don’t try to act all innocent, Claude!” Leonie groused. “The Professor told us about your silly antics, dragging her around that lakeside to scope out the caves. Just before the rain hit, too! She came back soaked!”

Byleth finally met his gaze. I had to tell them something? it said.

Finding his voice again, Claude shook his head. “I suppose you would have just sent Ashe and Cyril?”

“I wouldn’t have minded going!” Ashe perked up.

“Yeah!” affirmed Cyril, arms folded. “If y’all have a problem with our work, I’d prefer ya just say it rather than being all sneaky behind our back.”

Byleth offered the pair a reassuring smile, “It was rather impromptu, else we would have called upon you.”

“Indeed,” Claude nodded, focusing his gaze on Cyril especially. He’d always had a soft spot for the little guy who was not so little anymore. “You’re peerless scouts. But, sometimes, we supremos need to get down in the dirt. To see the landscape for ourselves lest we forget what it’s like and only start to see the world as inky lines on a piece of paper.”

“How whimsical!” Lorenz remarked dismissively, picking up the ledger from beneath Leonie’s grip. “If we could continue with the matter at hand? I trust Oswald and Sam have brought the tallies from the Almyran stock?”

“Sahm!” the Almyran snapped back. “Not ‘Sam’. Sahm!”

Lorenz sighed patiently, “Pardon me, Sahm. Have you and Oswald brought the ledger?”

Oswald, the fourth son of a younger brother of Lord Goneril, nodded awkwardly. He gave Sahm a friendly pat on the shoulder, hoping to defuse his bad mood.

“He completed the count last night,” the lad explained.

“Counted twice, one—” Sahm clarified, holding up his fingers, “—two! Understand that, Glowcesster?!”

Claude immediately choked back a laugh.

“It’s pronounced Glou…” Lorenz began.

He stopped as soon as his eyes met Sahm’s gesture. A small roll of laughter fluttered around the table as they noted Sahm had his fingers back-hand facing. Leonie stifled a chuckle, and even Byleth had to hide her smile behind the rim of her cup. 

It was an old Alliance hand gesture dating back to their break from the Empire. Flaunting the two fingers required to nock, draw and loose — the skill prized by all in the Alliance territories even today. Legend had it the Emperor at the time had feared Leicester archers so much he would cut their index and middle fingers off. Today, denizens of the Alliance – and the rest of Fódlan – knew it to mean “fuck-you!”

“Oh, hilarious!” Lorenz said, rolling his eyes. “Did Sir Oswald teach you that one perchance?”

Oswald’s mouth flapped with denials. “N-No, Lorenz! I’d never! I swear–!”

Sahm pointed to Claude. “King teach me.”

Claude raised his hands in admittance, and Lorenz snorted. “Of course he did.”

Catherine let out a boisterous laugh. Claude had thought she might have been one of the injured who returned to Garreg Mach with Seteth, but it seemed she was well on the road to recovery from that Bolting she took in the last battle. It was good to see her all but back to her usual self.

“Ha, good one Claude!” the blonde knight declared cheerily. “Gotta love a good ol’ cultural exchange, eh?”

Another titter spread across the table.

“Exactly,” the king affirmed. “It’s culture.”

“It’s rude!” Lysithea chastised.

Cyril followed her lead, as always. “Yeah, how’re we supposed to work together if we’re doing that? Can’t we all just be nice to each other?”

Their dynamic was not lost on anyone at the table. Even Sahm, who eyed Cyril with amusement. “Your albino girlfriend says ‘jump’, you say, ‘how high!'” in his low Almyran dialect.

The young lad’s cheeks reddened, the only one of the few on the Fódlean’s side who understood the words.

“What did he say, Cyril?” Lysithea asked.

“Hm, nothin’. D-Don’t worry.”

“But what–?”

“It’s nothing!”

Claude decided to rescue him. “No, no, Cyril has a point. It’s bad enough we all have to be here for this rather dull part of warfare, so the least we can do is get through it civilly… and quickly.”

“Says the guy who put off this ‘dull part of warfare’ to show Lady Byleth a grubby cave!” Leonie rebuked him again. “That’s another set of ruined garbs. If Seteth were here, he’d have an aneurysm!”

Now it was Byleth’s turn to rescue him. “In all fairness to His Royal Highness, I struggle to keep my robes tidy at the best of times.”

“Well, Claude.” be lucky if Seteth doesn’t feed him to his wyvern if it happens again!” the huntress concluded bluntly.

“Ah ah ah! Not if mine eats him first,” Claude rebutted with a chuckle.

Sahm’s eyes widened, turning to little Oswald. “They feed wyvern our shah?!”

“What? No, no, it was a joke,” the minor Goneril knight tried to calm him down again, pointing desperately at Claude’s smiling face. “See, the king is laughing!”

“Yes, be calm, Sahm,” Lorenz affirmed, wishing to back up his wife’s young relative. “Your Royal Shah has a queer sense of humour at the best of times.”

“Though, to be fair,” Lysithea interjected, “Leonie started it.”

“What? I was just saying…!”

The table broke into a rumble of chatter again. Only Claude, Byleth and the long-suffering Sir Nera stayed silent.

Byleth rose to her feet. “Alright, everyone…” and tapped her spoon against the modest porcelain cup. Ting, ting, ting it went until the natter started to die down. “Thank you,” she said once all eyes were on her. “Now that I have your attention again, shall we proceed? As His Majesty to my left said, this needs to be done even if none of us particularly enjoy this task… well, except perhaps you, Lorenz.”

The group chuckled. Even Lorenz let the jab wash over him; it was different when Byleth made the joke.

“Let’s all try to get along,” she continued, patting down the chuckles with outstretched hands. “Just remember, the sooner we start, the sooner we get to leave and do the things we want to do today.”

What we want to do, Claude repeated in his head. What I wouldn’t give to go back to that cave and have you all over again… He kept his eyes safely glued to his cup of chamomile, lest his voyeuristic gaze fell on Byleth and give the game away.

Byleth turned to Oswald. “Why don’t you and Sahm start? Is there anything you are running low on?”

Despite Sahm’s difficulty with the spoken language outside his region’s tongue, he was very good with numbers. He had assisted with his merchant father’s accounts as a boy, so he had developed a knack for them. He also seemed to share Leonie’s dislike of wastefulness. No axe nor bow in their entire inventory was terrible enough to be discarded, even when Nader argued otherwise.

Lorenz’s accounts were, of course, flawless. He went over how much they could spare from their provisions ahead of dividing some of their forces, should Jeralt’s old company agree to assist.

Byleth nodded resolutely. “They will.”

“Of course, they will!” Leonie beamed. “They’d never turn you down, Professor!”

Claude smirked. I think you mean they wouldn’t dare refuse the Ashen Demon?

With that, the provisions were made. Most attendees who were no longer required to remain happily left to get on with their lives and go to the archbishop, the king and the top commanders to continue reviewing the plan. 

To Claude’s relief, Sir Nera was one of those who shuffled to his feet.

“Lord Gaspard,” his raspy voice called out to Ashe. 

The young archer looked up, surprised to have been addressed as such despite having held the title for near-two years. 

Despite technically outranking old Nera, he nodded his head respectfully. 

“How might I be of assistance?”

“Once you are done here, I would be grateful if I could discuss something with you privately.” 

The knight eyed Cyril cautiously.

“O-Oh? Do you?”

Ashe glanced at Byleth with uncertainty, though she didn’t catch his gaze.

“Yes, nothing serious, mind you,” Sir Nera added quickly, clearing his throat and drawing the younger man’s attention back to him. “My niece insisted I speak to you myself since we would be crossing paths. Merely a discussion on the future of House Rowe and how House Gaspard might… assist.”

Subtle, Claude thought, holding back a snort.

“Of course, I would be honoured to host you,” Ashe replied with relief.

Any knight was a welcome visitor to him. 

It’s sweet, really.

Nera nodded stiffly to Claude, then reverently to Byleth. “I shall take my leave to help my men set up if you permit me, Your Grace.”

Byleth nodded, smiling benevolently. “We are grateful that you came all this way. I am certain that your contribution will be invaluable.”

“We are honoured to be in your presence and at your service, Most Radiant Grace and Highness.”

Taking her hand, the older man placed a kiss on the top before marching out with military rigour.

Claude’s eyes gleamed. There was no way he would let this chance pass him by. He grabbed her other hand and placed a smouch of his own upon it, quick enough for it not to seem strange (at least as far as his old Golden Deer classmates would think was ‘weird’ from him), though he made sure to graze his teeth teasingly for his mistress’s benefit. 

“What next, Your ‘Most Radiant’ Grace?” 

There was a light chuckle from some, a tut from others.

“Behave yourself, Your Royal Highness,” she said rigidly, slowly easing her appendage away from his ensnarement. Despite sounding annoyed, she was biting back a smile.

“Indeed!” Lorenz sniffed nobly. “You know perfectly well that it would be considered a great insult for a sworn knight within the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus to enter or leave the presence of the Archbishop without kissing her hand.”

“‘Cultural sensitivity’, Your Highness?” Nader flashed a smile.

“When in Morfis, Nader, when in Morfis,” Claude winked back, then, he addressed Lorenz. “As for you, in Almyra, it is considered a great insult not to bend the knee when a king enters the room. I can’t help but notice yours have remained unbent since I arrived. So, get on your knees and bow your head, ‘Glowcesster‘!”

Sahm cackled, slapping his knee.

Lorenz placed his hands on his hips. “Is that an order, Your Royal Highness?”

They stared at each other for a few minutes before Claude shook his head. “Nah, you’re fine. I’ll settle for a refill.”

He nodded and stood to make some fresh tea. 

“Shall we stick to chamomile or switch to something sweeter, Your Grace?”

“Chamomile, if you please,” Byleth said decisively.

Lysithea huffed. 

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind, I brought some sweet apple blend. Would you mind accommodating me? Oh, and add plenty of sugar! You have sugar, right? I need sugar for energy!”

“Thank the Goddess I own multiple pots,” Lorenz muttered, offering her a small yet brightly coloured red one with golden speckles and lining. It frankly looked good enough to eat! “Here, it will be as though you are drinking candied apples.”

Byleth’s face twisted in mild disgust. “You should try to eat and drink other things besides sweet, you know.”

“I keep tellin’ ‘er that,” Cyril said, holding his hands up in resignation. He would still share the pot with her as even a little one would be too much for her alone. “Glad I’m not picky.”

“Why did you serve chamomile anyway?” Lysithea sulked. “You usually love sweet teas! You have the best-honeyed teas!”

“Chamomile is better for concentration.”

As Lorenz began to assemble round two of the teas, Sahm decided to make amends, getting to his feet and grunting an “I aid you!” The Count accepted gracefully.

“Well, well, Sir Nera himself has graced our camp,” Lorenz continued, pouring out the fresh steaming tea into the king’s cup. “I suppose recent circumstances have called him out of retirement.”

Claude’s interest was piqued.

“Oh?” 

“Oh yes!” Ashe agreed, saying no more until everyone was served. “Sir Nera was the brother to the former Count Rowe’s father. He was the youngest son and never expected to inherit anything, so he became a knight. Sadly, most of House Rowe died during the war. Since Dimitri forced the previous Count Rowe to renounce his title, Lady Lynette now holds Arianrhod. You met her briefly at the Foundation Day feast last year, didn’t you, Claude?”

“I might have.” The king vaguely remembered a tiny, pale blonde girl who always seemed to have Yuri, or one of his ‘Mockingbird’ cronies, hovering protectively behind her. He understood she was held hostage by Cornelia during her occupation of Fhirdiad, but little more than that. Western Faerghus wasn’t a massive concern for Claude when he was Alliance leader, eyes far more focused on the Bridge of Myrddin.

“She was the younger daughter of the former Count’s youngest sister, who married Lord Gwendal,” Ashe continued, tone now sad. “Lynette is pretty much the last surviving member of House Rowe since Yuri was disinherited. Nera is now too old to have children, so I hear he is keen to see Lynette married as soon as possible. They’ll lose Arianrhod unless she has a child to carry on the line.” With another sigh, the young archer stroked his chin and pondered. “Huh, I wonder why they want to talk to me?” 

His words carried no hint of irony.

Claude shook his head but said nothing. 

Oh, Ashe! Sweet as honey, dim as pig iron.

Cyril gave him a pitying look. “Um, I think ya kinda answered ya own question there, Ashe,” and he glanced around the table to check if everyone else picked up on the blatantly obvious hint, too. “Right?”

Claude nodded. Heck, even Sahm had probably worked it out.

“Have I?” Ashe asked, picking up his teacup. He looked to Byleth searchingly, who gave him an affectionate smile.

“We can talk about it later,” she promised him.

“Indeed,” Lorenz nodded knowingly. “Matrimonial matters can wait for now.” 

Ashe spat his tea back into his cup. 

“What?!” he squeaked. “But that can’t really be what Nera wants, right? I-I mean, I’m just a commoner!”

Claude shook his head. “No, you’re Lord Gaspard. And she’s the head of House Rowe. As you’re the young, nice-looking, and unmarried Lord next door, Lady Lynette would be a fool not to be scoping you out as a husband.”

“But I…” 

Ashe’s face changed then from shock to sadness. His tone was filled with discord. Of all people, he looked to Catherine. 

Her brow was creased with rare concern as she patted the lad’s shoulder. “Hey, hey… Come on, now! Lynette’s a nice girl. Maybe this is what you need? It has been nearly three years.”

“But… it doesn’t… feel right.”

“Aw, Ashe!” Cyril said, tapping his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I mean, I might be wrong.”

“Even if we are right, don’t reject the idea straightaway,” Lysithea added quickly. “Just… you know, take your time.”

Puzzled, Claude turned to Byleth, sensing something was going over his head. She met his gaze briefly before turning to Ashe again. “We will talk about it later,” she assured him. “You have my word. But first, you should see what Nera has to say.”

“I will,” Ashe nodded half-heartedly, seeming keen to distract himself from the torment wheeling around in his mind. “Please… let us talk about more important matters. Even if Jeralt’s mercenaries agree to assist us, we still have to find a way to split our forces so that the mages won’t realise what we’re doing.”

“But how’re we gonna do that?” Catherine queried. “Pincer movements have served us well in the past, but they’ll have wised up by now.”

“Agreed,” Lysithea spoke up, sipping her sickly-sweet tea. “By now, they’ve probably realised that we’ve figured out they’re using the cave systems. Ashe and Cyril have scoped that area out–“

“As has Claude,” Lorenz added tartly.

Claude rolled his eyes and leaned over to Byleth. “Why did you tell them that?”

“I had to tell them something,” she whispered back with a coy smile. “Since there were no believable lies, I thought honesty was the best policy.”

Perhaps you’re right, he acknowledged. It didn’t matter if they knew where we were — it’s what we were doing that must remain secret for now.

“Maybe we could use the fact that they know that we know against them,” Leonie chimed in, resting her chin upon her hands to look over the map. “If they’re gonna be double, even triple, checking what we’re doing, we’ll have to quadruple, even… whatever checking something five times is–!”

“Quintuple,” Lorenz advised. 

“Or ‘pentuple’, if you prefer!” Lysithea said, trying to one-up him. “Like a pentagon!”

“Right!” she nodded. “Y’know, if we want to lure them out in the open.”

“Perhaps we bait ’em?” Cyril suggested.

“Like with food?” Oswald said uncertainly.

The table sniggered at that.

“We’re more likely to bring out demonic beasts than the mages, my young friends,” Lorenz chuckled. “We are talking about humans, not the mindless fish at Garreg Mach.”

Sahm gave Oswald a friendly jab with his elbow and humorously repeated the word “like fish”.

The young knight tapped his cheek, pondering in an absent-minded, Gonerillian manner. “What do cave-dwelling people eat anyway? Moss, maybe? Ugh, that sounds gross…” 

“I don’t think so,” Ashe whispered before uttering to Cyril that he “has a good point.” 

His voice was drowned out by Nader’s cackling, making light of Cyril’s suggestion. “Maybe we could even use a carrot on a stick if all this lot has to eat is moss!“

Lysithea scowled. “I don’t see you coming up with a better suggestion, Sir ‘Unbeatable’!”

For his part, Claude was fixated on what Cyril had said. 

He exchanged a glance with Byleth, who nodded in agreement. An unspoken understanding passed between them as she rose again to shh the room.

“Simmer down, everyone!” she called over them in a sing-y-songy voice.

“Yeeeessss,” Claude added in the same tone. “Fun-time is over now. Everyone shut up!“

As the group settled, Byleth retook the floor: 

“Let’s regroup. If we want to stop these enemies once and for all, we must block off their means of escape with a double envelopment. Before we do that, however, we need to get them away from the cave systems. Fish jokes aside, tricking them into the open with ‘bait’ isn’t a bad idea.”

Catherine leaned back in her chair, arms behind her head. “A feint, huh?”

Byleth nodded. “I think it’s the best course of action. Though, having said that…”

“Ashe and Leonie are right,” Claude finished for her, resting his chin on his hands. “These guys jumped us once but haven’t had a good time with us since. We slammed them at Afanc Falls, then fractured them at Gwalchmai’s Mouth. If I were them, I’d be sextuple checking everything to regain the advantage. So, trying to draw them into a conventional battle with a traditional feint probably won’t work. The question is, how do we lead them into a false sense of security?”

He had meant the question to be rhetorical, but no one made any suggestions. Not even a squeak. With a sigh, Claude tapped his fingers against the table. 

“Looks like that’s my homework, Teach,” he muttered.

“I’ll help you,” she promised; her words were a secret code that promised so much more.

He couldn’t help but smile. 

I hope so, my stars-above.

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