It took a while for Byleth to process Nader’s words. A thousand thoughts and one flashed through her head. 

Pregnant…?

The shock and hurt gripped at her throat. The world was unbearably still at that word.

You can’t be… You’re—!

A mongrel. A hybrid. Byleth recalled Claude’s sharp intake of breath and the way his eyes widened when she first described herself like that. “Don’t talk about yourself that way!” A part of her regretted the harsh words, remembering how often he’d faced the same cruel slurs in his youth. Yet, in Byleth’s case, it was literally true. She was the very definition of a hybrid, the child of Man and Nabatean. And, like all hybrids, she was sterile.

…Aren’t I?

To be honest, she didn’t know; she was guessing. Much about Byleth’s being was still a mystery to her. Visions and dreams were the source of her meager understanding of who and what she was. The vivid recollections of bloody massacres and wars were never witnessed by her eyes nor even Sothis’s, but by their heart. The heart of the Goddess, Sothis. That was what lay in Byleth’s chest, where her soul lay. Its power birthed in the centre of a newborn star, ancient and holy. Then, forged from a material beyond mortal understanding. The core of the Heteromorphic Goddess Vessel. She who dies, and then returns. The cycle almost fractured forever when they murdered and carved that heart from her predecessor’s torso, trapping it inside the Sword of the Creator. Forced to witness Nemesis’s unrelenting butchery against children of Goddess and Man alike, it might’ve sat in the hilt of that mighty blade forever, if not for Rhea. 

Rhea, and Byleth’s mother, Sitri.

“Your mother’s labours were sudden, painful and… difficult,” Rhea once told Byleth, during one of her frequent visits to Zanado to seek her council. “When you were finally brought into this world, you weren’t… breathing.” 

Rhea often cloaked her language with vagueness and trickle-truths like this, much to Byleth’s quiet frustration.

Byleth thought it best to state the obvious. “I was stillborn.”

Rhea recoiled from her choice of words. “My child, you were not the first babe I’d delivered nor the first I had to breathe life into. You were not breathing. I tried to revive you, but you would not draw breath. That was when Sitri said, ‘My heart. Take it from me and give it to my child.’”

I was brought back from the dead, Byleth thought, placing her hand on her heart. A part of her wondered if she still was dead. A mannequin reanimated by her phylactery. “Can I truly be alive, if my heart doesn’t beat?”

That was when Rhea offered Byleth her hand and placed it upon her chest. There, Byleth could sense her mentor’s own heart. It hummed, much like her own. And there was no beat.

“What are we?” Byleth gasped.

“Nabateans. Not human, but still life.”

‘Still life,’ Byleth thought, was quite apt. Though not fully human, perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. “My mother was the same?” Rhea nodded. “What about my father?”

Jeralt’s heart had beat; she felt it with her own hands many times. For a time, she thought he was the strange one—why did his heart thump like that? It wasn’t until she heard her colleagues speak of their ‘hammering hearts’ that Byleth realised she was the outlier.

“Though I used my blood to save his life, and that blood manifested a crest, Jeralt was a human. Long-lived but mortal.”

That was when it all clicked into place for Byleth. Jeralt was a human, a Child of Man. Sitri was a Nabatean, created and birthed by Rhea, a Child of the Goddess. Byleth used to wonder if her barrenness was the price of being a Goddess vessel, but maybe the truth lay in her biology, not her soul. Her body was half-Jeralt, half-Sitri. Neither fully human nor Nabatean. So, how was she any different from a mule? The offspring of a jack and a mare; strong, reliable… and sterile. 

That’s why you can’t—you can’t be—!

She could feel the world spinning, the walls closing in—everything she thought she knew, turned on its head in an instant. 

A gasp escaped her lips as the air was squeezed from her lungs, a vise-like pressure constricting her chest. 

“Pregnant?”

A wave of dizziness flushed through her, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her porcelain teacup clattered to the ground as Byleth, too, nearly toppled from her chair.

“Hey!” Nader’s firm hands grabbed her shoulders, preventing her fall. “You alright there? Need me to fetch one of those women of yours?”

Byleth shook her head quickly. The last thing she needed was to draw Malva’s – and especially Fern’s – attention. 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I was just… taken aback.”

Nader scoffed cynically. ”I’m sorry if I ‘startled’ you, Lady Byleth. But it’d be irresponsible for me to keep these suspicions to myself.”

“Of course…”

Returning to his seat, Nader spent a few moments rearranging the cups and spoons. He waited until he was sure no one had seen Byleth fall, then spoke again. 

“You’ll need a healer to confirm it, of course. But I’ve been through this dance far too many times not to notice the signs. I’m relatively sure.”

No, he’s wrong. 

Hundreds of memories flashed through Byleth’s head. The myriad of ‘fertility potions’ from Atticus, none of which worked. Dimitri’s countless (and unbearably frequent) attempts to get her pregnant, never resulting in success.

“It’s impossible…” she muttered, at last.

Nader clapped his hands together dramatically, startling Byleth out of her thoughts.

“It’s a miracle, then!” He spread his arms wide in an obviously sarcastic and exaggerated way. “Khal has done the impossible and seeded the barren plains—”

“Don’t!” Byleth croaked, squeezing her eyes closed. “Please… don’t…!” 

This was cruel. Cruel to give her hope. It lurched through her, tossing her mind into the throes of doubt. For so long, she tried to make peace with her assumed infertility. She almost viewed it as an escape plan—if she couldn’t perform the principal duty of the Queen Consort, someone else would need to… and the thought didn’t upset her. It wasn’t fair to any of them to continue living this lie, including Dimitri. 

He deserves someone who loves him as much as I love Claude. 

With Claude, lovemaking was like a sacred dance. It allowed Byleth to express emotions too powerful to put into words. It was purely an act of love… but he was also a king, and that petrified her. Even if she left Dimitri, escaped across the border and into Claude’s arms, her problems would begin anew. Hailing from a land of succession wars fought by tens and twenties of princes, producing an heir was just as expected of him — if not more so. The thought of sharing him with another woman, watching her bear children she was incapable of was like a breaking wheel upon her heart.

Yet Claude obliterated her fears when she finally dared to voice them. Byleth had thought she couldn’t love him more, but he so easily opened her heart and chased away her fears.

“I love you more than the possibility of being a father—if the choice is between having children and you, I just want you. I’ll be whatever you would have of me. If you’ll have me. If I would be enough. Be with me.”

And for the first time in a long time, she was enough. She was free.

A tear finally freed itself from her eye, snapping her out of her thoughts as it slid down her cheek.

“This isn’t funny. You’re being cruel.”

“Gods, that stoic veneer of yours is chipping away like gold leaf today!” Nader slumped back in his chair, astounded. “These Fódlan quacks have really got into your head, haven’t they? You just said you bleed, don’t you?”

“Everyone bleeds.”

“Womb blood, I mean.”

She nodded.

“Then you most likely can get pregnant.”

“And yet, I haven’t yet.”

“Until now,” Nader insisted. He rested his elbows on the table, speaking in a hushed tone. “The nausea, the sensitivity to food, the vertigo, the… ugh! How else do you explain your symptoms? And didn’t you think it’s strange your banks haven’t burst recently?!”

No.

Byleth’s flow had been inconsistent for as long as she could remember. During her mercenary days, it came barely a few times a year. She never questioned it at the time, never knew it as anything other than “normal” for her. Her interactions with other women were limited to other mercenaries, and their cycles sounded equally hectic. It was only once she reached the monastery she realised her periods were off. Annette and Mercedes would whisper about their perfectly synchronised ‘crimson days’ and Manuela was anything but shy from discussing every single point of her cycle, from the “reds” to the “whites.” It was all eye opening, to say the least. Even at Garreg Mach Monastery, Byleth never bled once a month like most women, more like every other month. Then, after her five-year-sleep, and awakening to a continent at war and a barely cognisant Dimitri, her cycle was thrown out of whack all over again and it never really recovered.

“No,” Byleth said, at last. “If you must know, I’ve always been irregular.”

Nader shook his head. “It still doesn’t mean you can’t get pregnant. Trust me, I know. It took a while for my daughter Ghalia to have her first, too. She and her man were always in battle. And he’s a careless arse, constantly breaking bones and cracking open his head. The stress from that alone was probably keeping any babe from taking.”

He tutted. 

“Lord knows I get anxious just talking about that cyclo—ahem, your husband-king. I can’t imagine what living with him is like.”

“I’m used to it.”

Even in his darkest days, she never feared Dimitri for herself, only for others. Her students’ loyalty was unwavering; they would follow him to Hell’s gate. That was why she always needed to be there—lest he lead them all there, and get them all killed. So much of her life revolved around his needs—and it had steadily exhausted her. All day, every day, caught between lifting him up and talking him down. Daily triumphs and nightly terrors.

“And that’s sad, Lady Byleth.” Nader sounded genuinely sympathetic. He took an aggressive bite of toast, then instantly seemed to regret it, keen to chew and swallow as quickly as possible. “It really is. In fact…” he continued hoarsely, needing to take a sip from his own cup to wet his mouth again. “I understand why Khal swept you off your feet.” 

She couldn’t help but smile. “He is far more… easy going.”

“Hm, though I find his antics stressful–”

“I find them exciting.”

“Of course, you do.” Nader bleated out a laugh and shook his head. “Tell me, though, has your sterility been confirmed by a reliable physician?”

‘Reliable’ was not a word Byleth would use to describe Atticus. Cold and cynical was more like it. There was a genuine dislike in his eyes whenever he looked at her. She felt defiled after every conversation with him.

“Atticus, my husband’s physician,” she replied, at last. “He was the first one to suggest it.”

Though, thinking about it, Atticus had never told her pregnancy was impossible. That was why he prescribed her medicine to help regulate her periods. Not that they had ever worked.

“Ha! Sounds like an excuse to cover for his king’s dead stem.”

Byleth winced. “Please stop mocking parts of my husband’s anatomy.”

“Why? Until recently, I was certain Khal’s cock was broken, too!” Nader laughed, clearly trying to ease the tension.

Though she rolled her eyes, Byleth couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

“But hasn’t it occurred to you that Dimitri is the one struggling with infertility, not you?”

No… Maybe? If she had, she never entertained the idea for too long. Her Archbishop title wasn’t hereditary, but the Crown of Faerghus was. So, it was easier to accept that she was the problem. Dimitri actually needed a successor of Blaiddyd blood, but anyone could feasibly head the Church.

“Your silence speaks volumes, ashibanu-ahliah,” Nader said, when she failed to respond.

“I suppose you could say that I haven’t allowed myself to consider it,” she confessed.

Byleth touched her belly again, hoping to feel any change, any sign of a growing baby. Naturally, there was nothing; it was far too soon, even if it were true. Lost in thought, she glanced at her reflection in the shiny kettle hanging over the brazier, her pale face warped by the curve of the metal. She tried to pick out any signs of pregnancy – fuller cheeks, glowing skin, a slight ache in her ever-so slightly plumper breasts. Unbidden, images flooded her mind: a child, her own heart-shaped face, Claude’s smile, gleaming green eyes, gurgling happily in her arms… Could it be…? Yet, her thoughts turned to far more unsettling pictures: the people of Fódlan in revolt because of their queen’s betrayal, all while Dimitri raises Areadbhar, poised to thrust it through Claude’s heart–

Byleth’s eyes snapped open.

“Nader!” Her voice was raspy. “You must swear to keep this secret for now. Mehrbahn.”

Amusement flickered in Nader’s eyes. “Mehrbahn’i. Who would I tell?”

“Khal.”

That gave him a start. 

“What?!” He shot forward in his chair, as though an invisible force had shoved him from behind. “You would have me lie to him?!”

“No,” she promised him quickly. “I would never ask that of you.”

Lying overtly was an Almyran taboo. It was thought to poison the soul; a stain that could not be washed away by heaven’s waters or the Wise Lord’s fires. It was deeply rooted in Almyran culture, through and through. Even Claude, unapologetic agnostic that he was, avoided outright lies as much as possible.

“It’s not like I think my soul will actually be damned,” he explained once. “But, considering my reputation, it’s crucial for my people to believe what I say when it matters.”

Fortunately, omitting the truth or using misdirection to avoid it wasn’t considered a lie. In Almyra, unless someone asked you something point blank, it was safe to sidestep an issue–especially to preserve one’s safety or the safety of others. And Claude was a master at that! So, if he couldn’t speak openly about something, he would skilfully steer the conversation to topics he could discuss freely.

“I love you.” The memory of Claude’s voice was a warm caress against her thoughts. “I don’t want you to be scared, but I mean what I say. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t lie.”

Byleth took a steadying breath.

“I know you’re not a religious man, but I’d never ask you to lie to Khal. If he asks you directly, I know you must tell him. All I’m asking is that you don’t volunteer this information.”

Nader pinched the bridge of his nose, his face scrunched in deep thought. “This is a big ask, Lady Byleth.”

“I know…”

“No, you don’t!” He sprang to his feet, pacing agitatedly before the table. “This isn’t just about lying. Shahdamusakkan. ‘The shah’s blood is sacred.’ If I mislead him, especially about the existence of a sennu…” 

His voice throttled in his throat.

“This is a crisis of conscience for me!”

Byleth tightened her jaw. “We don’t even know it’s true.”

A long, silent moment stretched as Nader remained motionless. Even when their eyes met, he continued to stay silent. His burden was visible to her. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Nader let out a long sigh and sat back down at the table. He rubbed his temples wearily before speaking again.

“Fine. I won’t tell him unless he asks.”

Byleth released a breath as though she had only just remembered how to breathe. “Thank you,” she wheezed. “Thank you.” 

He raised his index finger sharply. “But you can’t ignore this. If you’re pregnant—”

“I’m not ignoring it,” she retorted, her tone harsher than she intended. “I’ll confirm the truth either way as soon as possible.”

Nader nodded slowly, his expression softening. “I understand. And I get it. This is a lot for you. Hell, this isn’t an ideal situation for any of us.”

“Indeed,” Byleth whispered. She wrapped both arms around her midsection, as if to shield herself – and possibly the life she carried – from the tumultuous world around her. 

Sothis… what do I do now?

The Nightwatch huddled around the fires atop the camp’s watchtowers, cupping hot drinks and chatting amongst themselves, barely registering the hooded Archbishop-Queen as she paced the grounds below them. Now and then, a patrolling guard would salute her, prompting an absentminded greeting from her, but she didn’t feel present. 

Four laps in and Byleth still wasn’t tired enough to sleep. The morning frost bit at her exposed skin, causing her to clutch her cloak tightly around her body. 

The past twelve hours had been a blur. Even though Nader urged her to confirm the pregnancy “as quickly as possible”, she did not know where to begin. 

Damnit, even that word still seemed unreal.

Pregnant. Pregnant. Preg-nant.

The weight of it was heavy on her chest. Suffocating. It quickened her breath, each one a white wisp escaping into the night air. Her feet picked up the pace, but even the squelch of the mud under her boots couldn’t ground her. 

Do I even dare to hope it’s true…?

Her eyes flickered towards the horizon.

As dawn neared, the sky changed from black to navy. In the far distance, she spotted the woods above the Gwalchmai Ravine. 

Claude should have arrived by now.

Byleth wondered what he was doing right now. Burning the midnight-or fourth-hour-candle, crouched over his desk as he double-checked his plans for the trillionth time, or curled up in his cot asleep, dreaming of her? 

Am I carrying a part of you with me now?

With a wistful smile, her trembling fingers hovered over her belly. Still flat, as normal as ever, no sign of life… yet. If she was pregnant, it couldn’t be more than a few months. That meant the earliest it could have happened was before they left Garreg Mach, and the latest was—

Any time between then and now.

She and Claude… well, they had been awfully reckless. Careless. Ever since the surprise attack in Miach Forest, when he—

No, I… I can’t think about it now. 

A flash of nausea hit her. Her hand snaked up to her mouth, and she rubbed her tummy again, desperate to settle her stomach.

Not again.

That day, something inside Byleth snapped. Watching him die—bringing him back to life—making shameless love to him a few yards away from the smouldering battlefield that almost claimed him…

Before that night, they both knew their love was earth-shatteringly beautiful… yet soul-crushingly doomed. They would enjoy time together in secluded secret spots and stolen moments, and drown themselves in sublime, delirious passion, never daring ask each other for anything beyond that–

Almyra, that dangerous farewell on Saint Cethleann’s Feast Day, and then Claude’s return to aid in the Bergliez Uprising. 

Byleth knew exactly what she was doing when she invited Claude to meet her for dinner alone when he returned to Garreg Mach. It was masked beneath their roles as tacticians, an opportunity for them to hash out the details of how they would divide their forces—a task they completed, and with not a word uttered about the last time they saw each other.

But the real question on her mind was simple – did he still want her?

Reaching to touch her cheek, he answered her with a lingering, deliberate kiss that set her loins alight instantly.

“I missed you,” he muttered into her mouth, hungrily smothering her lips with his own. “Gods, I missed this lovely, lovely mouth…”

His voice was a growl, shattering her meagre sense of decorum. 

“We shouldn’t do this again,” she said, even as she returned his kisses, over and over. “We shouldn’t.” Even as she tugged at the thin white shirt he wore, then reached beneath to caress his back and relish in his hot skin. “We shouldn’t. This is…”

“I know,” Claude agreed, also not stopping. A smirk crossed his lips. “But I can’t help myself, can’t stop myself.” With a gentle touch, his hands explored the contours of her body, arousing her senses. “Since returning, all I’ve thought about is this, everything I wanted to do when I finally got you alone.” His poisonous confession numbed her shame. “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll leave.” 

His teeth caught her bottom lip, making her gasp. 

“You know I want you,” Byleth moaned, in between more kisses. “But… we won’t be able to do this once we’re out in the field. It would be—” Her words melted into a hitched breath against his lips. “Risky.”

“True.” Claude hummed as he traced circles into her hips. “All the more reason to gorge ourselves tonight.”

Byleth’s primal instinct ignited, Claude grinned devilishly when she slipped into his lap. Teasing his growing want with her own, she encouraged him to ‘use this time well’ and ‘savour every moment.’ And oh! He devoured her. She stifled her cries, terrified the noise would alert the whole monastery as he lovingly tended to her clit, edging her into a frenzy. Trembling, shaking, begging she was already a wreck when he finally reclaimed her for the first time since the morning of Saint Cethleann’s feast. Their lovemaking was intense and lasted well into the night, until exhaustion overcame them and overstimulation twinged relentlessly through them.

Like he promised in his letters, was Byleth’s wry thought.

In the afterglow, she snuggled against Claude’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart…

ba-DUM, ba-DUM…

It was such a simple thing—like a bird fluttering its wings. She took it for granted at that moment, twisted in the bedsheets, safe and warm in the monastery.

ba-DUM, ba—

Crack. 

A snap. 

The sound of air breaking. 

That noise, that dreadful squelch, shot through her ears. 

Claude’s heart pierced, ripped, stopped—

No!

She fought to hold back tears.

It didn’t happen. I brought him back.

That was the moment Byleth knew she no longer cared about anything else. Damn Faerghus and the Church, damn Almyra and the rest of the world. Nothing else mattered except this. Him. Claude. Bright, warm, perfect. She nuzzled that point where his heart pounded in his chest, kissed and caressed it as they made love in the burning aftermath of that battle. 

…was that the moment? Byleth wondered, stroking her midriff.

Clung to him like ivy, as though letting go would mean the end of them both. All she needed was this. All she needed was him. Him with her, inside her, with his heart thundering against her, resonating through her. Its thumps were like a song, just for her…

Was that when we made–?

An almighty growl pierced the cold quiet.

Byleth’s eyes snapped open. A pang of hunger hit her, and her passionate reminisces were replaced by thoughts of… game birds?

Pheasant… Her stomach whined. Turkey, duck, goose… Her tummy twisted insistently. Feed me!

The absurdity amused Byleth. 

“I suppose I am a little hungry.”

With a nod, she carefully trudged back towards her quarters, tip-toeing her way carefully around puddles to avoid slipping into the slick mud. 

She needed to work out a way to find out if she was pregnant, discreetly. It was better to do it with something in her belly. Chicken, maybe? That ought to be easy to procure…

Her watering mouth seemed to agree.

But her fantasy of roast bird was interrupted by the sight of Ashe emerging from his tent. 

He was dressed in a peasant’s attire; a light blue shirt of cotton, slightly frayed at the edges, showing its age; creased leather boots scuffed from countless miles of walking; and, to top it all off, a homely yet cosy sheepskin-hood hung over his shoulders. It was like he had been sent back in time; not an inch of him betrayed his status as the incumbent Lord Gaspard. Still, he carried that air of nobility about him – though, that was owed to the content of Ashe’s character, not birthright. 

Overall, he appeared every inch a wandering trader.

Just as Claude wanted. His vision was for Ashe and Leonie to play the part of a small-time merchant couple, travelling to Ernest Village to hock their wares.

Steadily, Byleth made her way towards the young archer. The crunch of her boots on the grass drew Ashe’s attention. 

“Lady Byleth!” he exclaimed in surprise, before recovering himself. “I didn’t know that you were coming to see us off.”

Byleth forced an awkward smile; she had completely forgotten that this was the morning that Ashe and Leonie would leave for Ernest Village. “I couldn’t sleep and thought I’d say hello.” A pause. “And goodbye.”

“I see. Is there…?” Ashe’s eyes flitted towards the ground before he spoke again. “Um. There’s nothing troubling you, I hope?”

War, love… pregnancy… Byleth shook her head. “Nothing for you to be concerned about, Ashe.”

That was when Byleth noticed the patch-worked supply pack sitting outside Ashe’s tent. She would recognise Leonie’s handy work anywhere; it was a quilted monstrosity of penny-pinching, stitched together from ununified scraps of fabric. It looked stuffed to the brim, topped with her bedroll and bursting with food and clothes, flints and whetstones, a dagger and spare bowstrings, and other odds and sods…

Including a flank of alcohol, no doubt, Byleth thought, shaking her head disapprovingly. 

“Where’s Le–?” Byleth began.

But she cut herself off.

Wrinkling her nose, she scented the briny, fetid stink of fish before she heard the clatter of cartwheels drawing near.

Leonie approached, sitting atop a rugged wooden cart hitched to a pair of tall and strapping horses. Despite the modest bridles to present them as work-horses, Byleth recognised them as Grani and Kelpie, Ashe and Leonie’s coursers. The cart itself was loaded with a mishmash of product; wheat, barley and several barrels of salted river fish – all to sell the pretence that she and Ashe were traders.

The redheaded merc waved energetically as she drew the wagon to a halt. Leaping off the cart, Byleth noted her attire was like Ashe’s, though dyed with her favoured amber shade. An homage to Jeralt, of course.

“Hey, Professor! Come to see us off, huh?”

“Y-Yes…” said Byleth, gritting her teeth, trying to swallow the rising bile in her throat. “I’m glad that I had the chance to do so.”

She stayed to assist Ashe and Leonie with loading their belongings onto the cart, including their concealed weapons – Leonie’s lance, Ashe’s axe and, of course, their bows. The longer Byleth lingered in their company, the more the pungent odour of carp became bearable. It certainly helped that her mind continued to throw up images of… smoked pigeon! Now, there’s an idea.

After picking up Leonie’s pack, Byleth inquired about something she had been curious about. “Is there alcohol in here?”

Her friend pouted, then snatched it from her hands. “None of your business. Besides, you know Captain Jeralt went nowhere without something to put the ol’ hair on his chest, right?’

“He also didn’t drink before a battle,” the Archbishop-Queen said firmly.

Leonie spluttered. “W-Well, neither will I! In fact—!”

Searching her pack, the huntress produced a metallic flask of ale. She held it out to Byleth with a teasing grin.

“Here—yours for safekeeping, Your Grace,” she said snarkily. “But I want it back after the next battle. Deal?”

Byleth eyed the proffered bottle, the booze’s murk prickling her nostrils. Still, she couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s playfulness. She accepted the flask, pressing it to her chest. “I shall treasure it until we meet again.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Leonie threw her arms around Byleth, pulling her into an embrace that she gladly returned. The fishy smell from the wagon was almost unnoticeable now compared to the familiar scent of Leonie’s hair – a mix of smoke, leather and musky old furs. Quintessentially Leonie. Byleth breathed it in deeply, savouring this moment of closeness with her friend before they parted ways.

After a long moment, Leonie pulled back with a grin, her eyes glinting with confidence. 

“Take care of yourself, Professor. And don’t worry about us—we’ll meet with Aliprand, bring Jeralt’s old crew into the battle and beat these bastards once and for all!”

While Leonie checked on the horses, Byleth turned to Ashe. He was lost in thought. His attention was on the dark forest to the north and his shoulders were visibly tense, as though carrying an unseen weight. It was strange, but somehow Byleth could tell his woes went deeper than concerns about the task at hand or even the upcoming battle.

She tapped his arm gently.

Ashe gave a jerk, startled from his trance.

“Sorry,” Byleth whispered. 

“No, no. I’m sorry. I was…” He sighed listlessly. “Miles away.”

“Are you alright?”

He gave her a strained smile that didn’t match his eyes. 

“Ah, I’ll be fine,” he said unconvincingly. “It’s just… a lot to take in. This mission, the next battle, the possibility this’ll soon all be over…”

Byleth was not yet persuaded. Then it dawned on her what was really bothering him. 

“Have you spoken to Sir Nera about Lynette yet?”

Ashe’s eyes grew wide. “Y-Yes.”

“Did it go well?”

He let out a hesitant laugh. “Well, it depends on your definition of ‘going well’. I followed your advice and suggested we could discuss the possibility of an engagement further once Lynette graduates from the Academy.”

A bold choice of words. “And how did he respond?”

Ashe nervously chuckled. “It wasn’t so much what he said—that was very cordial. But every word was through a gritted smile, if you can imagine it.”

“I can.” Old, leathery, grumpy Sir Nera was as old-fashioned as they came. Too rigid to voice his dissatisfaction, it made sense he would do it through polite frustration. “He wants you both to become engaged as soon as possible, then?”

“In short, yes.” Ashe released a long breath, erupting in a flush of white before being snatched away by the icy wind. “He wants to see Lynette engaged, if not married and settled as soon as possible. I get the impression he’s worried he doesn’t have much time left…” His voice trailed off, and he stared into the middle distance. “So, that would mean, in the Great Tree Moon of Eleven-Hundred-and-Ninety, we would—” He shook his head. “But that’s still a while away.”

An icy dagger shot through Byleth’s heart, then the burning anger bubbled within again. “Still, don’t let him push you, Ashe.”

He chuckled again. 

“Oh, I won’t!” He must have noticed Byleth’s dismay, however, as he hastened to add. “I haven’t forgotten your advice, I promise.”

With a playful nod, Byleth spoke. “See that you don’t, Ashe, or we’ll be having more words.”

He offered her a brave smile. “For what it’s worth, I’m grateful, Lady Byleth.”

“For what?”

“You.” Ashe tapped his chest, over where his heart lay. “What we discussed the other day… It was like a window into your soul. You have always been a good person, always putting others’ needs and wants before yourself. For my sake, and the other students, for Fódlan and… for Dimitri.”

The name pierced Byleth’s nerves. It conjured the image of her husband towering over her, his face mixed with hurt and fury–

She cut her own thoughts off.

I can’t think about that right now.

“May I ask a favour?”

Ashe’s question gave Byleth a much needed distraction. “Of course, Ashe. Anything.”

With a thankful bow of his head, the Lord of Gaspard reached into his tunic and produced a neatly folded scroll sealed with the emblem of House Gaspard; a knight holding a shield blazoned with an octagram.

Tentatively, Ashe held it out to Byleth. “This letter is for Lucy,” he explained, his green eyes shimmering with something else she could not quite name. “She and I, we’ve struck up a… a friendship of sorts. This next battle will be dangerous. If anything happens to me, I want her to know how grateful I’ve been for her letters these past few months. They’ve been a… comfort… to me during this campaign.”

Now that she thought about it, Byleth had noticed Ashe receiving letters sporadically over this campaign, each one seeming to cheer him up when he read them. He seldom ever spoke of Lucy – nor what they wrote to each other of – but Byleth sensed they were special to him. He counted on them to keep him grounded when the world around him threatened to spin out of control.

“I’ll take care of it personally,” Byleth promised, tucking the letter securely into the folds of her cloak. “It will go with the missives I send to the privy council.”

Ashe released a visible puff of air against the biting cold. “Thank you, Lady Byleth. That means a lot to me. More than I can say.”

At last, he joined Leonie atop the cart. 

“Don’t worry about us, Professor,” Leonie reiterated with a beam. “We won’t fail.”

“I know,” Byleth said with a grateful nod. “Stay safe, both of you.”

Ashe gave her a thoughtful look, then lowered his own head in a final bow. “Good luck, Lady Byleth.”

Byleth said nothing else, simply watched them depart. Their steeds’ stomping hooves receded into the daybreak with purposeful strides.

Dawn was approaching, and the hum of distant conversations grew steadily louder, mingled with the crackling of campfires. Byleth pulled her tent’s entrance closed behind her and exhaled deeply, falling into bed and breathing in the cool material she hadn’t slept in.

This is it, she finally allowed herself to think. The next battle will take place next week. 

For a fleeting moment, her world was blessedly silent.

But, as she swallowed dryly, another thought came to her. 

But if I’m–

All of a sudden, a loud wail rumbled from her stomach. It was as if it had a voice of its own, eager to make itself heard in the most dramatic way possible. The noise grew louder, echoed through the room like a distant thunderstorm. 

Almost like a child’s cry.

Food. Chicken. Pigeon. Fowl. Now.

With a sheepish smile, Byleth placed a hand on her stomach, feeling both embarrassed and amused by the unexpected commotion. Fantasies of that roast chicken sprung back to her mind, so potent she could almost taste it on her tongue already. 

Smell it…

Another pitiful weep.

Food. Hungry.

“Alright, yes,” Byleth told herself with a laugh and a relenting nod. “Let’s get some breakfast.”

Byleth knew she would have to ready her battalion for the battle ahead.

First, she aimed to assess her troops’ resistance to dark magic, gauging their endurance without her Goddess Shield’s protection. Then, she planned to test the Shield’s resilience against a sustained attack. Finally, she needed to see how long she could maintain its effects. 

Lysithea was called upon to assist with a unique sparring session. Utilising a training strategy penned by Saint Cichol during the Age of Heroes, Byleth set up mirrors around the perimeter to increase the potency of Lysithea’s magic and then ordered her to “give it everything you’ve got.”

Reluctantly, the Maid of Ordelia obeyed.

“This should be interesting,” Catherine mumbled under her breath, bracing herself.

From then until midday, Byleth and her elite Seiros Knights faced escalating Mofisian attacks; first Miasma Δ, then Swarm Z and Luna Λ, before facing more powerful spells. Her battalion’s strength waned as the magic’s power increased. 

“It might be a good idea for us to carry some Pure Water,” Catherine gasped, taking a knee as she was overcome by dizziness. 

“Y-Yes!” Lysithea agreed enthusiastically, clearly nervous at how uncomfortable everyone looked. “That way, you can avoid deploying your shield too quickly.”

Byleth swallowed the bloody, sickly taste in her mouth and nodded, asking some nearby guards to have Count Gloucester procure them from his stock. 

They gave it a go, and it worked… for a time. But as soon as Byleth ordered Lysithea to focus squarely on Hades Ω, the omega of all dark magic known to man, the Knights of Seiros crumpled and screamed under the crushing pressure. Even though Byleth thought she could withstand it, a curl in the pit of her stomach told her otherwise.

Owww… stop it!

“Stop!” Byleth screamed, stumbling, catching herself before she fell to the ground. Lysithea obeyed immediately, face twisted in guilt. The Archbishop-Queen shook her head. 

“Excellent work,” she croaked. “It seems we’ve found our limit.”

Pansy frantically ran over to Byleth, catching her as she stumbled. “My lady, are you alright?”

She immediately tucked her arm around Byleth’s shoulder. Swiftly yet gently, she led Byleth off to the side, towards a modest stool where she could sit.

“Pansy, please, I’m fine,” Byleth protested.

“If you say so,” Pansy replied, witheringly. “I respect this is all towards the goal of preparing everyone for battle. Now, you must respect it is my sacred duty to look after and care for you.”

Byleth couldn’t help but smile.

If Pansy knew what might be wrong with me…

Lysithea rushed over, shaking with emotion. “P-Professor, I’m so–!”

“Worry not, my Lady Lysithea,” came the deep, calming voice of Malva. Having awoken ahead of her evening shift, she had followed her mistress and elder sister to the training grounds to practise healing magic. She gave the younger woman a pat on her shoulder as Pansy hurried to bring a fresh cup of water and a damp rag for Byleth.”Her Grace and the Knights of Seiros are stouter than the average soldier. Sister Pansy forgets that from time to time.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, handing Byleth the cup. “Thank you,” the queen panted.

“You’re welcome,” she replied curtly, offering the rag. “Now, will you allow me to pat down your face, Your Grace? Or will you be insisting on doing that for yourself today?”

Byleth snorted. With a slow nod, she allowed the eldest of her nuns to run the cool material gently across her forehead and cheeks.

“Um, d-do you want to carry on with this, Lady Byleth?” Lysithea squeaked once Malva was done. “Or should we take a break?”

“Oh, please let it be a break!” Catherine called from the side, stretching her arms and rolling her shoulders.

Byleth agreed. “Let’s break for lunch. We can then practise with my Goddess Shield.”

Lunch! her tummy cried with delight. Pigeon! Birds! Yum…!

Later, after another exhausting session of training, everyone gave up for the afternoon. Byleth was tired, Catherine was tired, and even Lysithea looked ready to drop. Byleth’s best time for keeping her Goddess Shield up was an impressive nine minutes, but she knew she had to do better.

There’s still a week, she reminded herself, trying not to scold herself too hard. Truth was, though, the question of her pregnancy still weighed heavily on her.

When she returned to her quarters, it was to find Lorenz waiting for her. She had completely forgotten that she had called on him to check the stores for more Pure Waters to equip her battalion with – she didn’t want to use them all up during training, then have nothing for the march.

“We gave more than enough, Your Grace,” he sighed distantly. “I’ll give them two bottles each. Better to be safe than sorry, I say.”

His resigned tone prompted Byleth to ask what was behind it. “Have you had some bad news?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Your Grace.”

“I’m happy to listen even if you think it is trivial?” she pushed further.

Byleth was in a problem-solving mood. It distracted her from the light queasiness she was still feeling.

Lorenz bowed respectfully.

“Well, if you truly wish to bend your ear, I shall elucidate: I received another letter from my wife, Your Grace. A wonderful thing, but it has left me pondering how long I have been away from home.”

It had been Gloucester territory that Jakob von Bergliez invaded, capturing the bridge and village of Gwydion. The latter had been run into the ground for the short period the Adrestian count and Edelgard’s former allies had held it before burning the centre castle and market on their way out. 

Now it would be for Lorenz and Hilda to rebuild.

“I have already written of the matter of paying for the reconstruction with the King,” Byleth told him assuredly. “Dimitri agreed the Crown would cover the costs.”

Lorenz smiled. “And I continue to be grateful for that, Your Grace. Truly. But it is another matter that rests heavily on my mind. See here.”

He produced a tiny locket; Byleth identified Hilda’s handy work immediately. It was delicately made, barely bigger than a fingernail with an enamel rose on the front. As he opened it, she saw that contained inside was a little lock of hair. The colour of lavender.

She smiled. “Susie’s, I presume?”

“Yes! My Susannah has grown hair!” he announced with a crack in his voice. “Can you believe it? She was smooth as an egg last I saw her.” He put the locket away quietly. “It’s just difficult to be away from her at such a crucial time. She is the future of House Gloucester, so every step in her progression is crucial and I should be there to witness it first-hand.”

Byleth did not know how to help him with this plight except to say: “It will be over soon, Lorenz.”

He sniffed, hand clutching his forehead. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It is unbecoming of me to complain about this.”

“Not at all. Your devotion to your wife and daughter is lovely. It’s natural that being away for so long hurts.”

“It pains me greatly to be parted from them, but it is trivial compared to our enemy’s threat. What sort of legacy will I leave for Susannah if these enemies are not defeated? What sort of world?”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Byleth promising him again: “Let’s make this next battle the last. Then this will all be part of a story you’ll tell her one day when she’s a grown woman.”

His smile widened. “Yes, let us make haste—and ensure this tale has a happy ending!”

Byleth smiled, too. 

Lorenz is so strong, she thought. Being away from one’s wife and child so soon after the latter’s birth couldn’t be easy. At least, this had all happened while Susie was tiny and wouldn’t remember her father’s absence. It was hard for Byleth not to envy them. Lorenz and Hilda had always come across as such a safe pair of hands, and were the parents of a beautiful, healthy little girl with the whole world at her feet. 

She rested her hand on her stomach.

Dare I even hope that—?

A crash snapped Byleth out of her thoughts.

“Goodness, what on earth?” Lorenz exclaimed.

“It came from my sleeping quarters.”

Byleth rushed through to check. Initially, it seemed empty. Her bed was half made, but everything was still, in its usual pla—

My vanity!

She noticed that her dressing gown, which she had thrown over her mirror that morning, had been tugged from its spot, taking everything that lay on the table. Hair brush, powders, perfume, and the mirror itself. The potent scent of sweet-night-jasmine filled Byleth’s nose; a bottle containing the expensive oil from Almyra lay smashed on the floor, the liquid seeping into the ground. 

With a deep breath, Byleth placed a hand on her dagger as she peeked behind her bed–and her pulse squeezed painfully in her neck. 

Fern lay slumped on the floor, still clasping Byleth’s gown.

Byleth’s breath was strangled in her throat and she rushed to the girl’s side. Thankfully, the small mirror hadn’t shattered atop her, but it had cracked as it had tumbled down onto the floor. Byleth swiftly pushed the accursed looking-glass aside and gently lifted her head.

“Fern,” she said hoarsely, softly. “Can you hear me, Fern?”

Fern’s face was ashen, her lips trembling as she tried and failed to garble out words. “I-I’m fine…” she murmured, “L-Lady Byleth, let me help you…” She sounded disorientated, as though she hadn’t a clue she was lying beside the archbishop’s cot, not standing up and making it.

“Dear Goddess!” Lorenz exclaimed, finally following Byleth into her sleeping-area. He, too, was holding a dagger but swiftly returned it to its sheath when he saw the scene before him.

“Lorenz, fetch me some water. The barrel–there to your right!” Byleth shouted.

He wasted no time in grabbing a tin cup and ladling out a few mouthfuls of water to fill it. He speedily walked it over, handing it to Byleth before taking a knee beside her. 

“What on earth happened?”

“I don’t know.” Byleth shook her head, fearful for her little friend. “Pansy said she’s been acting strange lately. I… I hadn’t even noticed.”

Too caught up in yourself.

When Fern failed to sip the water, Byleth splashed a few drops over her face. The girl whined, “…please, let me sleep…” was her only response. 

Guilt washed over Byleth. Pansy warned her that Fern was acting strangely—quiet, withdrawn, nervous. What if Fern had been sick all this time, and she hadn’t noticed because she was so caught up in her own malady? As she looked at Fern’s frail form, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Pregnancy or not, Byleth scolded herself for not doing more to help her before now. 

“Nimura,” she croaked, the name escaping her lips before she had fully formed the thought. “We need to take her to Nimura.”

She reached to pull Fern up, but found she lacked the strength. Usually she could carry full-grown men, if required. But right now, her arms tingled with weakness.

“Allow me!” Lorenz rose to his feet and, swift and fluid, he scooped Fern’s limp body into his arms, holding her like a sleeping princess. “Let us make haste, Your Grace.”

Byleth blinked. Three flicks of her eyelids and she snapped out of her own inaction. 

“Yes!” she said breathlessly. “Let’s go.”

She led the way with long strides, shooing aside anyone who stood in their way. Everyone watched, stared and whispered. They seemed to swirl past her sight, as though the world itself was painted in watercolours. Lorenz also dismissed them gently, insisting that first they “must get the girl to a healer.”

But Byleth said nothing. The lump in her throat was suffocating, yet somehow her face was a mask of calm. 

For Fern, she had to be strong.

Byleth barged into Nimura’s mahalseefah with a hoarse cry of her name. The air inside was thick with the scent of herbs and medicine. Eucalyptus and lavender, mixed with the sharp sting of rubbing alcohol. Underneath it all, there was a faint undertone of sweat and old blood – a reminder of the hope and sorrow of the Almyran surgeon’s work.

Nimura emerged from behind a curtained-off section; her hair was neat, the grey streaks shimmering through her crown of braids atop her head and her apron was clean. Today, it seemed, had been a quiet day for the doctor—until now.

“Ashibanu-ahliah.” Her dark eyes immediately took in the scene before her, darting to Fern who lay cradled in Lorenz’s arms. Without delay, she directed him to a nearby examination table in the next room. “Lay the girl here.”

Without a word, Lorenz obeyed. Nimura followed him, darting immediately to Fern’s side. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency, delicately removing the nun’s wimple and brushing aside her long, mousy hair to check her pulse and examine her face. Then, she conjured a tiny, æthereal light on the tip of her index figure – a trick Byleth had seen Manuela use from time to time, too.

Lorenz gave her shoulder a light tap, startling her.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he said formally. 

Byleth caught her breath, trying to steady her pulse. It took her another moment to find her words. “You can go, Lorenz. I know you have a lot to prepare for ahead of the attack next week.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, tilting his head. “I’m happy to stay.”

“I’ll be fine. Please, don’t worry about us.”

Lorenz accepted her decision with a stoic nod. 

“Very well.” He parted the tent’s entrance to leave, then added, “I hope Sister Fern recovers swiftly.”

As do I.

Alone in the quiet tent, Byleth crossed her arms tightly over her chest, as if doing so was holding herself together.

Nimura glanced over at her, then walked over to the curtain. “I need to examine her, Your Grace, if I may?”

Byleth blinked, confused, not sure why she was being asked. Before she could answer, though, the tent entrance opened with a sudden burst. Pansy and Malva flew in like startled bats. While the latter was doing her best to maintain an air of calm, the former’s wide with panic and confusion. She darted towards the side room to reach Fern, but Nimura’s arm prevented her.

“Please, ladies!” the physician said firmly. “She needs privacy.”

Malva stood obediently still. But Pansy was not easily dissuaded. “Why? What’s wrong with her?” she demanded, hands wringing.

“I don’t know. That’s why I need the privacy to examine her, if you wouldn’t mind?”

The eldest Flower Sister squared up her chest and shoulders, as though she was about to protest, but stepped back and allowed Nimura to close the curtain.

Pansy turned back to Byleth, her sky-grey eyes wide with worry. “Lady Byleth, what happened?”

“We heard she collapsed amid her work,” Malva added.

“Yes, she was working in my sleeping quarters and…” Byleth’s voice trailed off, eyes fixed on the partition behind which Nimura could still be heard, moving about the table, completing her examination of Fern. “She fainted.” 

“I see…” Pansy’s gaze followed her mistress’s, affixed on the cloth barrier between them and Fern. “She’s been so pale lately. I should have pressed her to speak. I should have—!”

“Reproaching yourself now changes nothing, Sister,” Malva cut her off, voice delicate but firm.

Pansy released a heavy sigh. “You are correct, Malva. As always.”

A tiny smile twitched on Byleth’s lips, despite the tension. “Don’t you mean Sister Malva.”

That coaxed a laugh from the couple of nuns.

“Let us stand vigil and pray, Pan,” Malva whispered, after a moment of quiet. She held out her hand to Pansy. “For our dear little sister.”

The tent’s rose-tinted canvas painted the sisters’ worried faces pink as they huddled together, hands folded over one another, lips moving in silent prayer. Byleth tried to engage as best she could, too, reaching inside herself, silently asking Sothis to give her strength.

The anticipation was agonising. 

The quiet hung heavily over the room. Byleth watched Nimura’s shadow behind the curtain; she heard only the occasional crunch of her feet on the earth and the rustle of her robes. There were a few sounds, the twinklings of white magic. Then, a flash of light and–

Nimura halted. 

The silence that followed stretched agonisingly long, bringing back Byleth’s nausea. Indistinct whispers followed as Nimura spoke to her patient. Though Fern’s responses were weak, barely more than a whimper, shaking from suppressed tears–and yet, Byleth was only relieved that she was conscious.

Please, please, please let her be all right!

A shiver ran down her spine when the curtains parted.

Nimura reemerged, her face unreadable. Behind her, Fern was perched on the table in a foetal position. Though a woman of twenty-two years, she had never looked more young and child-like.

Pansy wasted no time. “Well?”

The physician sighed, resting her hand on a nearby tent pole. Hesitating, she glanced over her shoulder at Fern. “Will you let me tell them?”

Fern raised her red-rimmed eyes. She said nothing, only nodded.

“Right. Well…” Nimura turned back to the three waiting women. “I’ve discovered why young Fern came over light-headed.” Her eyes locked with Byleth’s, making her tense. “You might wish to sit down.”

“We’ll do no such thing,” Pansy said, snippily, clearly on her last strained nerve. “Say it plain, doctor. Please.”

Byleth hesitated, then nodded in approval.

“Very well.” Sure enough, true to Pansy’s wishes, Nimura spoke plainly. “Fern is pregnant.”

Byleth stared blankly at her for a moment.

Pregnant? 

That word, a sweet melody, played on repeat in her mind, a triumphant refrain celebrating a victory she never thought possible – and heralding danger and dread.

“Pregnant?” she repeated, at last. She cast Fern a questioning look, but the girl avoided her gaze.

“But… she can’t be!” Pansy spluttered.

Nimura shook her head, producing a small mirror from inside the leather pouch that hung from her hip. No larger than the palm of her hand, it caught the candlelight, briefly dazzling Byleth’s eyes; she knew well what the instrument was.

“A scry?” Byleth asked.

“Indeed. Fódlan nuns are familiar with this kind of magic, aren’t they?” Nimura held it out for Pansy, a wistful smile on her lips. “In Almyra, we call it ‘audai’.”

Byleth remembered; a magic that meant “to see and hear god’s word.” Divination, in short. Still, it surprised her that a scry – an instrument used to see inside the body – had made it across the border. 

“Yes,” she said. “Though it’s rare to see anyone outside the Xodatahm use such power, isn’t it?” 

Most Almyrans did not ‘believe’ in magic. It was a ‘coward’s’ weapon, after all, so no honourable Yúdhyatahm elite would be caught dead wielding a spell over an axe or lance. However, audai was used to seek the Wise One’s guidance and power. Claude’s only sister, Alaya, had been a master of audai, though she gained her ‘insights’ from fire, not mirrors.

Nimura chuckled. “Our Shahshahran has worked hard to lift the stigma.”

Byleth couldn’t help but smile.

Of course, Claude would.

“Still, I rarely dare use it. Only for internal bleeds and such,” the physician conceded. “When snared in Sandrame’s noose, men rarely care the means with which I treat them.” She pressed the scry into Pansy’s hands. “You Fódlans, however, are more comfortable with the magical side of the healing arts.”

Pansy stared down at the tiny mirror in her hand, trembling.

“Do you know how to use it?” Nimura asked.

“I do.” Yet, Pansy made no move towards Fern. She hesitated at first. Then, with a rustle of her skirts, she propelled herself to Fern’s side. “I’m sorry,” she said to her, quiet but firm. “But I have to see for myself.”

Fern looked defeated, but still nodded, and leaned back to allow the scry to do its work.

Byleth took a deep breath. Slowly, Pansy raised the tiny mirror. It hummed with a quiet power, a connection to the mystical forces of heaven and earth. A shiver ran down Byleth’s spine as Pansy held the mirror over Fern. The glass rippled, then shimmered, as though it were a sunlit lake disturbed by a pebble skimming across the surface. Its surface emitted a supernatural luminescence, projecting a tiny, empyreal light. 

At last, they saw it–a vision of life blossoming within Fern. It was barely larger than an olive, yet there it was.

A foetus.

Byleth finally exhaled, letting out a gasp.

It’s true. Fern is…

She pushed the thought aside, realising she was touching her own belly. As the scry dimmed, she watched quietly as the tiny life’s projection vanished.

Thankfully, Pansy appeared calmer; confirming Fern’s pregnancy seemed to have settled her. Instead of the frantic frenzy, there was only stoic silence. She tossed the scry onto the examination table beside Fern.

“Now, tell me who fathered this baby, so I can give him a piece of my mind–!”

“Pansy!” Malva scolded lightly, ever the pillar of calm.

Too calm, Byleth thought. 

It had not escaped her notice that when Nimura announced Fern was pregnant, Malva didn’t even flinch. Then, when Pansy used the scry to view the life within, she hadn’t seemed surprised. If anything, she looked relieved. It didn’t take Byleth long to work out why. 

“You already knew?”

Malva barely flinched, reflecting a knowledge she had kept hidden. “I… was aware that Fern has had a dalliance.”

Pansy spun to face Malva, frowning. “What do you mean ‘a dalliance’? With whom?!”

But the dark-haired beauty crossed her arms defiantly, saying nothing. Instead, her eyes fell on her younger sister. “That is for Fern to say.”

Fern’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her distress was palpable in the way she clutched at her dark-burgundy robes, rubbing the thick muslin material between index and thumb. Her body was finally overcome by racking sobs. 

“I-I-I-I w-was s-s-so s-s-scared-d-d-d-d…” she heaved, her words difficult to follow. “I-I d-d-d-didn’t kn-n-n-ow what to d-d-do.”

Byleth’s heart burned inside her chest. With several swift steps, she rushed to Fern’s side and pulled her into an embrace, feeling Fern’s tears wet her neck. She caught Pansy’s gaze, too, relieved to see it had softened. 

“Who is the father, Fern?” Byleth asked, softly. “Tell us so we can help you.”

Countless possibilities swirled in her mind. Could Fern have been involved with a knight or a monk? 

Fern’s answer came slowly, as if each word was a heavy burden she struggled to bear. 

“I-It…It was…” she began, her voice barely audible. “W-With one of K-King Khalid’s ge-gentlemen.”

That gave Byleth a start. 

One of Claude’s men?

“Who?” she asked.

Fern sucked in her lips, hesitating. “It’s… it’s Lord Heydar,” she stammered, the name falling like a storm, shattering the calm.

Heydar.

Pansy spluttered out a “What?!” Then baulked, struggling to regain her composure. “How?!”

Fern’s face grew red, her pale-blue eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. “I…I…I don’t kn-n-ow… It ju-just h-h-ha…ha–!” 

Only a heave and a whimper followed that.

Pansy frantically brushed stray hairs away from Fern’s face. “Fern, tell me the truth. He didn’t force you, did he?”

Byleth’s belly twisted with dread. That possibility hadn’t crossed her mind.

Thankfully, though, Fern found her words. “No! It wasn’t l-like that!”

“Do you swear?” Emotion choked in Pansy’s voice, a mixture of fear and fury, seemed to be seconds away from threatening violence against Heydar. “Because if he hurt you–!”

“He didn’t!” Fern exclaimed, eyes bulging. “He’s not like that.” Byleth felt a palpable sense of relief, but unfortunately, Fern’s panic and hyperventilation worsened due to the accusation. “Y-Y-You-ou-ou h-h-ha-ha-have t-to b-b-be-lie-eve m-m-muh–”

“Hush now.” Malva stepped forward to draw Fern into an embrace, her deep, steady voice muffled by her sister’s mousy curls. “We believe you, we do. Don’t we, Pan?”

Pansy heaved out a long breath. “Of course I do. We all do.”

“Yes,” Byleth chipped in, quickly, knowing that it was probably her disappointment Fern feared the most. “We believe you, and do not think any less of you.”

Sure enough, Fern’s wails grew louder. “L-Lad-La-Lady B-B-By—”

Her trembling grew more violent, prompting Malva to hold her tighter. “Hush, hush, hush…” Her looked to Nimura. “Is there something you can provide to calm her nerves?”

Nimura, who had stood in silent vigil throughout the exchange, nodded gracefully. She made her way to an ornate cabinet, polished to a smooth shine, highlighting the intricate symbols carved down the edges. Byleth recognised the lettering as High Almyran, though she was unsure of the words. As Nimura opened the cabinet, the scent of many herbs wafted from within. Oddly enough, of all things, she thought of Fhirdiad, and of the gentle grassy aromas that clung to little Lucretia von Arundel, mixing her lotions, potions and tea. The sound of glass bottles clinking followed before the surgeon produced a small tincture bottle.

She presented it to Byleth with a small curtsy.

“Have her drink this. It should put her out for a few hours into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.”

“Will it affect the—?” Pansy began, but stopped, awkwardly. “Um.”

Nimura smiled kindly, understanding what she was getting at. “No, it won’t affect the pregnancy. It is a mild sleeping potion. No magic, purely medicine.”

“Thank you.” Byleth took the bottle with a nod before handing it to Malva, who then promptly tucked it away into her pocket. Calmly, she lifted the still distraught Fern to her feet. “Take her to my quarters—she’ll be more comfortable there.”

Fern gasped, mortified. “M-M-Muh—L-Lad-d-dy?” Malva hushed her, soothed her, but still gave Pansy a doubtful look. 

Pansy straightened up, shoulders back. “Do as Her Grace commands, Malva.”

Silently, she and Fern plodded away from the examination table. Byleth watched them leave the infirmary. 

“We’ll be along in a moment,” Byleth called after them as her eyes drifted back to the scry, still lying where Pansy had tossed it earlier… And without realising it, she noticed one of her hands had found her midriff again. 

This is my best shot at finding out the truth.

She could not miss this chance. 

Swiftly, she snatched up the magical mirror. “Nimura, may we keep the scry for a little while? I’ll ensure you have it before the march–but I wish to…” She hesitated, sucking her raw lips. “I wish to monitor Fern’s condition.”

Nimura offered Byleth a kind smile and she gave her elbow a comforting tap. “Of course, ashibanu-ahliah. I have others, so keep it as long as you need.”

With a quick thank you, Byleth turned away. It brought her eye to eye with Pansy. Though the nun said nothing, her eyes filled with an unspoken understanding.

It stilled Byleth’s blood, stealing her breath and causing a frantic rhythm throbbing in her neck. The same wondering and dread from the other day gripped her, as did the question she kept asking herself—asking Pansy, though she lacked the guile to say it aloud.

Have you known all along, Pansy…?

Her knuckles turned white as her grip on the mirror tightened.

Or, will what comes next be an almighty shock to you, too?

“There is one more thing I should say,” Nimura added, cautiously. She eyed Pansy warily, then whispered to Byleth, “If I may? Fern is not the first woman I’ve aided in these circumstances. Surprise pregnancies, I mean.”

“Oh?” Byleth’s voice hitched.

She tugged her cloak around herself, suddenly cold. 

“Indeed.” Nimura paused, as though searching for the best, most tactful words. “You may or may not be familiar with Almyran medicinal practices regarding… shall we say… family planning.”

More aware than you would think.

Byleth thought of the potent, earthy smell of the mani el-Mashyana Claude brewed for her; a contraception whose necessity she always questioned. Thinking back now, perhaps she ought to have taken it more seriously. “I may have heard of such potions.”

“Believe it or not, we have them in Fódlan, too,” Pansy added sniffily.

It was true, though the nobility scorned their use. In Fódlan, the best way the aristocracy avoided an unwanted pregnancy was abstinence, or laying with the same sex as oneself. However, when pregnancies happened, they were kept. After all, it could yield them a crest-bearing child to inherit their house — or attain them greater social standing. But for commoners, abortifacients were a necessary evil and, yes, a service the Church offered when requested.

“Bitter water,” Byleth announced after a while. “Tansy tea.”

Most were dispensed by nuns and priests to struggling families, those who simply could not afford a ninth or tenth child, or prostitutes when their regular contraceptives failed. Then, occasionally, and thankfully less often than before the war, there would be a woman or two who would come to Garreg Mach to seek refuge from the nobleman who had taken her against her will. Though they didn’t always ask for the tea, the clergy would always offer it.

“Then, I will not cushion my words,” Nimura said, voice still low but less hesitant. “I estimate young Fern is some seven weeks into her pregnancy, so the window for oral suspensions is closing. I am, however, a surgeon. Should Fern wish to bring an end to her circumstances, I am available to help.”

Pansy was obviously taken aback that Nimura would bring up such a delicate matter at that moment. However, before she could voice her astonishment, Byleth intervened with a firm but gentle tone. 

“We’ll discuss it with Fern once she has calmed down.” 

Though even the thought of it made Byleth’s heart ache. How could she possibly approach such a delicate subject? Her mind spun with possibilities but failed to latch onto anything that seemed right. She had to consider how to help Fern — and ensure this stayed her choice, while also accepting it was one that might haunt her forever.

Byleth looked down at the scry, still clutched between indexes and thumbs.

Am I asking these questions for Fern… or for myself?

The longer she thought about it, the more difficult it was to answer. After all, if Nader was correct and Byleth was also pregnant, then…

She pressed the scry to her heart, stopping the intrusive thoughts in her head.

“Thank you for your help, Nimura,” Byleth said, at last. “And for your discretion.”

“I am always at your service, Your Grace.”

Byleth and Pansy exchanged one last, determined glance before silently leaving Nimura’s tent, the lingering scent of blood, vinegar and medicine giving way to afternoon frost and old mud as they stepped outside. Men and women rambled to and through, chatting amongst themselves in various dialects and over various innocuous things. It made the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air between the two women all the weightier.

“Pansy,” Byleth began, her voice thick and leaden with purpose. “Before we return to check on Fern, could we speak privately?”

Pansy’s face was a mask, her eyes wide with surprise, yet her mouth set in a thin line of resignation. “Certainly, Your Highness. I have some things on my mind that I want to discuss with you, too.”

“Well, then,” Byleth released a heavy sigh. “Let us head there now. We can speak at my office in the strategy tent.”

The quiet hum of the oncoming evening wrapped around the strategy tent like a protective shroud. Through the great white canopy, the dying sun cast a bloody hue upon everything within. 

Byleth removed her cloak and threw it over a nearby chair. Her eyes drifted over maps and scrolls littering the broad table. The tokens had been placed in erratic, nonsensical spots  – a ploy to trick any spies or informants. Her mind, and her heart, drifted away to the man who had placed them that way, her archer-king. How his lips curled up as he scrambled their meticulously made plan, and the glint in his eyes when he explained his logic for doing so.

As Pansy followed her into the tent, Byleth asked her to tie the entrance closed. “Could you light some candles, too?”

“Of course, Lady Byleth.”

While Pansy saw to the lights, Byleth made her way towards the back of the tent, where her makeshift office lay. She pushed aside the ornate screen that concealed it, revealing the small desk, books and cabinets filled with odds and ends related to war, kingdom and church. Her little clandestine space.

My den of sin.

Byleth’s sights inexorably fixed upon her small cot. 

Seeing it stirred her, brought her back to the many nights where passion outplayed honour. Late night tactics merging swiftly into frenzied lovemaking. 

She wrapped her arms around herself and imagined Claude’s arms instead. 

The warmth of his breath against her neck, whispering sweet and spiced promises into her ear. Desire, hope, love, belonging, completeness… everything Claude represented to her. Her protests – her ‘fear’ of capture and shame – were simply a prelude, a foreplay to their inevitable dance. His smile tantalising as he teased one nipple with his thumb while applying pressure to her sensitive bud with the other. She arched into him, offering herself completely. His dark, almost mischievous chuckle rang through her like a bell, how she silenced it by pressing her mouth against his, all while he continued to trace her with his gloriously calloused fingertips. Every time, be it by tongue or thumb, he never failed to unravel her entirely, to bring her the satisfaction only he could provide – filling her with light and overshadowing her fear. Over and over, night by night – she made herself his, and he made himself hers. 

Her reverie was interrupted as Pansy finally made her way into the office carrying a candle. Byleth offered her a tired smile before closing the partition behind them, enclosing them in the little office. 

She wondered how these next moments were about to go. After learning that sweet little Fern had succumbed to sensual desires, it would probably break dear, protective ‘Mother Hen’ Pansy’s brain to learn her supposedly barren mistress now feared she, too, was pregnant.

As Byleth turned back to face Pansy, she found her gripping nervously at the edge of her wimple. “Well, this has been… This has been quite a day.”

“It has,” Byleth agreed. And it’s not over yet.

She pulled the scry from her pocket and moved towards her desk. Setting the scrying mirror, it clattered loudly against the wood, briefly startling the nun and making the Archbishop’s blood leap.

“Sorry,” Byleth whispered meekly.

“No, I’m sorry.” Pansy clasped her hands tightly before her, as though in desperate prayer. “You must think me such a judgemental shrew, after the way I behaved in Nimura’s office. I should have handled myself better for Fern’s sake.”

Byleth disagreed. “I don’t judge you. You were surprised – and probably disappointed with the… situation.” You’re saying that for your own sake, not Fern’s.

Unexpectedly, Pansy shook her head. “It saddens me that is the impression I’ve given you.”

Her nose was wrinkled, as though stifling tears.

“I don’t judge Fern. She’s young, cheerful, pretty. I don’t doubt many men and boys admire her, even beneath her habit–!” 

Pansy stopped mid-sentence, pursing her lips, clearly regretting the words ‘beneath her habit.’ Byleth stifled a small snicker. 

Clearing her throat, Pansy continued, “To be honest, I’m far more concerned about Lord Heydar.”

“Heydar,” Byleth repeated.

His image popped into her mind; a smug grin, that scar slashed across his cheek and those dark eyes that seemed to undress every woman they fell upon. And, by all accounts, thanks to his good-looks and bravado, most of those women did, in fact, end up naked. 

Including Fern. 

“Yes. Heydar is not who I would have picked for her,” Byleth conceded.

Pansy’s eyes clouded over with concern. “And he’s an elite, isn’t he? Almyran nobility? His influence and his standing with his king makes him a kin to the great houses here in Fódlan, doesn’t it?”

There was a bitterness to Pansy’s voice, one Byleth understood all too well. All three of the Flower Sisters were unwanted noble children, cast aside by their families for lacking a crest and dumped on the steps of Garreg Mach. Rhea raised them to be Holy Sisters, but the sting of rejection remained.

“And who is Fern? A nun!” Pansy said grimly, her hand flying to her throat as she fought to control her worry. “The unwanted by-blow of a feckless noble. What power does she have against a man who flies alongside an Almyran king?! Who would take her word against his? What reason has he to acknowledge the child?”

Byleth rested a hand on her forearm, hoping to comfort her. “Fern will be heard, Pansy. And the stigma of bastardy doesn’t exist in Almyra.”

“What about the mistreatment of ahmixtan?” Pansy asked, plainly.

Hearing Pansy use an Almyran slur for those of mixed heritage—a word Claude said he’d been called his whole life—shocked Byleth. It must have been obvious how taken aback she was as Pansy hastened to explain herself.

“Forgive my crudeness,” the blonde added quickly. “I respect that King Khalid is making efforts to combat the stigma. But it remains all the same, doesn’t it?”

“There will always be bigots,” Byleth admitted sadly. “But Heydar doesn’t strike me as one of them.”

He would not have joined Claude during the last Successor War, if he was. Many other men had gone to their deaths, cursing Khalid Dariushsennu al-Arashnahm with their final breaths.

“Besides,” she continued. “Denying paternity of a child he rightly knows is his would be a grave sin in the Almyran people’s eyes. Heydar will take accountability, or risk the Wise Lord’s eternal judgement for the lie.”

Pansy scoffed. “Lord Heydar hardly strikes me as a religious type.”

“You’d be surprised how deeply customs are rooted in Almyra.” 

Of all people, Byleth’s thoughts turned to Mustafa Dariushsennu al-Arashnahm, Claude’s eldest brother and the former King’s first son. He scorned outsiders, viewing them all as cowardly, pathetic and inherently weak compared to the innate superiority of true-blooded Almyrans. She recalled that raw intensity in his eyes. Aflame with ruthless ambition and intense disgust when he looked upon her, like the scorch of a cattle prod. The conviction that he was the rightful shah burned through every inch of him, and he would have stopped at almost nothing to quickly and violently end Claude’s rule. Mustafa would have done anything – except lie. 

And Heydar is no Mustafa.

“When the time comes, he will accept the child,” Byleth concluded.

Pansy remained unconvinced. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll take the matter to Claude–” Byleth knew that if they confronted Heydar before his Shahshahran, and he were to lie, it would be tantamount to placing a hex upon himself. “I doubt it’ll come to that, though. Fern will be heard – and she will be believed.”

“You really think so, Your Grace?” A flicker of hope crossed Pansy’s face; stubborn as she could be, it was purely out of a relentless desire to protect all she held dear. 

Byleth simply nodded. “All will be… Well, they’ll be as well as they can be.”

Although her words were confident and tone steady, it all masked a deep-seated need for reassurance over her own situation. Claude would recognise – would know – any child Byleth carried was his. But what then? What about their plans? What would it mean for the treaty? And Fódlan at large? 

And what about Dimitri?

She gave a dry swallow.

One step at a time, Byleth.

Turning to the water barrel, she filled a cup. First, three long gulps; then, she drew Pansy one, too. 

The nun took it, gladly. “Thank you, Lady Byleth. And thank you for hearing me out.”

The women drank deep, using that moment to recover from the afternoon’s events. They both needed to be strong for Fern. As for Byleth, though…

You must be strong for yourself.

Byleth placed her cup aside, leaned back against her desk, and prepared to make her next request. Her stomach fluttered as though wyvern wings were flapping within, her tension settling like dust.

“Um, Pansy…” Byleth began, her breath trembling, her lips moist. “There was another matter I… needed to speak to you about.”

Pansy glanced at her over the upturned cup as she drained it to the last drop. Straightening up, she placed it aside. “Oh?” she replied, shortly.

“Yes,” Byleth said, gravely. “And this matter must remain between us.” A dire pause. “Do you understand?”

“I…?” Her tone obviously unnerved Pansy as she froze for a moment, unblinking. “I understand.”

“Good. I suppose I’d better…” 

Byleth’s throat was tight, almost as if her heart had lodged itself there. She coughed a few times, trying to clear it and tried to shift her posture to make herself comfortable – but no position that worked and no amount of throat-clearing eased her tension. 

Giving up, she sighed and said, “I want to address the obvious first.”

“The obvious, Your Grace?”

“Claude.” 

Sure enough, Pansy’s eyes widened slightly. Saying his name alone carried the truth more plainly than a thousand words did. 

“You know, don’t you?” Byleth asked, voice throbbing, pulse pounding.

“K-Know?” The nun’s face twitched, betraying her thoughts. Recovering herself, her voice lilted upwards as she carefully asked, “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Grace–?”

“He is my lover.” The words were so thick on Byleth’s tongue it might’ve tripped on them. “You’ve probably laundered enough of my linens to map our sins across the months, haven’t you?”

Pansy stood there, stunned, saying nothing.

“And you knew why all along, right?”

“I–” The nun pressed her hands together, eyes closed, fingertips to lips, as though she was beseeching the Goddess to give her strength on this most trying of days. At last, she let them fall with a quiet, resigned sigh. “Yes, my lady.”

There it was– the threadbare lie no longer concealed beneath polite ignorance. 

“What gave me away?” Byleth asked, genuinely curious.

Pansy opened her eyes. 

“Well, you have been protective of those bedsheets, my lady.” Her tone was facetious, a clear attempt to lighten the mood. When Byleth said nothing in return, Pansy sighed. “There was no single moment, rather, a succession of little tell-tales.”

“What was the first one?”

An amused snort escaped Pansy. “Your cold and altogether too-neatly tussled bedsheets during our stay in Almyra.”

Of course. 

Truth was that towards the end of her stay in Almyra, Byleth had slept in Claude’s bed more than hers. He would sneak her in through his hammam, and then out again at sunrise. Despite her attempt to fake use by rumpling the bedding, it made sense that Pansy noticed it wasn’t being used after about a week.

“Do Malva and Fern know?” was her next question.

Pansy turned her head away, uncertain. “I refused to entertain any gossip about it, when questions arose.”

“Yes, then?”

Pansy inclined her head affirmatively. 

“We all carry out the same duties after all, Your Grace. All notice the same signs. But, I assure you, none of us would’ve said a word. Even Fern has the decorum to keep her mouth shut–” She paused, then laughed despite herself. “And clearly she has had other matters on her mind.”

Byleth tapped her fingers against the desk, then uncrossed her legs and recrossed them the other way around. She wasn’t sure what to say next; this confession had been unnervingly easy, and Pansy’s reaction remarkably restrained.

But this was the easy part. 

Her gaze fell upon the scrying mirror again, and she sighed. “I won’t ask you what you think of me.” 

“Your bed is not a confessional, my lady,” Pansy replied frankly, even as her cheekbones flushed with pink. 

“Regardless,” Byleth chuckled wryly, “I know what I am: an adulteress. Very unbecoming of an Archbishop.”

She cast her eyes down, realising her own choice of words reminded her of Seteth. Still, a part of her wished she hadn’t sent him back to Garreg Mach. Aside from Pansy, he was about the only person she could trust with this knowledge. Though facing his disappointment would be a thousand times worse than Pansy’s.

He’ll have a stroke when he learns of all this. 

When Byleth raised her gaze again, it was to Pansy’s almost unreadable expression. “Do you regret being an adulteress?”

A bitter laugh burst from Byleth’s lips. “Yes – though not for the right reasons.”

Twisted but true, her only regret was that she married Dimitri. It was awful – awful to admit, but there it was. If she could go back to that day in the Goddess Tower, she… Honestly, Byleth didn’t know what she would do differently. Would you ever have had the sense, let alone the courage, to tell him no? Accepting his proposal had been easy because, in that moment, she truly believed that she loved him. Loved him the way Jeralt told her she ought to love a ‘one and only.’ And, like all things, it was far, far easier to give herself over to Dimitri’s desires rather than ruminate on her own.

“May I speak freely, Lady Byleth?” 

Pansy’s question jerked Byleth from her thoughts. With a quiet, shaky breath that seemed to hiss out from her lungs, she nodded.

“Thank you,” said Pansy, with a resolute nod. “While I cannot say I approve of adultery and wish it had not come to this, this is not an ordinary situation. Truth is that…” She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts and pick her words. “When I realised you had taken a lover, I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I thought it inevitable.”

Byleth blinked, unsure she had… understood her correctly. “What?”

“It makes you happy,” she said, at last. “That much is certain. And that… gladdens me. Goddess, help me, but… I’ll gladly launder your bedsheets knowing our Claude’s been between them, bringing you a little joy and comfort.” Pansy puffed out her chest and gave Byleth an intense look. “Joy and comfort that His Majesty, your husband, sadly, has failed to provide. And what’s more, my lady…”

She paused, as though waiting for permission to keep speaking, as though the room only had enough air for so many words.

Byleth let out a tense laugh, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. “Yes?”

A peaceful smile spread across Pansy’s lips. “The joy Claude gives you, well, it radiates within you. It shines through like the sun through the trees. Even when you try to hide it.” 

Byleth was speechless; grasping for words beyond reach to express feelings she couldn’t quite name. In the end, all she could do was flop down onto her cot. It creaked from the sudden thud of her almost deadweight dropped upon it.

Pansy lurched forward. “My lady, are you–?” 

“I’m fine,” said Byleth, quick to reassure her. “I just… don’t know what to say.”

Slowly, gently, Pansy knelt before her and placed a hand over Byleth’s. She welcomed it, the feeling of a friendly touch. 

“Forgive me, if I’ve overstepped,” Pansy said.

“You haven’t,” Byleth hastened to say, still unsure how she was feeling or what to make of it. “It’s just… I’ve been hiding this for so long that it’s odd to hear you speaking so… frankly… about it.”

Pansy’s eyes softened, and she gave the hand she held a squeeze. “I know how I can be, a silly fuddy-duddy. Still, when Rhea sent me to serve you, she asked me to ease your burdens as much as I could. ‘Someone has to,’ she said. I didn’t know why then, but…” She stared down at Byleth’s hands, as though her next words were written on them. “Everything you did, it was for other people. You carried His Majesty’s burdens, yet seldom asked for help with your own. It’s like you lived for him, rather than yourself…”

She stopped, tear drops landing on her hand.

The clench that gripped Byleth’s chest squeezed, then loosened. Her body uncoiled from a tension she hadn’t realised was there. Without realising it, Byleth was crying. Tears silently streamed down her face, though she made no whimper or wail. Bit by bit, that carefully laid wall she and Claude had built around themselves was cracking. Little by little, the world beyond them was discovering the truth.

Pansy reached into her pocket for a handkerchief and pressed it between Byleth’s palms. “It’s all right, my lady,” she whispered. “It’s good to cry, sometimes.”

“Thank you, Pansy,” Byleth choked, sniffing back her tears and wiping away those that had escaped her. Now is not the time for tears. “I’m not sure I deserve your understanding, but I’m grateful all the same.”

With her chin high and voice firm, Pansy declared, “You have my word that I will keep – and defend – your secret, for as long as necessary.”

As long as necessary.

Swallowing the salty taste in her mouth, Byleth reached over for the scry. In her clammy hands, its crystal as cold as the reality it may or may not reveal. 

“Pansy,” she said, her voice trembling, “I need you to do one more thing.” She held the magical instrument out for the nun to take. “I need you to see if I am with child.”

Pansy stiffened, instantly grasping her mistress’s implication. “I… I had hoped it was all a coincidence. The nausea, the lack of appetite…”

The scry caught the dim candlelight, glinting in both of the women’s eyes as she pressed the instrument into Pansy’s hand. “I know,” was all Byleth said.

Pansy stood half-shadowed, half-lit, as Byleth lay back on her cot to allow her to perform the spell. As the scry was lifted above her, she trembled. The magnitude of the moment was already weighing on her. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, a chaotic dance of hope and dread that left her feeling exposed. 

Byleth held her breath and waited. 

Seconds stretched into lifetimes as the magic answered its silent query. The faintest shimmer shone upon the mirror and then – with a flash – magic flared within, swirling within its depths like a whirlpool, illuminating the room like the sun. 

Byleth felt it before she saw it—a flicker, small but unmistakable, that sent her heart into her throat—a butterfly’s wings fluttering in her core. Then, with a crackle, an image ignited before their eyes, its clarity slicing through the tension. 

Pansy’s breath hitched.

Sure enough, a tiny light could be seen, tiny yet strong. Her pulse hammered, drowning out the world as the truth flickered before her, brilliant and undeniable. 

Beautiful and terrifying.

“There it is,” Pansy whispered, for lack of anything else to say.

Byleth’s hand pressed over where the little one lay. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a soft smile broke across her face. 

“My child.” 

The light faded away like a flare, leaving the implication of this confirmation to take root. Byleth and Pansy remained still, caught in the aftermath.

“This needs to stay between us for now,” Byleth said at last.

“Of course,” Pansy agreed, eyes wide and voice breathless. “What will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Byleth admits, her composure cracking at the edges. The revelation, knowing that she was pregnant, was… unreal. “I didn’t believe I could have children,” she whispered. “Nevermind that when it happened…” it would be Claude’s child.

Pansy placed the scry down with a careful clink. “Um…?”

Her voice trailed off, and silence lingered heavily between them before Byleth pressed her to continue. The nun folded her arms tightly, as though to defend herself from the inevitable answer.

“When was the last time the king, that is, your husband…lay with you?”

Byleth’s laugh was a sharp, brittle sound. “Too long ago.”

The night of Saint Cethleann’s Feast was the last time. That, and that other incident a few months ago, the one Byleth preferred to forget. She hesitated to label it as ‘sex’ since it barely began and certainly didn’t finish. He had swept her up like a tempest and, before she knew it, it was happening. As he rutted away, Byleth allowed her mind to wander, content to let Dimitri have her this time – she had denied him for so many weeks at this point, after all. She owed Dimitri his due, she thought. But then, as Byleth sank deeper into her mind, it hit her that this was her life. This was her husband and – no matter how much she wished otherwise – Claude was in Almyra, far away, beyond her reach. Perhaps being pressured himself to take a wife of his own, perhaps compelled to take another woman to his bed, to touch and caress her as he had done Byleth–and it drove her to tears. Dimitri stopped immediately once he heard her sobs, and he hadn’t touched her since.

“Still, there’s… no possibility?” The eldest flower sounded so desperate, knowing all too well they were clutching at straws. 

“No,” Byleth replied tartly. “I’ve bled since the last time he… tried.”

And twice since Saint Cethleann’s feast.

“Even so,” Pansy’s brow furrowed, deep in thought, leaving Byleth on edge. “Could Dimitri be… deceived?”

Her audacity stunned Byleth, it was so unlike her usual propriety that it bordered on absurd. 

“Pansy, I’m surprised at you.”

The blonde woman shook her head. “It’s a question that has to be asked.”

“You saw how new this life is.” It was a spark, a little thing – perhaps even smaller than Fern’s growing foetus. The size of a bean – no more than a grape. “I’m no healer, but I could only have conceived within the past few weeks.” 

“Five, maybe,” Pansy conceded. “No more than eight?”

“And where was I eight weeks ago?” Byleth asked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Here. At war. As far away from my husband as I could be. Dimitri’s not an idiot, Pansy. If he finds out, he’ll know I’ve been unfaithful.”

An eerie silence passed over the tent, each woman feeling the oppressive sense of doom take over them. Byleth took Pansy’s hands in hers, trying to ground herself, a gesture of solidarity.

“And all of that besides…” The breath Byleth released was long and poignant. This is Claude’s child. “I can’t lie anymore.”

Byleth decided she owed Nader the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

The scent of crushed grass flowed through Byleth’s nose as she trudged through camp, fresh rain being dried away by the clear autumn sun above. She flexed her stiff fingers at her sides; it was not in anxiety that tensed her, but the burden of the knowledge she now carried. Even now, she had to replay the moment in her mind, recall the image of that little bean – her child – to remind herself that this is real.

You’re pregnant.

She strode confidently towards where she knew Nader’s quarters to be. Almyran warriors sharpened blades with whetstones while speaking in High and Low Almyran dialects. Yet they all acknowledged her as she passed; their deference to the foreign warrior queen displayed by their stiff shoulders and sharp bows.

Two guards blocked the entrance to Nader’s pavilion, their ceremonial axes crossed over the entrance. Through the gaps in the linen, Byleth could see him circled around a table, giving his men the final run through before they would set off. 

She recognised Zaki, one of Claude’s men. Despite his up-tilted chin, puffed out chest and overall proud demeanour, his trembling axe-blade showed he was about to submit, even before Nader gave the order.

“Ashibanu-ahliah!” he cried out, loud enough to get Nader’s attention.

Byleth stared him and his partner down through her unblinking seaglass eyes, all while glancing beyond them at her quarry. Sure enough, Nader noticed her immediately, his face resigned. ‘What now?’ She could almost hear him thinking.

“Gentlemen. Please tell Nader that I’m here and wish to speak with him. Privately.”

“No need.” 

Pushing the axes aside, Nader walked out. Through a strained smile, his tone was forcibly upbeat and jolly. “My, my! Milady Byleth, how lovely of you to come and see me off. I’m flattered.”

She nodded curtly. “There are a few matters I need to discuss with you before you leave.”

“I figured.” With a whistle, he pushed aside the flap to his tent and jutted his head to order all the men inside out. “Alright, lads. You know what to do. Out, out, out – you know what Her Gracefulness is like.” He snapped his fingers, as though remembering something. “Oh! And don’t forget to show your deference.”

Byleth shot Nader a steely stare, knowing what she was about to receive was a queue of young Almyran soldiers ready to kiss her hand. He, of course, challenged it openly with a chuckle. 

“Now, now, milady. We wouldn’t want to risk our beloved shah learning we showed the holy-royal hand disrespect, after all.”

Not wishing to argue, she held out her hand. One by one, all six stopped to pay their homage to the ‘Ashibanu-ahliah’. Including Sahm, she realised.

“I didn’t see you there, Sahm,” Byleth acknowledged as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “Good morning.”

”Yes, morning is very good, ashibanu-ahliah,” he replied cheerily before bowing his head and backing away very quickly, not turning until he was certain he was out of eyeshot.

As the last one scuttled away, the warlord looked to the two guards. “You as well. I have no earplugs, so you’d better stand at least twenty yards away to ensure Her Grace the ultimate respect and privacy.”

There was a rumble of laughter from the Almyran guards as Byleth stepped inside and the flap fell closed.

“Mind if I seal it?” she asked.

“Overkill, don’t you think? But do what you want,” Nader said with a shrug.  He picked up the kettle and the heated poker, ready to boil the water. “Tea?”

“I don’t want them to hear.”

“Ha! Don’t you trust me, Your Gracie-Grace?” Nader gestured with the poker, holding it out straight and long. “Twenty paces back. Any fool sneaking close gets his ears boxed. If Khal were here, he’d threaten to take an ear.” The implied order hung between them, as solid as the trunk-thick arms crossing his chest. “Ginger or pine needles?” 

Byleth didn’t respond, purposefully taking her time to tie the tent’s entrance closed, listening for the guards to be far enough away for comfort.

“I believe you’ve secured it sufficiently,” Nader grunted, stirring the embers, causing sparks to fly from the hearth. “Keep in mind that I’ll need to answer nature’s call at some point, and my chamber pot is only so big.”

“Grab a seat,” he told her, when she finally turned to face him.

Byleth reached for a vacant lacquered stool before his war table. Her eyes scanned the map of the ravine, noting the tokens marking where Claude’s soldiers already were, the path Nader would be taking and, finally, where Heydar was flying the other half of Claude’s Immortals towards. 

“Has Heydar left yet?”

“Um-hm. Yesterday morning.”

“Good.” 

For the plan, and for Fern. 

Byleth’s young maid continued to grapple with her unforeseen predicament. She managed to prevent Pansy from immediately approaching Heydar about Fern’s baby. Dumping such crucial information on Claude’s trusted second-in-command days before he was about to enter battle could impair his judgment, Byleth realised.

No, they would deal with Heydar later.

“You didn’t answer me.”

She snapped out of her thoughts. “Huh?”

“Tea!” Nader tapped his poker against the shiny kettle. “I know how you are about it. Pine or ginger?”

Byleth’s tongue found the roof of her mouth, dry as the desert. “Um, whatever you’re having.”

“Hm.” Nader grunted. Hands on his hips, he narrowed his eyes at Byleth. “You’re pale as fresh curd. Still suffering from your ‘mysterious’ sickness that oddly occurs in the morning, are you?”

His flippantness pushed Byleth into an immediate confession.

“I spoke to Nimura–” she stopped, sighed and shook her head. “In a sense, at least. I procured a scrying mirror from her, and Pansy did the rest…” 

Nader stiffened. “And?”

Byleth bit her lip, closed her eyes and nodded quickly. 

“And it’s definitely Khal’s?”

“It could only be Khal’s.”

A sharp breath pierced from Nader’s mouth. 

“Fuck. Ashtara fucking protect us!” Grabbing a modest vessel that contained the tea leaves, he continued to grumble, this time in High Almyran – too low and quick for Byleth to even attempt to pick out the words – before saying, at last, “Ginger it is, then.”

Quietly, Byleth sat with her hand pressed against her stomach. This was an action she realised she was doing more and more, a gesture she knew she needed to nip in the bud, lest people start wondering why. 

“Now that I think about it,” she said after a while. “Jamilah worked it out before any of us.”

Nader cocked an eyebrow at her. “Khal’s Jamilah?” Byleth nodded. “What makes you say that?”

Byleth smiled despite herself. “She’s always been jealous of me. But, the other day, she was unusually affectionate and interested in my waist.”

Nevermind that she had solved Byleth’s seemingly unsolvable lack of appetite. Even now, the scent of that wyvern-fire roasted pheasant made her mouth water and stomach growl.

Fowl. Game. Yummy food.

“Hm.” Nader poured the boiled water through the strainer, an act that seemed regimented when he did it. “Khal raised her from egg to mount. All she has ever known is him – his scent, his very being.” He thrust the cup out for Byleth to take, which she did, carefully. “It’s his flesh. His blood. She can smell it, even inside your womb, growing larger and stronger every second, fused together with your own blood.”

He collapsed into the chair opposite her and drank deep from his cup. ”Frankly, I can’t believe it hasn’t crossed Khal’s mind you might be pregnant, especially with such a change in Jamilah’s demeanour.”

Byleth shrugged. “He tried to make me smell like him before we rode her, so that probably threw him off.”

She recalled how he had rubbed against her, outright petted her, trying to cover her with his essence.

But Nader rolled his eyes, his tone as crude as his words. “Given how often Khal’s been riding you these past weeks, you’d have already stunk Khalidekan from the outside in to a wyvern. That alone wouldn’t cause Jami to fall madly in love with you after all this time.” He shook his head. “No, this goes deeper. Literally. Her behaviour alone was the clearest sign that you’re carrying his shahsennu.”

Royal blood. Almyrans believed their land’s founders’ blood was blessed by the Wise One. Arash’s blood – Claude’s ancestor – was counted among their number. It was his arrow that shot high into the sky, then landed in Almyra, leading the way for the first humans to settle there. 

“So,” Nader continued, rubbing his brow with his thumb. “Almyra’s shah not only cuckolded Fódlan’s king, he’s got himself an heir where his rival failed. Daring. Reckless. Damn near suicidal.”

The ‘Ha!’ Byleth unleashed came out sharper than intended, edged with the ghost of Sothis’s mischief. “Very Claude.” 

“Hmph. Question is, what do we do now?” Nader asked, half-rhetorically, half-genuinely asking. “And what of the next battle? You can’t lead the vanguard now–”

“Of course I can,” Byleth said firmly, cutting him off. “We must proceed as planned.”

Nader’s eyes widened, and he put his porcelain cup down with a clank. “You can’t be serious?!”

“I’m pregnant, not invalided.” The ginger tea was soothing to taste. “It’s too late to change now. Ashe and Leonie are on their way to Ernest as we speak. Claude is already in place and Heydar has left, too. We put the whole host at risk if we backtrack at this point.”

Nader shook his head, exasperated. “But when Khal finds out I let you do this–!”

“Let me?” Byleth snorted. “You need to have more faith in me, spahbad.”

“Faith? Ha!” Nader scrapped his fingers across his scalp, through his dark-brown hairs, highlighting the greys. Perhaps a few more than he had had before he learned about this baby. “And if you’re injured? The second a doctor shoves their own scry up your skirt to check your vitals, the game’s up!”

“That won’t happen.”

“But it could.”

Yet it won’t. Still, Byleth said nothing. Of course, Nader wasn’t aware of her secret weapon. The Divine Pulse was an ancient gift that stayed between her and Sothis’s ghost. Perhaps it was arrogant for her to believe it would always save her, but damn it all! It had never failed her yet.

“Trust me,” she said at last.

“Trust you?” Nader spluttered. “Is that your only answer, Byleth?”

She stilled, surprised to hear him address her by her name alone. “Claude isn’t the only tactical demon in this camp. I have more cards up my sleeve than you realise, Nader.”

He released another exasperated, throaty growl. “Damn you both and your damned cards.”

Silence pooled between them, thick with unsaid warnings. Somewhere beyond the camp, a lone lark sang, heedless of the war that had overtaken its forest.

“Fine,” Nader said quietly. Then, he jutted his finger towards her, resolute. “But mark my words. If you stumble next battle, if I so much as suspect things are going wrong—I’m telling Khalid everything. Oaths be damned, I’ll drag you from that ravine myself, if I have to.”

Byleth blinked a few times, surprised by his boldness. “You mean that, don’t you?”

”I do.” Nader gripped his knees and puffed out his chest. “Xodata – if he cares or is even there – will forgive me. I swore an oath to defend Khalid’s blood with my own when he arose as the shahshahran. And, now, that extends to you, whether you like it or not.”

Byleth rubbed her stomach again. For a fleeting second, she allowed herself to imagine green eyes flecked with gold peering up from swaddling clothes. Then, the moment passed. At last, she caught herself and inclined her head instead, keeping her regal composure. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Another thing.”

Nader’s hand swept over the map, before he grabbed two small tokens and placed them among the battalion that represented the entourage that would accompany Byleth when the battle began.

“I’ll be assigning two Immortals to travel among your number,” he declared. “Sahm and Zaki. I held them back, just in case.”

Byleth rolled her eyes. “You’re aware I’ll be taking Catherine with me. She has more power in her left arm than most men.”

“It’s non-negotiable, or I’ll start rumours about Fódlan bastards fathered by Almyran kings myself.”

Byleth arched a brow. “No, you won’t.”

“I will.” He jerked his chin toward the murmuring camp outside. “Like I said, the Wise Lord will forgive the transgression, considering you carry Arash’s future as we speak.”

She leaned her elbows on the table, slouching against them. She knew the older man wouldn’t drop it. While she didn’t truly believe that he would start those rumours, it was easier to let him have his way.

“Fine.”

“Good.” Nader sat up straight, then began to rummage through his pockets. “One last thing.”

From his pocket, he produced a small packet of ginger sweets, offering them to her with a slight nod. “For the morning sickness. They help settle the stomach. Never failed Safiya or my girls.”

Byleth accepted the sweets, her fingers brushing against his calloused hand. She offered a curt nod, her lips tight as if to hold back the flood of emotions his words had unwittingly summoned. 

“Thanks, Nader.”

A tiny smile crossed his lips. “You’re welcome, Lady Byleth.”

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