Jakob von Bergliez lay on a table in the war doctors’ tent.

The Fódlan and Almyran surgeons had come together to perform an autopsy on the remains of the late Count. Their preliminary analysis concluded Jakob died from an infected wound—an arrow shot to the leg close to the femoral artery. The Bergliez army doctor attempted to treat the injury, but pieces of the arrowhead remained lodged in the leg.

“From there, gangrene developed,” the Fódlan doctor, Paul, explained, gesturing to the discoloured flesh surrounding the entry point. “They made some haphazard attempt to save his life by removing the leg entirely; see there!”

Cautiously, Byleth and Claude tilted their heads as he spoke and pointed, as though directing their attention to a landmark worthy of note.

“You know what?” Claude declared, his voice muffled through his handkerchief. “I’ll take your word for it there, Paul.”

Byleth agreed, also stepping back. She wasn’t usually squeamish with blood and gore, having seen so much throughout her life, but despite the white cloth the goodly doctors handed her upon entering their quarters, the stench of the rotting, gas-filled flesh was stomach-churning.

Paul chuckled, noting their hesitancy. “Forgive me, Your Royal Highness, Your Grace. When one often works with amputations and pus-filled flesh, one forgets that most folks aren’t as accustomed.”

“Well, I suppose desensitisation happens in all jobs,” said Claude, awkwardly.

Byleth’s mind turned to the practicalities. “So, was it the infection or the procedure to remove the leg that ultimately killed him?”

“Hard to say for sure,” Paul admitted. “It was a botched job. We know the surgeon that treated him was battling an infection of his own, so he wasn’t ‘on top of his game’, so to speak.”

Indeed, that doctor was among several other enemy troops recovered from the campsite who now lay in the infirmary, half-dead from some unknown disease. Mindful that this was how the Remire incident began, and with the scouring of Gwydion still fresh in her memory, Byleth ordered them to be strapped to their beds lest they jump up and start attacking.

“But, in my opinion, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jakob was all but dead when the operation began,” the Fódlean concluded, nodding to his colleague behind him. “That’s what you thought, too, eh, Nim?”

“Indeed, Paul, indeed.”

Claude seemed amused by Paul’s little nickname for “Nim.”

Nimura, the Almyran surgeon, was still cleaning her hands of necrosis as she spoke. “All in all, a thoroughly unpleasant way to go. This man of Bergliez would have been in unbearable, excruciating pain. We have tried to release the gases to get his body into some acceptable shape. But my, oh my! This is one of the worst cases of gangrene I’ve ever seen.”

Claude eyed the yellowing corpse, pondering. “Was the arrowhead tampered with, or imbued in any other way?”

‘Tampered with,’ is Claudish for ‘poisoned.’

She never knew him to use lethal poisons, but she wondered if he had ever tipped his arrows with venom to gain the upper hand in battle. She wouldn’t blame him if he had… But it would be pointless now that she’d returned Failnaught to him.

“No venom, janob’e-ahli,” Nimura said, shaking her head. “It was a well-made, yet ordinary arrow.”

“There’s no sign of crest magic on the arrow nor in his blood, either,” Paul added quickly, sensing Claude’s concern.

Byleth nodded sagely. Had it been one of Claude’s arrows that struck Jakob down, they would know. The crest magic imbued in Failnaught left its aura on every loosed fletch; a fatal blow would’ve killed Jakob long before the disease could set in.

“Rest assured, it was not one of your arrows, Your Royal Highness,” Paul assured Claude. “Any of our archers, or even a friendly fire, could’ve felled Jakob. In the end, he was just a very unlucky man.”

Unlucky and supremely stupid.

“Thank you both for your hard work,” she said, deciding she’d had enough of the gangrenous cadaver.

“Yes, thank you,” Claude chimed, sounding just as keen as her to get out of the tent. “We’ll probably head back to base tomorrow. In the meantime, if you could make him… as presentable as possible? As for where to send him—”

A tiring thought then came to Byleth, saying, “My husband and his counsel may wish for the Court physician to conduct an inquest.”

There weren’t many people in this world Byleth disliked, but Sothis knew she did not like Atticus. The idea of that cantankerous old sod trudging his way down to their position made her lower organs shrivel.

“It’s probably best we send Jakob to Fhirdiad, so Atticus will not need to leave the Capital.”

And I can avoid him.

“Fine. Let’s send poor ol’ Jakob on ahead,” Claude announced, sensing the wheels juddering in her head. “We’ll need to finish the clean-up here, anyway, so best get him embalmed and packed off as soon as possible.”

“Sehhuati, janob’e-ahli,” Nimura said, bowing respectfully.

Paul raised a hand, like a student in one of Byleth’s old classes. “What should we do about the enemy troops still living?”

“Send them to Garreg Mach,” Byleth ordered. “Treat them, keep as many of them alive as possible — but their restraints are not to be removed, understood?”

“Absolutely, Your Grace.”

Byleth gave the Fódlan and Almyran one last, grateful nod. “Thanks again for all you have done.”

Leaving the rough-and-ready surgery room, the Archbishop-Queen and Almyran shahsharan strolled aimlessly around the small camp for a while. They only brought a small party with them, Ashe, Catherine, and a few others, enough to feel secure. Byleth didn’t even bring a Flower Sister with her — there was no point, given they didn’t intend to remain long.

Seteth came, too. He hadn’t wanted Byleth to come here at all, but his protestations had only made Byleth wish to defy him. He tried to follow her and Claude to their meeting with Paul and Nimura, but Byleth distracted him with busy work; some neglected reports from the monastery.

No wonder Flayn’s the way she is.

Claude suddenly halted in place, casting his gaze up dispiritedly. “Well, what now, By?”

“Now…?” Byleth muttered, equally monotone. She glanced back at the tent, watching as Paul pulled a white cover over Jakob’s discoloured face. “I suppose I’ll write to Dimitri and tell him the good news.”

“Yeah, definitely. This is good news.”

Turning to Claude, she found his eyes sullen and his smile little more than a splinter. “I guess now Jakob is dead, the rebellion will fizzle out, huh?”

“I expect so. Fizzle right out.”

Morale among Bergliez allies would fall through the floor, given how many of their number had fallen to injury or disease. The stragglers would doubtless surrender soon or flee outright. No more fighting. That was a great thing.

Yet Byleth felt hollow.

No, she felt disappointed.

Their eyes met, and Claude sighed. “Is it me, or does this whole thing feel extremely anticlimactic?”

Byleth shook her head. “No, it’s not just you. I feel the same. Jakob’s death is…”

“Incredibly dissatisfying.”

“Yeah…”

Jakob von Bergliez inherited his title from his father, Leopold, who had died when Edelgard’s regime fell. Under the right of conquest, enemy soldiers who had refused to surrender’s lives were forfeit, but Dimitri knew that executing Edelgard’s inner circle outright could sew discontent in his still-new country.

Thus, Dimitri brought forth Count Hevring, Lady Varley, – and, of course, Count Bergliez and gave them a choice: offer their lives for their bannerettes guaranteed pardon or live and all hostages would be required to defend their own actions during the war, even if they had been “following orders”.

It was his hope all three would choose the former option and, to their credit, they all did.

“Then, you shall be put to the sword on the morrow,” Dimitri decreed, voice grave. “By my hand. I will spare the three of you the shame of a public execution since you offered your lives in the place of your subordinates.”

“Long live the King!” came Waldemar Hevring’s sarcastic response. “And long live the vile Church of Seiros. If nothing else, you meet expectations, King of Faerghus.”

Felix was having none of it. “Enough with the sour grapes, man! You know well that Edelgard would’ve taken all our heads had the battle gone her way. At least you’ll die with some dignity and self-respect.”

That shut Hevring up.

Lady Aenor Varley had little to say, her only comment being, “My only regret was that we lost.”

Byleth checked on Bernadetta after her mother was taken away, but soon-to-be head of House Varley displayed a profound quietude about the whole thing.

“I’m a little sad since she is my mother, y’know? But I can’t pretend that we were close — and she stood by for, like, most of my life while my father treated me the way he did. My biggest regret is that my father won’t get the chop, too.”

Gregoire von Varley would not be losing his life thanks to Edelgard removing him from power and keeping him under house arrest. Dimitri stripped him of his lands and titles, though, rather than allowing him the dignity of abdicating. Bernie ultimately decided she’d be dumping him in a heavily guarded cottage. Far, far away from her.

The last to speak was Count Bergliez.

Standing before Dimitri, Leopold asked only for two boons. First, for Dimitri to pardon Jakob formally and permit him to keep their titles and lands. The second?

“A sword.”

Ingrid scoffed, “You really think we’d arm you in the king’s presence?”

Leopold ignored her, speaking only to Dimitri.

“You are a warrior at heart, Your Highness. I think you will understand me. Truth is, I wish I died in that battle, as Caspar did at Fort Merceus, but your knight there,” (nodding to Sylvain) “Irritatingly recognised me and thought it best to take me alive. So now, here I stand before you, a beaten man. I’ve lost a son, a liege and a war. Will you strip me of dignity, too?! Were you standing in my place, wouldn’t you ask for the same as I do so that you might die with honour? Isn’t that the ‘Faerghus way’, to live and die by the blade?”

They were indeed words for the ages. And those words reached Dimitri, as Byleth knew they would and as Leopold hoped. It was a noble death, as he fell on the sword. His body went limp, and Jakob became the new Count Bergliez.

House Bergliez was the foremost family now that Hvesvelg and Aegir’s lines were extinct. It was why Dimitri named Jakob the Viceroy of Adrestia in the first place, to give them an advocate from among their number.

So much for that.

Looking back on that moment Leopold took his life, Byleth couldn’t help but feel angry on his behalf. That man offered his life for his soldiers and son, only for that son to throw it all away. Thanks to his foolishness, House Bergliez’s family tree was little more than a stem, with little Casimir, Jakob’s son, as its only leaf.

What had he hoped to achieve? Jakob must have known this fight was futile.

Even if Edelgard’s mysterious allies had egged him on, surely, he knew attacking Leicester would trigger the Crescent Moon clause: ‘an attack on one is an attack on us all.’ A vow to protect the Alliance against external meddling. They did not revoke it even after Claude dismantled the council of Lords. Jakob’s unprovoked attack on Lorenz’s territory, his fellow viceroy no less, had been insanity.

He should’ve known better.

Byleth grimaced, coming back to reality from her memories.

“I’d hoped to take him alive.”

“I know,” Claude grumbled. “It’s beyond frustrating we’ll never get the chance to ask him ‘why?’ I don’t get it. He seemed so sensible when I met him.”

Jakob was there when Dimitri and Claude signed the Treaty of Garreg Mach a few months ago, the outcome of Byleth’s diplomatic mission to Almyra. Even before that, Claude had met him at the Foundation Day Eve Ball.

“Ha! Nothing like his little brother,” he continued, voice devoid of mirth. “You’d never think Jakob and Caspar were sibs if it weren’t for the hair, would you? But… maybe that calmness, modesty and humility cloaked a desire for revenge against the new Fódlan regime. I dunno…”

“Maybe…”

But, with his own eyes, Jakob witnessed Khalid sign his name to the treaty beside Dimitri’s, ratifying the ‘Crescent Moon Clause’ into the Fódlean-Almyran accord. He swore to honour his commitments as a Fódlan subject as long as he kept the Riegan lands. Claude-Khalid had called that a ‘gift’ when Dimitri asked him why.

“Given how much I owe Her Grace.”

While Byleth knew he was referring to her aid in defeating his eldest brother, Mustafar – and what was ‘left’ of his sister, Alaya – during their surprise attack, she couldn’t hear those words pass his lips and not reminisce about the many times they had been locked against her own.

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold.

Don’t think about this right now.

But she shivered again, only to feel scorching heat when Claude cupped her elbow. It was an innocent gesture, yet it threatened to ignite so much in her.

“Claude?”

“Let’s get inside.”

Across the way, Byleth caught sight of Ashe. Noticing her sudden weariness, he got to his feet as though to assist, but Byleth waved him off.

“Don’t worry,” Claude added, offering him a smile. “Just been a long day, right, Teach?”

The archer nodded, hesitantly. “Well, as long as you’re sure you don’t need help?”

“It’s fine, Ashe. Seteth’s waiting for us, in any case.”

Claude walked Byleth towards her tent. Then, pushing the tarp aside, he softly steered her inside. This crudely put-together tent lacked the ‘trappings’ of their base, as they did not intend to stay much longer than a night.

Seteth sat at her desk, surrounded by the reports she had left him with. He vaulted to his feet at the sight of the Archbishop and Shah, brow scowling, eyes fixated on where Claude’s hand hovered.

“Is all well, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because His Royal Highness saw fit to accompany you back here.” Seteth gave Claude a wordless stare before adding, “Are you ill? If you are ill, I can-!”

“What? Send for the doctors we just spoke to?” Claude cut in with rapier-like quickness. He removed his hand, leaving Byleth bare. “Oh, please pardon this piteous heathen for deigning to be courteous towards Her Most Benevolent Grace, Lord Seteth.”

Claude winked at Byleth before retreating to the corner of the tent, theatrically putting distance between them.

Seteth looked abashed, though his tone remained caustic enough to corrode wootz steel. “I was not implying you were being discourteous, Your Royal Highness. I spoke merely out of concern for Her Grace.”

Claude folded his arms, simpering. “You’re terrible to tease, y’know that?”

“Hmph.” Seteth turned back to Byleth. “Was Paul able to ascertain the cause of death?”

“More or less. He and Nimura believe it was an infection.”

“From a battle wound,” Claude quickly clarified. “So, hopefully, that will allay any rumours of foul play, but we’ll still need to be careful about how this will look.”

“Indeed,” Seteth nodded, stroking the hairs on his chin. “Lady Wanda still holds out against the siege at Fort Merceus. With any luck, news of Jakob’s fate will weaken her resolve. It would be unfortunate if she were to do something… regretful upon hearing the news of her husband’s death.”

Claude cocked an eyebrow. “Any chance that she might?”

“I don’t think so,” Byleth said. “Wanda only cares about Casimir.”

“I see, so the worst she’ll likely do is make like Bernadetta and refuse to come out.” Claude tapped his forehead as though doing so might knock out an idea. “If that’s the case, it might be worth Dimitri’s time to absolve Wanda of Jakob’s crimes.”

“She was complicit with her husband’s actions, was she not?” Seteth challenged.

“Was she though? They weren’t exactly a happy couple, so, for all we know Jakob was acting alone. Yes, proceed with caution, but it might be wise to give Wanda the benefit of the doubt. If nothing else, making that little tyke an orphan might come back to bite us later.”

The clerk hummed in tacit agreement.

Byleth agreed, too, but it was her husband’s decision and it might be too late to avoid taking Wanda’s life. Dimitri would not harm Casimir, of that, she was sure. He was not the sort of man to lay a father’s sins at his son’s feet. After all, he spared little Lucy, Edelgard’s cousin, despite Volkhard von Arundel’s crimes. But Wanda was a different story. The convention might compel Dimitri to take her head, whether he believed her deserving of death or not.

That was the Faerghus way.

“Thankfully, it is not for Lady Byleth to decide upon this matter but her husband,” Seteth stressed tersely. “As far as the Knights of Seiros and the Church are concerned, the Goddess has passed her divine judgement on the fiend, Jakob von Bergliez.”

The younger man swallowed a snort. “Sure. The Goddess.”

Byleth saw the acidic glare Seteth gave Claude.

If looks could kill…

She pointed to the stack of papers on her desk. “Did you sort through my epistles, Seteth?”

When Seteth gave no response, Byleth looked up to see him side-eying Claude, who responded with an impish wag of the eyebrows.

She rolled her eyes. “Any word from the Cardinals or Yuri?”

Those were the only two instances she could think of where Seteth would be justified in wanting to hide the contents of her messages: a ‘crisis’ in the conclave or a dispatch from her spymaster.

Seteth winced. “N-Not that I saw, Your Grace.”

“I guess that answers my original question, too, then,” she said with a tiny smile.

Nothing significant (or noteworthy), as always. Updates on the reconstruction of the church and the Academy, probably. Letters from zealous nobles looking to borrow money, maybe. These were all matters Seteth himself would likely respond to anyway, so Byleth’s only task was to whack her rota on at the end.

“Is there anything I ought to respond to personally?”

“There is a message from Alois,” Seteth quickly replied, as though that could justify his guardedness around Claude. “He had to dispatch a few knights to deal with a few ruffians in Medraut and Barnabas, though, thankfully, it does not appear to be related to the Bergliez situation.”

“Then I have no issues with you sending a response on my behalf, Seteth,” Byleth decided, pushing the inbox towards him. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Seteth slowly picked up the documents and tucked them under his arm. “Might I ask what the next course of action is?”

“We’ll stay here until dawn and then return to the main camp,” Byleth told him. “From there, we’ll decide how to handle the clean-up.”

“And after that?”

“I suppose we make our way back to Garreg Mach.”

A genuine smile crossed Seteth’s lips. “Excellent.”

He missed Flayn. As much as the thoughtful healer wanted to accompany them on this mission, Byleth knew it wouldn’t be wise to strain her body too hard, not after the many months of sleep it took to recover from the last battle she fought.

“I will write of Jakob’s death to Dimitri myself,” Byleth announced, taking out a piece of parchment, quill, and ink. “I want there to be no doubt the news is genuine.”

The last thing I need is for Dimitri to overthink this.

“Very well.” Seteth withdrew, stopping in front of Claude and smiling tightly. “Shall I accompany you back to your quarters, Your Royal Highness?”

Claude made to get up. “Well, I—!”

“Actually,” Byleth interrupted. “Could you stay with me a little longer, Your Royal Highness? I wanted to ask your thoughts about how we might handle the withdrawal of our troops.”

She didn’t raise her head, but she could practically hear Claude’s smirk.

“As you wish, Lady Byleth,” he replied, stressing the ‘Lady’, not even trying to sound demure. He smoothly took the seat opposite Byleth. “I’m all yours.”

Unfortunately, this development only irritated Seteth more. His neck snapped as he twisted to look back at Byleth.

“Do you not want my opinion?”

Byleth looked up.

“But you have all those reports to do. I wouldn’t want to strain you.” Before he could raise another protest, she lifted her pointer finger as though only just remembering something she had meant to say the whole time. “I want the shah’s opinion on how we should phrase this news to Dimitri. We are the ones who found the body, after all.”

Seteth narrowed his eyes, challenging her to order him away outright.

He wants to be a part of everything.

Byleth rose to the ‘challenge.’ “You can go now, Seteth.”

He did not defy her.

Shoulders slumping, he shook his head.

“Very well, Lady Byleth, but…” He gave the Almyran King one last cautious glance. “I would appreciate it if you kept me abreast of all developments. I am, after all, the administrator of the Knights of Seiros. Your decisions will affect them.”

“I can take minutes if you’d like?” Claude dryly offered.

Byleth gently shook her head at him.

Don’t rile him up.

Claude continued, taking the hint. “Ahem, besides, I’m sure Her Grace intends only to discuss issues relating to her Queenly Crown, not her Archbishoply one.”

And he winked Byleth’s way, seeking her support. “Right?”

“Indeed.” That wink always turned her lips up. “I must keep my role as Archbishop and Queen separate. Aren’t you always telling me that, Seteth?”

That was her clerk’s death knell. He had no words to retort with, opening and closing his mouth. Byleth fought back a smile; it was quite fun turning his own mantra back on him.

Claude snorted again. ‘You got him there,’ his eyes said.

I have indeed.

Byleth looked down. She didn’t want to upset Seteth, though. She loved him. A gentle, affectionate love that reminded her of Jeralt. Seteth, Flayn and Rhea—they were Sitri’s people. Sothis’s people. They were Byleth’s kin; Rhea held the knowledge of their heritage; Flayn was a sweet and loyal friend; and Seteth was Byleth’s protective and patient confidant. Remembering that prompted her to cushion the blow she had just dealt her friend.

“We will speak one-on-one about the knights later, Seteth. I promise.”

Seteth nodded stiffly. “Hm. I will hold you to that, Byl—ahem, Lady Byleth.”

He exited, purposefully leaving the tent entrance wide-open behind him. Finally, alone, Byleth’s eyes fell on Claude. He returned her regard with another wink, got up and went to fix it, hiding them from the world.

“Finally alone!” Claude announced dramatically as he returned to his seat.

Byleth let out the sigh she had been repressing throughout that conversation. “I apologise for his behaviour. With Flayn at home, he’s turned his attention onto me.”

“Plainly. After all, how could he possibly leave the divine Goddess’s Avatar unchaperoned with the barbarous Almyran heathen?” His voice dripped with unabashed sarcasm, punctuating each word. “Do you suppose he’s worried I’ll take liberties with you, Your Grace?”

Her blood stilled. “Don’t.”

He tilted his head with a small smile. “Don’t what?”

“You know what.” She sucked and bit her lips, frustrated. “Don’t. Not now.”

Claude observed her quietly for a moment before adding in a wry tone. “I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about, Lady Byleth.”

Teasing me.

She hated it. She loved it. Wanted it. Wanted him. There was nothing she would like more than for Claude to take all the ‘liberties’ he wanted with her. Musing on the ‘liberties’ he’d taken with her made her pelvis ache. Kisses sweeter than any tea. Touches that scorched her soul—

Stop, you fool!

Searching for a distraction, Byleth gazed upon the blank page before her. She tapped the plume against it thoughtfully, drawing Claude’s eyes. “What do I say in this letter?”

“This is for the letter to Dimitri, I assume?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t know how to convey the news.”

“Hm, well, how about you start with…” He gestured his hands theatrically as though writing the words upon the air itself, “‘Jakob von Bergliez is dead’?”

Byleth rolled her eyes. “What a way with words you have! I can see why you’re famed for your silver tongue.”

“Hey, if you want poetry, go commission Lorenz to write something for you,” Claude chuckled. “Give him twenty-four hours, and I’m sure he’ll pen a full heroic verse for you. Rhymes and all.”

Byleth did not know what made an epic poem, but she knew that the creative arts would be lost on Dimitri. He was a pragmatist at the end of the day. 

“Dimitri would think I’d had a stroke if I sent him all that…”

Nonetheless, she wrote precisely the words as Claude had spoken them on the parchment, to see what it would look like and if writing it would make it feel more real. ‘Jakob von Bergliez is dead’ was a stark and accurate statement that Dimitri would appreciate.

Staring at the phrase penned in ink, Byleth struggled to accept it.

“Jakob von Bergliez is dead,” she repeated, then again, and then again. Quietly. “I keep thinking that if I say it enough times it—”

“Might feel real?”

She nodded.

It didn’t feel like this could be true. None of it did. Only a few days before, they had left the ravaged town of Gwydion to pursue Count Bergliez and his allies into Miach Forest. It was one of the largest in Fódlan, spanning the Airmid and covering vast parts of Gloucester, Ordelia, Hrym and Bergeliz territory. Byleth had planned to spend weeks fighting skirmishes and battles through the valley to route them all out. Instead, they had retrieved a corpse in a matter of days, skin rotting before the Count even drew his last breath. Seteth called it ‘Judgement from the Goddess’, but Byleth knew that was rubbish.

Sothis never had that kind of power.

“Would you say this feels a little too easy?” Byleth asked Claude suddenly.

“Jakob turning up dead, you mean?”

“Yes. I don’t know what it is…” She wasn’t even sure why she felt so low, or maybe she did and didn’t want to admit it. “I feel disappointed.”

“What? That we didn’t have to spend the next few months combing this forest for our enemy? Spending hours upon hours of our precious lives chasing down the foe?”

It sounds utterly selfish when he puts it like that.

Byleth fidgeted in her seat. “N-Not, exactly. I—”

“Because that’s how I feel, By.”

Claude’s frankness struck her like a bell.

Byleth stared, twiddling her quill. “It’s not like you to itch for a fight.”

“Ha!” was his short, sardonic response. Claude always preferred to fight with his words before his bow. “When I fight, I become something I hate,” he told her once. It was a sentiment Byleth shared; when she fought, she became the Ashen Demon, and Byleth hated being the Ashen Demon.

She watched as his fingers drummed against the table, centimetres from her own. His sight fell upon their hands, too, noting their proximity. It went still, and Byleth’s skin prickled with anticipation, hoping he would touch her. Her heart cried out for it, but her common sense scolded her.

Clearing his throat, Claude withdrew his hand, leaving Byleth disappointed.

“I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something, though. But maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m clutching at excuses to hide my true feelings: that I hate being disappointed the conflict ended this way. Abruptly. With our adversary dying in such a pitiful way.”

“If only we’d taken him alive…” Byleth said, repeating her earlier lament.

“We both wanted that. There were many questions I wanted to ask him, questions only he could answer.”

“Like ‘Why?’”

That question plagued their minds from the beginning.

“Exactly. This ‘rebellion’ was a terrible waste of time, resources, and of life. What was he thinking? How did he think this was going to end?”

Jakob knew attacking an inch of Leicester would bring the Almyran King straight back to Fódlan. Yet, he did it anyway. Why? Did someone put him up to it? Were Edelgard’s sorcerers really that persuasive?

“Maybe he didn’t think you would really come to our aid?” Byleth suggested. Claude blinked, as though such a simple explanation hadn’t crossed his mind. “Maybe Jakob thought you were too new to your crown to respond as quickly as you did?”

“Welp, more fool him! I signed the treaty as Khalid, the king of Almyra, and as Claude, the head of House Riegan in Fódlan. Why? Because, like it or not, I’m the same man. Besides, there is nothing more heinous to us Almyrans than an oathbreaker.”

“Hard for us Fódlans to ‘read up’ up Almyran customs when the books are all written in High Almyran, Khalid.”

Well, Byleth found that frustrating. She found Almyran custom interesting. Ever the curious creature, she would have liked to read more about it. Sadly, Almyran chronicles had no Fódlean nor even koine-glótta translations. So, everything she knew had come from Claude. It was a blood-soaked history of violence, betrayal and kinslaying… but fascinating all the same. Still, she knew it bothered Claude that his homeland’s system of government relied so heavily on pursuing power at the cost of fracturing families.

Every succession was determined with a war, never a conversation. Hence, ‘Succession Wars’, never the ‘Succession Discussions’.

“Perhaps I ought to commission a translation?” Claude said, half-joking, semi-serious. “As a symbol of the unity between Fódlan and Almyra. Provided Lord Scowls-a-Lot doesn’t immediately confiscate it as contraband, that is.”

He meant Seteth and his ‘book-hiding’ policy. It had been on Rhea’s directive that certain tomes were removed from the Garreg Mach library and from wider circulation around Fódlan. Neither had ever outright destroyed them, but locked them away in the Shadow Library of Abyss. Since most inhabitants couldn’t read, they deemed it a good enough place to keep them.

One of Byleth’s first acts as Archbishop was to catalogue every book at the monastery, including those hidden by Seteth. In truth, her motives were quite selfish. She wanted to know if there was anything ‘useful’ and ‘worthy of review’ down there, especially information about herself — or rather, Sothis. Who and what they really were. Even though she’d found nothing that answered those questions, there were plenty of other books Rhea deemed ‘harmful’, but Byleth found worthy of an imprimatur.

“Scribing books is hard and expensive, too,” Claude added.

“We could build that machine?” Byleth said. “You know, the one I told you about? That ‘book press’ thingy. The one where you take the letters and set them inside a relief, then press them down—”

“Careful, Teach!” Claude warned playfully. “Pretty sure Seteth’s ears are twitching at the very idea of you building that screw-press thingamajig, let alone that you’d be willing to share the knowledge with Almyra.”

“If it helps us prosper….”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the converted with me,” he chuckled, lip curled into an affectionate smile. “I’m just worried about you tipping your hand early and ruffling too many feathers here in Fódlan.”

“Not like you to preach caution.”

“My only concern is for your safety, my stars-above.”

Hearing those words scorched Byleth’s blood.

Claude realised his mistake, too. His love-name for her. ‘My stars-above’ or ‘Eshtahre’uyla-mi,’ in Almyran. He called her that since their last night at Garreg Mach before leaving on this campaign, wrapped in damp bedding, twisted around each other like ivy and oak.

“A slip of the tongue,” he blurted.

“You shouldn’t call me that here. We promised, Claude.”

“It was a slip of the tongue.”

“Don’t ‘slip your tongue’ in front of the wrong person.”

He scowled. “Oh, give me some credit, By! As if I’d be that stupid. It’s just being here, alone with you, I forgot myself.”

Byleth couldn’t deny Claude’s excellent ‘game’ face. That never-ending smile and those analytical eyes. Much like her, his resting expression seldom gave away his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, eyes downcast.

“No, I’m sorry. I just…” Her voice trailed off, not knowing what to say. Express how she felt.

Byleth had never been a highly emotional person. Not that the feelings were absent; she just struggled to express them. Maybe it was innate, a by-product of Sothis’s unbeating heart inside her. Perhaps it was nature, a trait passed down from Sitri and all other Goddess vessels before her. Maybe it was nurture, from being raised by an emotionally repressed, functional alcoholic father being dragged to and from mercenary jobs until she was old enough to join his company. Maybe it was all these things or none of them at all. Whatever it was, Byleth entered adulthood barely understanding the nuance in her own mood.

But Claude…

Claude aroused it all in her like he was the lodestone for every emotion buried deep within her soul. It was all fiercer around him. Anger and frustration, sadness and anguish, joy and excitement, envy and lust, fear and anxiety, pleasure and happiness, love and hope—such a spectrum stirred within the human condition.

He leaned forward, whispering gruffly. “Use your words, By.”

Use my words.

“Claude…”

“Yes?”

He knows we can’t do this here and right now.

“I…” But again, the sentence stopped dead as Byleth was unsure of what she was trying to say. “Claude, I…”

Why can’t I speak?

A sigh erupted from Claude’s chest. Then, suddenly, he flew to his feet.

Byleth’s blood felt still in her veins, fearing that he might be about to walk out in frustration at her.

“Please don’t go—!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he replied, voice throbbing. He circled around the table in three steps and swept her into his arms for a kiss.

All resolve faded as Byleth pulled him in deep to tease his tongue with her own. Every inch of her body tingled. They hadn’t made love since leaving Garreg Mach for this campaign, and when they left, they swore to stop. It was a good, moral and apt thing — but Byleth hated it, feeling starved of the physicality and affection she wanted and need.

“We shouldn’t,” she gasped, kissing him in shorter bursts, bridging every other word she spoke. “We promised, Claude,” she murmured. More kisses, tiny moans grumbling in her lungs. “Not on the campaign.”

But she didn’t stop. And neither did he. All she wanted was to kiss him until he’d starved all the air from her lungs.

Claude was quietly amused by this. “You’re kinda giving me mixed signals here, By.”

Then he snuggled his nose against hers, an action so sweet she practically melted into his arms. “Because I’ll say this – and I’ll admit I might be projecting a little bit here – but it seemed like you really, really needed a kiss.”

Byleth nodded keenly, relishing the warmth curling in her heart. It really was all she wanted. Hold him, feel him, kiss him…

Damn it all! What harm can kissing do now? What did any of it matter?

Soon, she would have nothing of him at all –

Remembering that, her smile faltered. She collapsed against his shoulder, breathing in the natural musk of his skin and clothes. It was soothing; he smelt like life, earth, salt, metal, and chamomile. Desire. Wish. Hope. All she wanted was to stay like this, in his hold, and never leave.

But I have no choice.

Jakob von Bergliez was dead, and so was Claude’s reason for being in Fódlan.

“What’re you thinking about, By?”

Her lover pressed a more innocent kiss on her forehead, drawing her from her thoughts.

“How nice you smell.”

He smirked. “That’s all?”

“I’m thinking about how much I’ll miss it when you leave, along with everything else.”

She kissed him again quickly but deeply, “Your mouth, lips, smile… Your hair,” her fingers looped around his untamed locks, rubbing circles into his scalp. “Your wonderful mind.”

She traced his Ask’s apple with her index finger. “Your voice.”

Byleth could listen to Claude talk for hours. It simply made her happy. She never felt more at peace than when she lay her head against his chest, listening to the rumble of his lungs as he spoke about everything and anything.

“I wish to be wrapped around you always,” she whispered. She instinctively circled her leg around his waist, the light brush of his pelvis pressed against her clothed core enjoyably intimate, provoking a lulling coo from them both. “And never let go.”

It was an invitation Claude gladly reciprocated, grazing her lips sweetly with his teeth. Their kisses were hungrier now. He hummed wantonly, pressing his hips tighter against hers. 

“Ah, deldahr-mi, rosheshta’uyla-mi, if only I were wrapped around you always…” 

Byleth gasped, feeling his sex even through his thick trousers. It made her whimper. Made her wet.

“Claude.”

Like a prayer on her lips. A thanksgiving for the pleasure quaking in the valley between her legs. She tilted her head right back, moaning as he moved his mouth to her neck. She missed it. How good it felt to make love to him. Hands resting on his hips, she arched into him, her voice ardent and desperate.

“Khal…”

That made him growl.

Taking Byleth’s chin between thumb and forefinger, Claude urged her to meet his gaze. When she did, his face was twisted in want and pain.

“We’d better stop.” Panting, he braced his hands on either side of her desk. “Before we forget ourselves, eh?”

Byleth felt her loins twist.

“It’s like you said at Gwydion.” He tilted his head, mimicking her intonation. “I shouldn’t make this harder than it already is.’”

As Claude slipped from Byleth’s embrace, she couldn’t suppress the pitiable whine. Her core ached. Her heart felt cold. But he was right.

At Gwydion, alone in the alderman’s library, they comforted each other after the battle, stealing kisses and whispering reassurances. Byleth longed to make love to Claude that night, but she knew they couldn’t keep bargaining for time. Reprisal after reprisal, always begging for “just once more”. That had been the hymn they had sung night after night in Almyra. Every night, they pretended it would be the last time, knowing they’d be back in each other’s arms tomorrow…

Until they stopped pretending, and simply sought each other out for that unassailable connection they found only in each other’s arms.

Byleth glanced over her shoulder at the forgotten letter, at the smudged ink.

“Jakob von Bergeliz is dead,” she repeated, re-reading the words, thinking of the damned rotten corpse. “This conflict is over, but… I can’t be happy about it because I want you to stay with me. Doesn’t that make me awful?”

“Who cares at this point?” Claude threw his head back, breathing loudly, the tendons of his neck tightening. Byleth wished she had the courage to rush forward again and catch them between her lips. “At least we’re awful together.”

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