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"We called a counselor," Ingrid said.

Dimitri blinked. " … what?"

"We were terrified when we found you this morning." Ingrid crossed her arms on the table. "I was terrified. You weren't moving, there was blood everywhere, I — I thought you were dead. I'm not doing that again."

"You lost your whole eye, man. You keep on like this, one day we're gonna find your body. I won't stand by and let that happen." Sylvain shook his head. "Come on. You don't want to wind up in the hospital again any more than we want you to."

Dimitri pressed his lips together, hackles bristling, but he was too groggy and full to muster any real anger. He turned to Dedue. "You knew about this?"

"Yes," said Dedue. "I agree with Ingrid and Sylvain. You need help we can’t provide, even if you would accept it from us." His shoulders sank; his voice softened. Somehow that was worse than the reprimands. "I cannot watch while you suffer."

"I emailed you the counselor's information. Her name's Dr. Eisner, she specializes in difficult transformations, and you're seeing her Tuesday afternoon." Ingrid glared up at him with puffy, bloodshot eyes.

" … I'm not going to hurt anyone," Dimitri said, sullen.

Dedue closed his hand around Dimitri's, squeezed. "You hurt yourself. That’s unacceptable."

Dimitri didn't want to lose his other eye. He hadn't wanted to lose this one, whatever the hell had happened to it. He didn't want to lose an arm, or a leg, or his life. He didn't like spending every full moon locked in their basement.

But — blood, hot on his fangs, in the back of his throat —

"Dr. Eisner's coming by whether you like it or not," Sylvain pointed out. "We set up a house call. At least talk to her."

If someone could help …

" … okay," Dimitri said, subdued. "Okay."

Sylvix. CW: Light mention of blood

Sylvain let out a groan and let go of him with one hand to ruffle for his handkerchief. Where was it!?

“Sylvain…”

“Yes,” he said.

He retrieved the noble fabric and pressed it against the bloody nose.

“You still want to be with me until we die?”

“You are the only purpose of my life,” Sylvain replied. “Tilt your head forward,” he invited.

Felix’s hands came around the freckled cheeks, tilting them forward.

“No, your head,” Sylvain said.

But he froze as he realized Felix was looking him in the eyes for once, as he realized Felix was standing on his tiptoe. Sylvain saw the pale lips moving but his brain refused to process the words.

“Wh…what?” Sylvain asked.

“I love you.”

This time, Felix blushed and looked away. Sylvain slowly knelt, straightened his back and caressed Felix’s cheeks. How he had wished for this moment to happen. How he had awaited this instant. Felix’s cheeks were wet of tears and blood. Yet, he brought them closer with delicacy.

“I love you too.” Sylvain whispered. “Always have, always will.”

Felix smiled through his tears and sorrow. He rolled his arms around Sylvain’s shoulders.

Their lips joined.

Softly.

Just a tender second or two. Felix snuggled in the already strong arms, letting himself fall next to him. Sylvain felt his shivers.

“I stay with you, Fe’. I will never leave. Never.”

“Please. I just need you.”

Sylvain knew how much Felix needed Glenn. But Felix would never be with Glenn anymore. A part of Sylvain ached. Felix laid his love on him because he just had lost Glenn and he felt abandoned. Felix needed to feel loved. Sylvain could love him, better than anyone. He always had loved him, so deeply, so tenderly. Accepting Felix’s love when he was so fragile… it was as if he took advantage of him. But… but he wanted to believe Felix wasn’t laying his love on him only because he hadn’t Glenn anymore. They always had been so close. They always had each other back. They always cared for the other and tried to cheer the other. How often hadn’t he eased Felix’s tears? How often hadn’t he received soft kisses from Felix, easing the turmoil and sadness worming its way through him…

If Felix changed his mind in the future, realizing he didn’t love him but just needed to be loved… it would be fine for Sylvain. In any case, Sylvain was just born to love Felix. He would assist him, ease him and reassure him in every way Felix would ever need. Sylvain was devoted to him… Every gesture he did, every thought he had… it was for Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

“I will never leave your side. I’m with you. No matter where you go, no matter the weather, the time. I will be with you.”

“I will be with you too, Sylvain. At any moment, any second.”

Felix switched, snuggling in the strong freckled arms, laid his head against Sylvain’s chest and listened to the heartbeats, so soft, behind the muscle and the flesh.

“You always have been the one I wanted to be with…”

Halfway through the first folder, Letty knocked on the office door and poked her head in, with an odd sort of smile that Hilda only saw on her when she was being provocative. “You have some visitors at the front door, Miss Goneril—as in, they asked about you specifically.”

Visitors? Valentine didn’t have any unscheduled appointments, much less anyone asking for Hilda personally and calling it a visit. So early on a work day even! Letty’s knowing smile, the one that curled the corners of her mouth and pressed her lips tightly together in an attempt to milk the moment for its worth (but also dying to spill whatever she was going to say), prompted a sigh from Hilda. “Letty, dear, it’s way too early for you to play coy with me, so spit it out.”

“But Miss Goneril, the surprise is part of the fun! Why don’t you come downstairs to see who it is?”

Okay, now that was even weirder. Letty liked to poke fun at Hilda sometimes but usually didn’t stretch those little games. Who on earth could have gotten this reaction from her?

“Fiiine, I’ll be down Letty, but this better be a good reason.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s definitely a good one.”

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble for Sylvain to find a new political strategist. It seems as though every day I hear of a new campaign launching,” Dimitri chuckles lightly.

Claude hopes Dimitri doesn’t notice his eyes narrow a fraction of a millimeter at the offhand comment. Does he mean to imply that Claude’s decision to run is on a whim? This isn’t some vanity run to flaunt his legal expertise, or an on-demand political drama. Is that really what the political elite think of upstart candidates? What’s it like to rub shoulders with those who have walked the halls of Capitol Hill, he wonders bitterly. What’s it like to not know a world of anger, of oppression.

To comment on it would not be “acceptable.” So Claude holds his tongue.

After being locked into combat, exchanging blows with the clashing of steel and saber, it was Byleth who had the upper hand in the end, pinning down Edelgard with their legs, their sword at his throat. Just as Edelgard attempted to stab Byleth through the heart, Byleth blocked and deflected it with a dagger in their left hand, before piercing through that single opportunity, and their sword ran through Edelgard’s heart.

With that fatal blow, Edelgard returned to the form Byleth knew too well, and became himself once again, the demonic form fading into dust. From a demonic monster to a human form. From black came brilliant silverish white, and they could once more see the face they loved for so long. His strong violet eyes met their own emerald ones, and they could see that he had finally regained his humanity. Even if it must be in his final moments. Tears welled up in their eyes, as they removed the sword from his body and sank to their knees, cradling their former beloved in their arms, tears falling down their cheeks and onto the cold stone.

“This was not how I wanted to see you again, El.” Their voice started to waver, as they hugged Edelgard slightly tighter.

“How ironic…” Edelgard whispered his final words in Byleth’s ear, clutching the fatal wound in his chest, the blood soaking into his uniform. “That you would be the one to kill me... the only one I both loved and loathed... For making me weak to the very end. We no longer can take back the past... but at least... please allow me to say that I’m sorry for hurting you… It has been too long… since that innocent time.”

“How long has it been... since I have felt so warm…” The light faded from his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks, and his arm fell limply at his side. All they could do was close his eyes with a shaking hand, and clutch the body that grew colder with the passing of time, the warmth fading away. All that was left was an empty shell.

In the battle’s aftermath, there is a rumor that Byleth Eisner, the Imperial Grand Admiral of the United Fodlan Star System not only killed Edelgard the Conqueror of Worlds, but was closer to the Adrestian Empire heir than initially believed. Many citizens of the Star System only dismissed it as impossible, as to them, Edelgard was only a ruthless murderer and madman. But, to those who witnessed and participated in the battle, no one could deny the grief that covered their face as they walked back to their comrades, carrying Edelgard’s body in their arms, as if they lost someone truly important. And to those who were close to Byleth, it was only the third time they have seen Byleth cry, silently, and mournfully. The first being when Jeralt has passed away.

She set the long object on the table, and lifted away the last layer of cloth to reveal the strangest sword Felix had ever seen. “A relic?” he asked in surprise, for it did bear a faint resemblance to what he’d seen of them before. It was the same odd faded orange colour, and was strangely and intricately carved. The handle seemed like it would be too large to hold at all comfortably, and the crossguard was immense and far too weighty for comfort, despite the strange hole in the middle of it. The blade was segmented, like the spine of some animal laid out on this otherwise banal table. Felix suppressed a shiver.

Byleth’s voice was cold and expressionless when she spoke again. "I swung the sword on instinct, and it…” her voice trailed off, then she took a deep breath and reached her hand out towards the sword. “It did this,” she finished, and picked it up.

The sword seemed spring into her hand as soon as she touched it, and immediately lit up a glowing, unearthly orange. Felix barely stopped himself dropping his half-finished cup of tea. He looked up to Byleth’s face, and found it as blank as ever, her eyes fastened to the sword with their usual purplish blue looking almost black in its orange light.

“How did you do that?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” she said, and for a moment he could see beyond the veil she kept drawn over her eyes, to some simmering pool of shock and desperation underneath.

He kept his eyes fixed on her, and murmured, “Put it down.”

She didn’t respond, still staring at the strange carvings of the blade. “Byleth,” he said again, and she turned to look at him. “Put it down,” he repeated, as gently as he could manage.

“The Belmonts are gone? I thought they were supposed to be the best monster hunters in the world.”

“Were is the operative word,” Lysithea says. “The last of them was killed in the field a few decades ago.”

“Damn. That seems like a major blow to the forces of light.” All the more reason, Claude thinks, to awaken this power of his.

“It is,” Edelgard agrees curtly. “Fortunately, if you are truly able to harness the lunar magic of your lineage, we will have gained another soldier in the fight.”

“Oh? What makes you think I’m into killing monsters?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want to use what you learn.” Edelgard states this as though it were fact--and, to be fair, she’s right. “There are only so many ways to use magic like that. And you strike me as the sort of person who never does anything on a whim.”

She’s perceptive, Claude has to admit. He smirks. “Oh, you’ve got me all figured out already, huh? In that case, do I also strike you as the sort of person who can practice magic?”

Lysithea rolls her eyes. “Don’t be such a fool. These tests take time, and you’ll have to learn a few basics before we can be sure the results will be accurate. And since you clearly can’t even read Enochian, you’ve got a long way to go.”

“Don’t worry, I’m a quick study.” Claude’s eyes turn back to the book, as though knowing the name of the language now will suddenly make it comprehensible to him. (It doesn’t.) “And I’ve got nothing but time, so let’s crack some books, shall we?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the same luxury,” says Edelgard. She leaves the book open on the table and chooses another one from the nearby shelf to hand over to Claude. “My assistant, Hubert, will begin with teaching you to read a few languages and runic alphabets you’ll need to know. Once you’ve mastered those, we’ll talk magic.”

A light knock on the open door precedes a smooth, quiet voice. “Lady Edelgard? I’m told we have a guest.”

“Ah, there’s Hubert now.” She beckons to a tall man in an old-fashioned suit with pale, almost sallow skin and a fringe of thick, black hair that falls over one eye. The other one is sharp and narrow, its iris such a light green that it’s almost yellow. He’s so thin that Claude might have thought him sickly, if he moved with anything other than perfectly self-assured grace. “This is Claude von Riegan.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Hubert,” says Claude, although he gets the feeling it’ll end up a lie.

“Likewise.” Hubert smiles, and Claude’s pretty sure that’s the truth, if only because it makes him feel hunted.

“Are we finished here?” Lysithea demands. “We’re late for tea and pastries.”

“Yes, for now.” Edelgard turns to Claude. “Join us for tea, won’t you? Rodrigue is welcome to stay, as well.”

“Sounds great! Lead the way.”

Edelgard wasn’t sure what she expected, but a cluttered consortium of collectables wasn’t it. There was a stuffed hydra head labeled 2006 that was mounted on a huge plank of wood and a box of weapons labeled BROKEN/CURSED. A few items were just ghosts, white sheets tinged with dust hiding whatever lay underneath. She caught her reflection in a broken mirror and saw her eyes completely blank and her hair stark white — Edelgard decided to stop looking around after that.

“Where is the Oracle?” Dimitri asked, tearing his eyes away from a painting on the wall. Edelgard pointed to the corner, where a shriveled husk of a person sat precariously in an oversized, half-eaten red armchair with frayed gold embroidery. “Oh.”

Neither of them moved. Edelgard felt a shiver run down her spine. Even though it was about fifteen feet away and pointed in the other direction, it still felt like the Oracle was looking at her.

“How are we supposed to get a prophecy? Do we just ask?” Dimitri wondered. Edelgard had no idea and just shrugged. She took a deep breath.

“If I get possessed by the spirit of the Oracle, tell the others that I did my best.”

“Have you heard of Garreg Mach?”

“The church?” Felix asks, one eyebrow quirked. Everyone had heard of Garreg Mach at some point in their life, of course. The place had history, being the center of one of the biggest wars in their nation’s history. Nowadays it was nothing more than a big building where people worshiped an outdated Goddess. There weren’t many highly religious folk around anymore.

No one had time to beg for the Goddess’s forgiveness when they were starving and fighting for their lives on the daily. She’d already damned them. What was the point?

The man across from them nods his head before taking a long sip of his drink. Sylvain can practically feel Felix’s irritation, but they have to be patient. This is the only lead they’ve had in years, and it wouldn’t do to ruin it with Felix’s bad temper. Sylvain reaches over and places a hand on Felix’s thigh, in what’s supposed to be a comforting gesture.

He feels Felix tense up under his touch, though, and pulls away just as quickly.

Seeming not to notice, the man finally continues, “It’s more than a church. Garreg Mach is a city— the monastery is just within its borders.”

“Fascinating. What’s your point here? You think the prince is in the city?” Still tense, Felix taps his fingers on the table. His patience is clearly running thin.

“The monastery is a sanctuary now, for people who have nowhere to go.” The man pauses and takes another sip of his drink before looking Felix in the eye. “Doesn’t that sound like the place a runaway prince would disappear to?”

The question makes Felix snap, before Sylvain can react at all. He slams his hand down on the table, glaring hard at the man. “So you don’t know anything at all. You just suspect the prince is there.”

When the man nods, Felix stands, violently kicking his chair away from him before he stomps out of the bar. The commotion has other patrons staring, but Sylvain just ignores them and follows after Felix.

They’re outside for all of thirty seconds, just steps away from the bar when Felix turns around, letting all of his frustration out on Sylvain. Lucky he’s used to it by now. “This was a massive waste of time! Why did we even come here!?”

“Whoa, Felix, calm down.” Sylvain holds his hands up in surrender, as if there were anything to surrender. “Don’t forget, coming here was your idea.” That just gets him a harder glare thrown his way. Sylvain sighs and lowers his arms. “Look, it was a shitty lead. It’s bound to happen. No one has information about Dimitri— but….”

“But?”

“He’s not wrong. If there’s actually a sanctuary at Garreg Mach, Dimitri could have gone there.”

“Why would the Prince of Faerghus go somewhere so obvious? He would have been found by now.” Felix argues, crossing his arms.

Sylvain pauses, thinking back to the last time he saw Dimitri, half blind and disheveled, before he’d disappeared to look for a man who’d long died before. “... you and I both know Dimitri isn’t the prince that people imagine anymore.”

Cyril stood by Edelgard’s side, jaw clenched tight. Whether blood or sweat dripped down the back of his neck, he did not know; all he knew was that it was hot — caustic against his skin and making his skin prickle. He blinked through heavy eyelids, the life force draining out of him through the wounds he’d sustained. Yet still he stood strong: chest forward, chin raised, eyes trained downwards at the sight that lay below the wall they stood on.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Edelgard asked. Her tone was light despite the surroundings — the bloodied battlefield beneath them, corpses all around, and the huge, towering beast snapping through a salivating maw, tail lashing out at the Imperial soldiers surrounding it.

Was he sure he wanted to do this? Go against the person who had supposedly saved him — who he had spent two years of his life worshipping, brainwashed by her supposed kindness? Was that within his power?

As he took in the Lady Rhea’s new form — ghastly white scales, sword-like fangs dripping with the scarlet ichor of the dead, her hulking, swollen dragon’s body — Cyril gripped Failnaught tight.

He raised one arm and heard the swoop — the low, powerful noise of his wyvern’s wings cutting through the air behind him. Turning, he watched the beast approach and braced himself to jump — to leap onto his steed’s back into the fray beyond as he had so many times before.

He had never been more sure of anything in his life.

Everyone was so carefree. You never would have guessed a war had just been declared even though he swore just the day before that the entire monastery was thick with a grim air. Had the war been part of his nightmare? Did he dream up an entire month of his life?

As soon as class was over, Claude was ready to investigate. He went to the bulletin board by the Black Eagles’ classroom and looked at the date. Last he checked, it was the Lone Moon. But the calendar in front of him claimed it was the Blue Sea, just three months after classes began. How was that possible? No, that wasn’t enough information. He couldn’t let a piece of paper make him lose composure— there had to be more to this. A prank, maybe? Had his class grown so tired of his own jokes they decided to pull a fast one on him?

Wishful thinking.

He turned. A bit too abruptly as he ran straight into Byleth— it seemed they were on their way out from the Black Eagles’ classroom.

“Woah— sorry, Teach, didn’t see you there.” Byleth shook their head as though to signal it wasn’t a problem, then started back on their way. But Claude wasn’t done. “Gotta say, it was weird not having you around today. Never really thought of you as the joking type.” The other stopped and turned to him. Their expression was neutral as it always was, but Claude caught sight of the tiniest knit of their brow. “Come on, you can tell me. In fact, I’ll commend you! Must be hard getting so many people in on a ruse.”

There was a moment of quiet. And then, “Are you feeling all right?”

Yeah, wishful thinking.

“Hm… Seeing as you’re far from the first person who’s asked me that today, maybe not. But no need to worry yourself! Must just have something to do with skipping breakfast. I’ll go take care of that.”

He didn’t, though. How was he supposed to sit down and enjoy a meal? Something was wrong. Well, nothing was wrong, actually. Which was precisely the problem. Had he really lost months of his life? Been sent back to simpler times? No— if it was that easy, Byleth would still be in his classroom. And Cyril would be with him.

So maybe something was wrong, but it was only wrong to him. And that meant he was the only one who could figure out what it was. He decided to start where he left off— by looking for his little brother. He had to be somewhere, right?

He had to be.

Bernadetta liked to watch anime. The thing about anime was that the vast majority of them were about high school life. Some of them were romances that seemed inevitable the second the characters were introduced. Some of them were about plucky music clubs succeeding against the odds. Some were about inquisitive youths seeking the unlikely mysteries that lay within the concrete of their school.

But there was one thing that unified them; the concept of making memories. That handful of years was a canvas onto which their protagonists would paint experiences; ones that would last forever in their hearts. Love, success, friendship. A window of opportunity to become beautiful, if for a fleeting moment.

Bernadetta knew it was all very far fetched. But Bernadetta liked these fictional imaginings of a high school life worth living and worth remembering. Bernadetta liked them because they presented the possibility that somewhere in the world, someone was enjoying their time at high school.

Bernadetta was not making memories. Bernadetta was not falling in love, slowly but irrevocably, with a rival she felt an undeniable connection with. Bernadetta was not a pivotal and irreplaceable member of a dance troupe. Bernadetta was not investing the ghosts of histories left behind by students from a generation earlier.

Bernadetta was not enjoying her time at high school.

Claude keeps looking around the drafty studio, at the empty walls covered with puncture holes where nails used to be, at the half-filled crooked bookshelf and the cold laminate floor - and he can't help but realise that this isn't his home. He knew this was going to happen, and that homesickness was inevitably part of the "moving out" experience (hell, he's been through it once already), and he should have been prepared for the feeling of loss, but-

"Hey."

Claude turns his head towards Judith. There’s one more box standing between him and leaving the best home he ever had. Bright, early-morning sunlight breaks in through dirty window panes, illuminating the fine layer of dust everywhere.

Judith sighs and sits down next to where he’s crouched on the floor. "Listen."

He shifts around to find a more comfortable position. The floorboards creak underneath him. On paper, he’s a soon-to-be-student; but right now, he just feels like a little kid all over again, clinging to his mom's leg so she wouldn’t leave for another business trip. But at least back then, he was left with his grandparents; this time, he’s about to be truly alone.

"You know this isn't a final goodbye, right?" Judith says, squeezing his shoulder. "You're just taking the next step on your own, and I'll be checking in on you. You can always count on me, boy."

"I know," Claude says. And he does want to take this next step into independence, he really does, because as safe as a ship in the harbor may be, that's not what ships are built for. But that doesn't make the impending leap into cold and unknown waters any easier.

Judith's expression softens. "Good. I'm glad you know." There's the fond warmth in her voice she doesn't allow to come out often. "Have you found a doctor yet?"

“Yep,” Claude replies.

That, at least, is fine. He’s got an appointment in two weeks for the clinic to register him as a patient, then they can keep prescribing him hormones like the clinic back at home. Hm. He really should start referring to this place as home if he ever wants to feel good about living here.

Judith just nods. They go through everything else that might come up - utility bills, bank details, financial aid from the university, some last wisdom and encouragement from Judith.

When they're done with everything, she checks her watch and gets up, patting her legs to get the dust off her pants. "I'll be in town until three, so if there's anything you need me or the car for, text me," she says. "And you better stay in touch, boy. I didn't spend five years doing what your parents should have done just for you to forget about me, got it?"

Fuck. Bad, awful moment for Claude to start crying, he knows that, but the stinging in his nose keeps getting stronger. "Yeah. Thanks, Judith. I'll keep that in mind."

“You’re gonna do great, boy, I know it.” Judith claps his shoulder, then pulls him into a crushing hug. “I’ll miss you.”

"Yeah," is all Claude can choke out. "You too. Thanks for everything."

Dimitri was no stranger to grandeur, he knew he was far more fortunate than most in that regard. He wanted for nothing growing up and surely received everything in excess as his father’s only child and heir. But now more than ever, a two-story condominium with a central crystal chandelier, a study with a collection of books that would put most schools to shame, and a wide oak dining table with elaborate carvings seemed far too much for only two people to be living in.

There was a bowl of Cheesy Verona Stew and a small plate of bread rolls on his place at the table. In the handful of times that he and his uncle had shared a meal, they would stay adjacent to each other — his uncle at the head and Dimitri to his right. They’d come to an unspoken agreement that sitting opposite to one another across the length of the table was both ridiculous and unnecessary.

They’d never had guests come as far as he knew, but he supposed they would eventually have to discuss dining arrangements for any business gatherings his uncle would be required to hold. His father held them frequently, but when Dimitri was lucky, he could slink away with his friends. When he wasn’t quite as fortunate, he has been forced to sit through boring, repetitive conversations with women who pinched his cheeks or snooty peers who forced their friendship on him. Dimitri supposed he’d have to brace himself for more of the latter now.

Though with the way his uncle scoffed at the very idea of interacting with his business partners, let alone their families, it would be some time before Dimitri would have to attend a function.

Against his better judgement, Dimitri sat to eat without bothering to reheat his food. Eating had become more of a chore than anything, if he was being perfectly honest. He’d noticed early on that his sense of taste had muted somewhat since waking up at the hospital. He could detect anything that was strong or familiar enough in taste, however everything else was fragrant but bland. And while the meal set before him was one of his favorites, Dimitri knew he wasn’t in the right mindset to savor it.

However, despite his melancholy, the sight of his mother’s favorite dish brought a smile to his face.

“The first spoonful has to be a little bit of everything, sweetie. Meat, vegetables, and all that tasty cheese.”

He brought the spoon to his mouth and marveled at the lingering warmth as he chewed. Huh, he supposed his uncle preferred his meals extra hot then. He would have to keep that in mind for later. Heating his uncle’s meals just how he liked them was the least he could do for all the man had done for him.

Sylvain glances across the platform, where their other crewmate Petra has just used what astronauts call the Last Toilet on Earth. She raises her hand: she’s ready to ascend. The ground crew shuffles around her, watching her steps, hovering as they move into a gangway that will take them to the shuttle.

Just waiting here has felt like days. Weeks, even.

“Hey,” Sylvain says, and Edelgard turns. Her mouth is the same annoyed stroke across the bottom of her face, but now it seems more frightened, less sure.

Of course she’s scared. They all are. They are going to space, for Christ’s sake. No training could ever compare to the real thing.

“What’s your favorite constellation?” he asks.

--

“What’s your favorite constellation?”

Felix, seven years old with wisps of inky hair already brushing his shoulders, shrugs. His mouth pulls down when Sylvain pushes the heavy book into his lap. “I read it already,” he mumbles, and shoves it back into Sylvain’s hands. “You don’t have to give it to me again.”

For a moment, Sylvain feels bad. He sometimes gets too excited and forgets that Felix is two years younger than him, and that Felix is small—basically the size of the C volume of the encyclopedia in his hands. He pulls the book back so that it’s behind them instead, safely kept behind the two boys sitting cross-legged on the Fraldarius’ front porch.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says, and pats Felix’s knee.

Felix doesn’t respond. He’s looking up instead, mouth slightly open, trying to count every single bright dot of stardust gazing back at him in the darkness. Even though they’ve done this almost every single night this year—sat on the porch with the “constellations” article in the encyclopedia, a cheap handheld telescope from the dollar store, and each other—Felix has never had any other reaction to the sky and all its oddities.

Looking at Felix like this, Sylvain has finally come to understand the real meaning of awe.

“Hey, how about,” Sylvain suggests, now giddy with the idea and the challenge of getting Felix to smile, “how about we say it at the same time? You say your favorite constellation and I’ll say mine. If they’re the same then you can use the telescope first.”

Felix turns, finally. “That’s silly,” he says. But he’s swung himself around to face Sylvain.

“You’re silly.” Sylvain adjusts so that he’s facing Felix. He reaches out, grabs Felix’s tiny hands in his, and swings them as he counts. “Okay, ready? On three.”

One.

Two—

“Say, Hubert,” Ferdinand starts.

“Yes, von Aegir?”

Ferdinand makes a face, knowing full well that Hubert currently only has a view of his back as Ferdinand walks with his sword out, cutting ropes of vines and branches that hang low from the trees and block their path. “I have been thinking.”

“What an unexpected surprise.”

“Yes, yes, it is truly a momentous occasion. I am being serious, Hubert. The days are long, and we are spending so much of our waking hours together—”

“How astutely observed of you.”

“—and I have realized that while I have told you much of my life story, I know almost nothing of you.”

There is silence for a moment, broken only by the slashing sounds of his sword against nature and their footfalls over the rocks and roots.

“You don’t want to know about me,” says Hubert.

Ferdinand frowns. “Pretty sure that I can decide that for myself.”

“The less you’ll know, the better you’ll feel.”

“I beg to differ,” Ferdinand retorts. “After all, I already know about what you did to your father—”

A twig snaps abruptly behind him and Hubert’s footsteps stop, and it is only then that Ferdinand realizes what he’s just let slip. He whirls around to find Hubert’s shocked expression staring back at him, and once he does, it morphs into anger instead.

“What,” Hubert says, low and dangerous, “the fuck do you know.” It’s not a question; it’s a demand. Miasma sparks at his fingertips, and Ferdinand doesn’t think it’s intentional.

He digs his sword into the dirt so he can raise both palms in surrender. “Not much, I swear,” he insists. When Hubert glowers at him, Ferdinand scrambles to select words that won’t incriminate anyone. “I heard a rumor back at Tantervale. Only the one. That your magic manifested out of control, and—” He breaks off and looks away, cheeks heated under the weight of Hubert’s glare.

Hubert barks out a laugh, and Ferdinand flinches. “Oh, is that it?” Ferdinand stares, and finds the tension gone from Hubert’s posture as he throws back his head. “What a nonsensical farce. I wonder who came up with that particular fabrication.”

“And this is our Captain, Claude.” The First Mate of the Verdant Wind gestured to a man that stood just shorter than him. He was different from any man he’d met in Faerghus prior: his skin was kissed by years of sun, his ears sparkled with golden jewelry, much of his loosely-fitting clothing the same shade. Everything about him glowed. It made Dimitri feel dull somehow. He stretched his hand out to shake the Captain’s.

“Claude von Riegan,” he said.

“Prince Dimitri. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” With a light tug Claude pulled Dimitri’s hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles.

“It isn’t customary in Faerghus for male nobility to be greeted with such frivolous formalities.” Dimitri lowered his hand carefully after the kiss, blushing red with embarrassment.

“Well it’s customary on my ship.”

Dimitri swallowed his pride and took his situation into account. Faerghus was racing to find this treasure before another nation did. Claude von Riegan was one of the most notorious pirates in the world. The tales of his plunders were shared in hushed tones at tavern tables all across Fodlan, Almyra, Morfis, and even further, he could imagine. Von Riegan was known for a silver tongue that even the devil would be jealous of. He could talk himself out of any problem, or any bar bill, or so they said. His ship was glorious, orderly, and armed to the teeth. Dimitri needed this man’s skill, which the Kingdom of Faerghus was paying handsomely for, to get his hands of the Bounty of the Saint Macuil.

The legend of this treasure had been around as long as time itself. Adventurers dedicated their lifetimes to finding it, many who disappear, and all who’ve failed in the past.

Dimitri had been having dreams every night about the sea. Sparkling jewels found in a far away cove, on a faraway island, discoverable only by the world’s most confusing enchanted map. After a month without sleep, he gave the order to open up the vault. The map that countless seamen would die for was in there somewhere, amongst countless other documents and relics that had come into the possession of the Blaiddyd house over many generations. After days of searching, the map was located. Annette, the castle’s mage, quickly discerned leads on the treasure’s location. Then, they just had to find Claude. That part wasn’t hard. This voyage would be.

It’s not a pretty sight. Sylvain stares down at the figure washed up at the water’s edge. They’re laid on their stomach, long hair, blackened by wetness, clinging to a body filled with bruises and cuts. It doesn’t look good even without seeing their face. Blood seeps from a gash spread across their back and into the water around them.

This back leads down to a beautiful, shimmering turquoise tail. That can only mean one thing.

“Oh, Goddess.” Dimitri’s voice. Weak, quiet. Sylvain feels similarly, but his protective nature takes over long before any fear.

He slides to his knees by the figure. His hands carefully ease the body over onto their back instead. Closed eyes, a pale face, seemingly male. It’s impossible to tell if he’s breathing at a glance. His injuries appear even harsher on the front--a particularly deep gash is slashed across his side--and blood trickles down his hairline, past eyes surrounded with dark circles and deathly pale cheeks.

“It doesn’t look good,” says Ingrid, crouching down by Sylvain. “You don’t think--?”

Sylvain isn’t sure what she is going to ask. If the merman is dead, if he’s the Relic owner they are looking for. He shakes his head either way to try and urge her to stay back a moment. The rest of the Blue Lions watch on as Sylvain presses his ear to the merman’s chest. The lack of gills make it clear enough that this race of merfolk breathes and has a heartbeat similar to a human’s.

It’s there. As weak and quiet as it may be, there’s a heartbeat inside that chest. Sylvain exhales a relieved breath, although checks the merman’s mouth as well, knowing that merfolk can last longer without oxygen than a human. His breaths are weak, but most certainly there.

“He’s alive,” he announces at last, earning several sighs of relief. “But he’s in an extremely bad state.”

“I’ll try to at least do something,” says Annette, now on the floor with Sylvain. Her hands hover above the merman, preparing to heal him; as a glow casts beneath her hands, she adds, “Do you think this is him?”

“I would say so,” says Dimitri. “He … matches the description, at least.”

“No Aegis Shield in sight, either,” says Dedue. “It may be safe to assume that it had been stolen, leaving its owner here.”

Sylvain’s jaw clenches. It’s no different than anything else which has happened, but even so … Seeing it right in front of them is always a reminder of the harsh reality they face. He knows little about this merman other than the details of his family and relic. But even so, he doubts he ever did anything worthy of this.

None of them have.

All was silent save for the noises of their shoes; Ashe’s, light and careful, the gait of a thief, and Caspar’s, stumbling in a prideful, self-assured resignation. 'My instincts were right again,' he thought triumphantly, doing all he could to hold back a smirk. 'He’s gonna execute me. Once a criminal, always a criminal.'

In spite of what Caspar assumed was his imminent demise, he felt a strange sort of pleasure in knowing that the law he upheld so passionately had been right all along. It justified every sleepless night in the past five years he had spent dwelling on the thief who broke parole, and it justified every other person whose imprisonment Caspar had been responsible for. In an odd sort of way, it made him feel at peace, enough for him to be able to eye the silver pistol in Ashe’s hand the whole way without so much as a shred of despair in his heart.

Soon enough, the grey-haired man reached his destination--an alleyway, like every other alleyway, totally lacking in any defining features. Caspar frowned. Couldn’t Ashe have picked a better place to put a bullet through his brain? Regardless, he shook his head, not wanting to lose sight of his moral victory as Ashe moved to stand behind him.

The tension in the air was denser than steel, with a razor-thin edge to boot. Caspar squeezed his eyes shut, reminding himself again and again that he was in the right, and that Ashe’s killing him was ultimately a good thing.

For what seemed like forever, he believed that.

His misconception only cleared in the brief moment before the silver pistol’s trigger was pulled. Indeed, a curious thing happens to a man when he toes the line between life and death: his adherence to constructions of morality dies before any other part of him, be it mind, body or spirit, and the process by which it does so feels like it takes an eternity.

In that moment, that split second before the click of the trigger, Caspar understood. He saw himself kneeled on the ground from above, with Ashe’s gun only an inch from brushing against his cyan locks. He saw the pain behind the eyes of his executioner. He even saw far away, back to the barricades, where he knew the anguish of every man, woman and child manning them. Caspar saw these things, teetering on the precipice of his own demise, and he understood. Any sense of pride he felt at going out by the values he lived on faded against the total vastness of it all, leaving only the reality that he would soon cease to exist. For the first time in a long time, Caspar was terrified of his own morality, and terrified of himself.

Though perhaps that fear had been there all along, hidden beneath a delusion.

Every thought that flooded through Caspar’s mind screamed at him with impossible urgency, and from his perch above the alleyway, Caspar tried to scream with them. The one below, who seemed so warped and distorted he no longer looked recognizable, didn’t make a sound.

Felix gives her a considering look. “We haven't run into anyone else until now. Wasn't certain that there was anyone to find. But since you're here, then the others must be around too.”

“What makes you so certain?” Byleth asks. Sylvain is the one who responds.

"Because you're here,” he says with a warm smile. “In our past life, we all came back to the monastery because of our promise to you.” Felix nods in agreement. The thought makes Byleth feel warm because she has spent most of her life thinking she’s nothing special, and yet somehow all the people she’s met in the last few weeks look at her like she’s something.

“Speaking of, is he with you? I’ve been curious about what the boar is like in this world.” At her blank expression, a frown forms on Felix’s face. “He's not with you?”

“Who…?” As soon as the word leaves her mouth, Byleth feels a sudden burst of longing so intense that she gasps from the surprise of it. She casts her mind back, grasping for the hint of a memory but nothing comes. All she feels is… lonely in a way she can’t quantify and it’s made worse somehow because now she realises that she shouldn’t be. “I don't remember,” Byleth says finally. She doesn’t realise she is crying until the tears are falling from her eyes and splashing onto the table; she doesn’t know where they come from and can’t seem to stop them even so. Felix and Sylvain crowd closer to her, alarmed at her sudden emotion.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember it all right now,” Felix says immediately, his hand gripping her shoulder too tightly in an awkward attempt at comfort. “It’ll come. Even now we still remember something new every once in a while and we’ve known each other for years.” Sylvain puts his arm around her shoulders and tugs her into a half-hug.

“We'll find him. Together,” Sylvain promises. Byleth nods, lets their warmth and gentle assurances wash over the sudden ache in her chest, and hopes they are right.

-

The history books don’t tell her as much as she hopes. Oh, they tell her facts and figures, but it’s so impersonal that they don’t mean anything. His name was Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd; he was known as the Savior King; they ruled Fódlan until their deaths. It doesn’t tell her what they were to one another; it doesn’t tell her how she felt. And the movies are worse, filled to the brim with glorified action scenes and overblown love stories that make her cringe. None of it fits, perhaps because they focus so much on the spectacle that it detracts from the real moments she lived. Her memories aren’t full of dramatic speeches or glorious battles or gazing off into the distance.

Byleth remembers the rain.

“Lysithea,” Flayn spoke quietly, preparing to confirm a secret, “Are you romantically involved with J.J. Green?” It was clear that Flayn was creating an entire fantasy in her head about the possibilities of their secret relationship, and Lysithea shook her head wildly in denial.

“Are you absurd? There is absolutely no way that would be true,” Lysithea insisted, her face blushing bright red from the embarrassment of such an accusation.

Flayn felt as if Lysithea’s flush was a clear sign that she was onto something. “Oh, Lysithea, please!” Flayn moved to her knees and grasped Lysithea’s arms, playfully shaking her. “You have to tell me if you are, or I will shake it out of you!” She laughed as she did this, but Lysithea was stiff with discomfort and squeezing her eyes shut.

Feeling every wall break down in front of this girl she had only known for a short while, Lysithea spilled, rather loudly, “I am J.J. Green!”

The shaking stopped. Lysithea opened her eyes to see the look in Flayn’s face completely change. The excitement turned into pure adoration. Had Lysithea told anyone else the truth, they would have questioned the authenticity of her statement, but Flayn seemed to have believed it straight away.

“You should have told me earlier,” Flayn whined, a sparkle in her eye that seemed like it would never go out. “Is that why you never let me read your writing? I should have guessed it then!”

Lysithea felt defeated, but Flayn’s reaction lit a small fire in her heart. To know that her best friend had ended up being her biggest fan, and the first to know of her true identity. However, the author’s mind was swarmed with morbid thoughts. The worry was plain to see on her face, and Flayn hugged her tightly.

Flayn pleaded, “Do not fear, Lysithea. I will speak of this to no one!” Her tight hug lingered, and as Flayn pulled back, she rested her hands on Lysithea’s shoulders. “I swear it!” Flayn’s eyes were swollen with love and loyalty, and Lysithea felt so emotional looking into them, she thought she might start crying.

With all of the wildest thoughts running rampant in her head, Lysithea settled on the loudest one; the thought of what it would feel like to embrace Flayn in a kiss. She did not need to imagine it much longer, as Lysithea lifted her hands to cup Flayn’s cheeks. Quickly, she pressed their faces together with no explanation, just letting the motion of her lips translate everything that needed to be said.

Flayn was surprised, of course, but in the happiest way. Not only did she find out that her best friend was secretly her favorite author, but now they were acting as lovers. Flayn’s body would’ve flushed entirely if it were capable, but it was clear by the look in her eyes how much she enjoyed this.

Leonie mostly manages to keep up, noting down interesting interpretations and turns of phrase that had escaped her when reading; her concentration is blown when Sylvain slides a doodle of a dragon into her field of view. He’s not taking notes, she notices. Lazy, or cocky? Probably both. She drags her focus back to Lorenz, who is currently extolling the noble virtues of the Earl of Kent.

Sylvain slides the doodle her way again; the dragon is now breathing fire at a stick figure with Lorenz’s hair; another stick figure is riding the dragon. Leonie isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be Byleth or Sylvain. She shoves it back at Sylvain.

Byleth, wordlessly, makes her way over to Sylvain’s desk and takes the drawing away. Lorenz keeps talking, unfortunately. He has good things to say just often enough that Leonie feels like she has to listen to him, but said good things are buried in an avalanche of fancy words.

At the end of class, just before everyone gets up to leave, Byleth hands Sylvain his drawing back. Despite herself, Leonie peeks; the rider’s hair is now blue, but there are no other changes.

When the bell rings above the door for what must be at least the fiftieth time that day, Linhardt looks up again. This time, it is Marianne von Edmund, looking a little flustered, clutching the lapels of her coat, balancing a large bag against her hip. Her eyes scan the staff, and seems to deflate a little. Nevertheless, she places her order, and glances around the room.

Linhardt sees this as his chance. He gathers his courage, disappeared somewhere after she walked in. He waves, catching her attention. She waves back, a small smile appearing on her face. He gestures to the seat in front of him. She hesitates for a second, before nodding. She waits where she is for her coffee for a moment longer while he attempts to clear space for her.

“Nice to meet you,” he says when she settles down in front of him.

“You too. Linhardt, right? From Eagles Radio?”

“Indeed. I’m surprised you recognise me.”

“I follow you on Instagram,” she admits somewhat sheepishly, “so I do know what you look like. Oh, I’m Marianne, by the way.”

“I know. I do really listen to your show every day. That wasn’t a joke.”

“I’m glad! I Put a lot of effort into the show. It’s a lot of extra hours that don’t go noticed, often.”

“Oh, I understand completely. It may not sound like I put effort into my show, but I usually spend Thursday and Friday writing Saturday and Sunday’s shows, all day.”

“I have tuned in for one or two of your on-air naps,” Marianne says with a smile.

“I like to think of them as part of the creative process, you know?”

“Very much so,” she agrees, trying her best to stifle a laugh. “How did you get into broadcasting, anyway?”

“Took a few classes in community college about journalism, then a few on broadcasting. I have too many interests to commit to doing a proper degree in any of them. I’d just get bored,” Linhardt says with a yawn.

“Oh, sounds nice. And what about the Eagles Radio gig? I’ve heard… so much about them recently.”

“It’s only a few hours a week, so they weren’t looking for massive experience. I’ve been with them right from the start, actually, before I graduated high school. I went to the same school as their CEO, Edelgard von Hresvelg, but she was… two years above me. I think.”

“Wonderful,” Marianne says with a constrained smile.

“And you?”

“I have a degree in broadcast production from GMU.”

“Impressive.”

“I’ve been working at Alliance Sounds for two years now. Hopefully, a job comes up soon at Seiros FM that doesn’t require too much experience so I can get my foot in the door there. I’ve always wanted to work for them.”

“Hm, interesting. Not want to work for Eagles Radio? We’re becoming more popular, so I’ve heard.”

“Nothing wrong with your station. You just have to aim for the top. Not that I’m unhappy where I am, of course…”

Khalid looked up as he felt Shirin press against his side, seeing a tall gentleman with striking purple locks walking towards him, soul following close behind. They seemed an odd, though fitting pair, the man tall and lanky with a rather regrettable haircut, with his soul short and slim, though Khalid couldn’t help but be taken by the fact that the small deer seemingly had fangs extending from their mouth.

“Come to say hi?” Khalid grinned as he looked at the young man before extending his hand to him, trying not to be too put-off by the closed expression on his face. He was fine. The other man wasn’t about to stab him immediately, even if he couldn’t be bothered to even hide his displeasure. People in Fódlan apparently didn’t stab people at parties like this, as boring as that made them.

The man didn’t say anything immediately, though he took Khalid’s hand, shaking it with all the poise that would be expected of a young nobleman. “I wanted to introduce myself to you. Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, and my better half, Adrian Hellman Gloucester. Our father is Count Gloucester, who was positioned to take over leadership from your grandfather before you appeared. Remarkably convenient, that. I doubt you have what it takes to lead the Leicester Alliance.”

Khalid blinked as he looked at the man—Lorenz—before forcing a light chuckle from his lips. “Rather forward, aren’t you? I’m sorry I wasn’t of age earlier to make it less convenient,” he said as he dropped Lorenz’s hand. He wouldn’t have expected Lorenz to be nearly so open with his opinion of him, but at least he knew where Lorenz stood with him. “K—Claude von Riegan, though I’m sure you know that. And Sira, my better half.” He’d need to get better with his name. He nearly spilled everything, and he knew that he was better than that. At least Lorenz didn’t seem to realize that anything was amiss.

“I’m sure it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure you’ll be busy learning how the Alliance works. It’s a shame I won’t be seeing you at the Officer’s Academy later this year.”

“What?” Khalid couldn't entirely hide his surprise at Lorenz's comment. Lorenz was tripping him up the entire conversation. When had he given any indication that he wasn’t going to go there? As far as he knew, his grandfather was requiring him to go to the Academy or else he wouldn’t be allowed to stand as his heir. “Of course I’m going. What sort of nobility would I be if I didn’t go to a religious, military finishing school?” He smirked faintly, trying to make it clear he was joking, but the annoyed huff from Adrian made it quite clear what they thought of him.

Lorenz remained quiet a moment longer before he nodded. “Well. I’ll be pleased to see you there, then.”

The Blue Lions leader sat in the chair at his old desk. The cold of the metal barely reaching his skin threw his gloves. Pictures of his time at The Garreg Mach Academy for Heroes were strewn about the floor. The people who he thought were his friends. His teammates. His professors.

That’s right...his professors. Specifically Byleth. He thought he shared something with her, especially after the death of her father. Especially after learning Edelgard was on the same side as those who caused Jeralt’s death, as well as the previous leader of the Blue Lions Task Force. And then she disappeared after Edelgard’s first official rebellion on the Seiros Hero Organization.

No - not disappeared. The woman was dead. He saw her fall to her death trying to protect Rhea. And with no signs of her or reports of her body, he had to assume the worst. Dimitri slammed a fist on the table, a dent convexing out from his fist. It was getting much harder to control his strength. He placed his head in his hands, holding back tears from the memories that haunted him.

Dimitri looked up. The only picture that remained on the wall was one of his father. Dimitri could no longer see the kind eyes of an understanding leader. Only seeing the twisted form of a man who wanted his son to take revenge. To avenge his death with Edelgard’s head.

“I wanted to die.” Linhardt takes in a trembling breath. “I can’t - I can’t seem to remember...much, if at all. But I knew I wanted to die. And now you are talking about having saved me, and I am not certain if I am even alive and - I’ve only seen you in books, before. And from passing stories, and -” He sucks in a deep breath as a memory comes rushing back. I carry her heart within me, someone says.

“Yes?”

Linhardt knits his eyebrows together. “And someone used to carry your heart...within them. But I do not know who…” He trails off, looking up at Sothis suspiciously. “Are you real? Could this be a hallucination one dreams up of before they die, from lack of oxygen to the brain, perhaps? You might not even be here.”

Sothis scoffs out a laugh, standing up from her throne. “You sure are an interesting one.” She starts to rise up, floating in the air, her arms thrown out to the side.

As Linhardt watches with widened eyes, Sothis begins to chant. It sounds foreign to Linhardt’s ears, lilting and cold, sharp somehow. A shape begins to materialize in the air between them, a symbol Linhardt had studied intensely for years at his time in the Garreg Mach library. He had forgotten how his life ended, but he remembered what that life had been devoted to: Crests, symbols, the relics and goddesses and all things related to mythical power. One of the goddesses he had spent hours and hours perusing about was Sothis, the Progenitor God.

Also known, less commonly, as the Goddess of Time.

Linhardt could feel his stomach mix with dread and awe, his muscles constricting instinctively at the sight in front of him. He watches, barely breathing, as the shape takes form and starts to scribble out symbols and words looping in one giant circle.

“It is the Divine Pulse,” he remembered himself saying, although he doesn't remember who exactly he had told. “It means mastery over time, whether to bend it, or...stop it.”

Time, frozen. Stopped, like a halted hand on a clock.

Something begins to change in Linhardt the moment Sothis finishes her chanting. It’s indiscernible, at first, like a gathering of waves in slow ripples. But after Sothis’ lips purses shut and the spell subsides, Linhardt feels almost reborn. His vision wavers, the edges of his form gently warping in and out of form, his heart -

He couldn’t feel his heartbeat anymore.

Linhardt’s eyes widen, his head whipping up to face Sothis in terror. “What -”

Sothis is looking down at him, still floating. She holds her palms up, slowly, as if in disbelief herself. Her eyes look sad; a contemplative, ancient regret. “Sometimes…” she murmurs, but the room is cavernous and her soft voice carries over. “Sometimes I wonder if this power is a curse or a blessing.” Her gaze travels downwards to Linhardt, and her sadness shifts into something harder. “And you. A mortal, with such heavy burden on your shoulders now.”

In another world, Glenn didn’t find Felix that evening. Felix cried until everything hurt, until he was snotty and hungry, and then he clambered out of his hiding place, wiped off his face, and went to dinner. He glared at Glenn and Dimitri across the table, wishing he knew what to say.

The next day, Glenn and Dimitri went to Duscur, and only one of them returned alive.

But that is not the world that came to be. So when Glenn’s armour returned from Duscur, Felix took the shining black spur in his hand, squeezed it tight enough that the points pressed into his palm with a dull ache, and turned to his father with only a tiny shake in his voice.

“Father,” he said, “I’m going to be a knight.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Felix snarled, throwing his cards down. Ashe had laid down the royal flush, the perfect hand, which meant Felix had lost. Crossing his arms, he looked away, huffing.

“Looks like you’re going to the party!” Ashe smiled.

“And we have just the costume. Hilda is working on it so it’ll be ready in a bit.”

“You knew I was going to lose,” Felix hissed.

“I’ve never lost a game, don’t you remember?” Ashe chuckled.

Felix glared. He hadn’t remembered because it was so weird to him to think of Ashe as some unbeatable poker god, but he was. “What’re you going to make me wear?”

“You’ll see~” Hilda sang from her spot on the couch.

That night, after haphazardly getting everyone’s beds set, Felix climbed over the mess of his room and into bed, collapsing into the hard surface of a university supplied mattress. His phone buzzed and when he picked it up, the last person he expected to see was Sylvain. His heart began hammering in his chest and he spent a good ten minutes staring at the screen before finally unlocking it to access the message.

S: Hey Felix, it was really nice seeing you today. I’m glad you decided to come here. (This message was curated after an hour of lovingly being berated by both Constance and Dorothea)

Felix’s breath hitched, his nerves alight. With shaky fingers, he typed out a reply.

F: Yeah. It was nice seeing you too. What major are you?

S: Biochem, you?

F: Business

S: You still want to run the cat cafe?

Felix was mad at himself, feeling the tears drip down his cheeks. “Fuck!” He wiped at his eyes. Sylvain remembered Felix’s dream, the one he had had since they were kids.

F: Yeah. What about you?

And they talked. They talked all night. They didn’t talk about them that would be too easy, but they talked. For the first time in years they just talked about the dumbest, most random things and both had the most fun they’d had in years.

“Admit it. I want to hear you say you’re not him. You’ve been lying to everyone’s faces for over a year and I’m sick of it. I want to know who the beast wearing my friend’s face really is.” Felix spat out.

Dimitri lowered his head, his hair hanging down and covering his face. He was quiet for a moment, then his shoulders shook and for just a split second Felix thought he was crying, which he knew was a foolish thought, but then he heard the low, rumbling chuckle. Dimitri pressed a hand to his face, raised his head, and looked Felix in the eye once again.

A yellow eye shone between his fingers.

Felix couldn’t breathe.

She hummed along, smiling, until she noted a flash of something green in the doorway that definitely wasn't supposed to be there. A red color blossomed on her cheeks as she realized that it wasn't something, but rather someone. 

Claude von Riegan stood in her doorway, leaning against it comfortably. A small, simpering smile jumped to his face as their eyes met, replacing whatever expression he had before. Byleth opened her mouth to speak, throat muscles flexing as she went through several responses before she finally pointed past him and out into their living room. 

"Out." She croaked.

He rose an eyebrow but didn't move, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "You should keep dancing. It was cute."

"Out!" 

"Technically, I am ou-ow!" He rubbed at his head, where he'd just been struck by a pencil. "Are you allowed to throw those things that hard?" 

He only got a glare before she slammed the door in his face, thumping her head against the now shut door. 

Mercedes hummed, her aimless tune drifting up into the air as she patted the mound of dirt up around the base of her pea plant. Then, dusting off her dirt-crusted hands on her skirt, she got up to her feet and walked over to stand beneath the water faucet that jutted out from the brick wall about two and a half feet above the ground. Half of a ping-pong ball sat in a little divot in the ground just beneath the spigot itself, and Mercedes stepped around it before reaching for one of the two strings that she and Annette had tied on the handle a few springs ago.

At five and a half inches tall, Mercedes had no hope of physically turning the knob itself, but by stepping onto the button tied at the bottom of the string closest to her and using her entire weight, she could convince the knob to turn. It creaked as it turned with a counterclockwise motion, but it only moved far enough that water fell in a slow, inconsistent pitter-patter of droplets to the ground.

Well, they would have fallen to the ground and soaked into the hungry soil were it not for the ping-pong ball that sat beneath the faucet for the sole purpose of catching that unsteady stream.

Mercedes smiled fondly as her little bucket began to fill up. If Annette were there, she’d be singing a sweet little impromptu song with the droplets as her accompaniment, but she wasn’t. She’d made the long trip back to her mother’s home following the disappearance of her father. Yes, it meant that Mercedes was alone without her roommate, which could be lonely at times, but Ms. Dominic needed Annette’s company far more than Mercedes did.

Normally, Mercedes would at least have one or two tenants living in the house in which she lived to occupy her time. But only a week or two after Anette had moved back home, the lovely couple that had been staying there had decided to leave, and as a result, Mercedes had to provide her own music.

Not that she minded.

Stepping off of her button, Mercedes reached for the string that was tied on the other side of the knob. It was a setup identical to the string she’d just abandoned, but Mercedes’ weight prompted the knob to turn clockwise and halt the flow of water. Satisfied with her effort, Mercedes scooped up her makeshift bucket, brought it to her precious pea plant, and tipped it over so that the water poured onto the base of the stem.

A deep, earth-shaking rumble interrupted her song without preamble, replacing it with the recognizable sound of the driveway’s gravel crunching underneath rubber tires. With a startled gasp, Mercedes looked up from her gardening.

Why was a car approaching? Was someone moving in? Oh, if someone was moving in—then she needed to get inside!

“I’m Dimitri,” he introduces himself while sticking his hand out to shake. “Luka’s father.”

Claude’s hand is almost completely enveloped in his grasp as he introduces himself simply. “Claude. Ayesha’s my daughter.”

He’s released too soon as Dimitri nods, connecting the names together. “Ah, yes. I believe the two of them had something to do with a jungle gym incident?” He doesn’t sound sure, but it’s more information than Claude had heard.

“Yes,” Mr. von Vestra confirms. “Ms. Ayesha seems to have tossed Mr. Luka over the side of one.”

“Huh?” Claude says. Surely not his Ayesha. Not his perfect daughter who would never hurt a fly with the exception of some temperamental behavior pre nap time.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Ms. Mercie frowns. “It was more of a shove over the side.”

“Wait–” Claude tries to interrupt.

“It’d be a rather impressive show of strength otherwise,” Dimitri oddly enough focuses in on that particular detail instead of his child’s attempted murder.

“Hey, just wait a minute,” without trying Claude’s voice naturally takes on the same tonal quality as every pissed off mid forties woman preparing to argue with a bored K-mart employee. “That doesn’t sound right. Ayesha is a very well behaved– okay kinda, behaved girl, but a really sweet one. I doubt she would–” he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence and settles for miming shoving a first grader.

“I find it hard to believe that Mr. Luka would jump from that height willingly,” Mr. von Vestra says.

“That doesn’t seem like him,” Dimitri says thoughtfully as he thinks over the irrational theory that Claude is determined to latch onto. “He’s afraid of heights.”

Shit.

“I was supervising recess,” Ms. Mercie raises her hand. “I hadn’t seen their play before the actual–” she also mimes the murder of a small child. “But I did see the–” another imaginary child falls to their death.

Dimitri frowns. “Maybe the–” he tentatively pushes at the air, “–was an accident?”

“I agree,” Claude agrees.

“It seemed like a pretty purposeful–” Ms. Mercie gestures once again.

“Well that’s concerning,” Dimitri leans back in his normally sized chair and looks concerned (but also comfortable so fuck that guy.)

Mr. von Vestra clears his throat. “I am sure you’re aware that we have a very strict policy against violence.”

“Yes, of course,” Claude nods vigorously. It’s one of the reasons why they’d chosen this school in the first place. “I really can’t stress enough that Ayesha is not a violent kid.”

Ms. Mercie straightens in her chair. “That’s true. Ayesha has been a delight to have in class and I have never had an issue with this type of behavior from her.” There had always been an angelic air to his child’s first grade teacher, but as she praises Ayesha’s behavior it is amplified ten fold for Claude. A gorgeous and kind woman. With big beautiful eyes and a heart of gold. He would die for her in this moment. “However–”

The devil. She’s the devil.

Goddess, there were just too many things to deal with. She needed to clean, she needed to make some kind of plan for the layout of the yard and the inside of the house. If she was going to keep the property, it would have to be at least a livable place. If she was going to sell it, it needed to be a place worth buying.

How many people were in the market of buying island properties anyway, aside from old people getting scammed by timeshare companies? An even better question would be why her father bought this property in the first place. It wasn’t like she could ask the man.

“Miss Eisner.”

Byleth startled from her thoughts and turned to the sound of the voice. She had been picking at the same weed for the past several minutes, uncaring of her surroundings.

She almost had to do a double-take. Standing on the sidewalk across from her was Seteth, carrying a plate covered in tin foil. She found herself at a loss for words, wondering how he knew where she lived before she realized that there was only one main road and that he was bound to eventually find her.

“Good morning,” she finally said. Clearing her throat, she gently corrected him: “Please call me Byleth.”

Seteth nodded. “Byleth. Good morning.”

He stared at her as she sat back onto her haunches and dusted off her gloves. While he had eventually relaxed to her presence the night before, Seteth seemed strangely nervous, as if approaching a strange animal for the first time.

In the sunlight, she could finally get a better look of him. Seteth was definitely older than her, meaning that the age gap between him and Flayn must be pretty big. He had forest-green hair, a well-kempt beard, and a handsome, angular face.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked.

He blinked at her, as if he had been deep in thought. “Flayn wanted me to bring these over to you.” He gestured with the covered plate in his hands. “She made peach turnovers as a welcoming gift. She would’ve been the one to deliver them, but she tends to sleep during the daytime.”

It was a kind gesture, for someone who initially met her with such hostility. While she was sure that Flayn had probably put him up to it, Byleth was glad that her aloof nature didn’t frighten either of them off.

She was clearly taking way too long of a time to respond, if the color rising on Seteth’s face was any indication. “O—oh. Thank you,” Byleth sputtered.

Seteth glanced down at the fence in front of him and back to her.

“Ah, may I come in?”

Byleth stifled a wince at the sight of the mess that was her front yard.

As they were walking, Lysithea observed Annette from behind: she was way more jittery and nervous than she usually was; on top of that, her moves were more hesitant and she constantly dragged her feet. Unlike she usually did, she wasn’t fiddling with her fingers. Lysithea couldn’t see her face, but she guessed her expression was likely bleak.

“Hey,” Annette spoke up softly, voice higher than usual, “how did you know I was the nurse's aide?”

“Ms. Casagranda told me.”

She looked from behind her shoulder for a millisecond, eyes shimmering, and let out a chuckle. It sounded like heavens. “Right! That makes sense. So, we’re going to take a turn here!”

Lysithea had already memorised the way to the office, the hallways the both of them had gone through so many times together; Annette’s movements, however, differed quite vastly. It wasn’t the first time she had changed her demeanor based on the way Lysithea acted, but Lysithea hadn’t done anything different than the last couple of tries - it was confusing.

“Your name is… Lysithea, right? I hope you’ll like it here! If you need anything-”

“I have a question.” Lysithea interrupted. Even if it felt a bit rushed, she had to do it as soon as she could, before they fell in the hands of faith. “Do you treasure your current life?”

She had to try another approach, yet again.

“Um,” Annette muttered, caught off guard. “Of course! I love and always cherish the life I’m living, and of course my loved ones too! Isn’t that the same for everyone?”

Lysithea stopped dead in her tracks. It took Annette a second to realise it; when she did, she slowly turned around and gave Lysithea a questioning look.

“Hey-”

“If that’s the case, you wouldn’t want to change who you are, right?” Lysithea took a step forward. “Because if you attempt that… you will lose everything that is precious to you.”

They were alone in the hallway. Annette stared at her intensely as her expression faded into a more confused one. Lysithea wanted to get close and tell her everything, scream, cry; but she felt so empty, so cold. She already knew that there was no use trying as no matter what she would say, she wouldn’t be able to explain anything.

Maybe it would all go for naught again, but she had to try again. She didn’t have any other choice.

“What do you mean?”

She took in a breath. “You should stay as you are, Annette.”

Annette’s brows knit as she took a step forward as well. Her movements were more stable now. “Hey, Lysithea?”

It was a new beginning, everything was as they had always been. Yet with Annette, it felt so different. But...

“Have we met before?”

...why?

Mercedes didn’t mind being old.

It wasn’t terrible, and for once she felt comfortable in her own skin. She could move at her own pace without being called slow, her clothes finally suited her, and nobody made fun of her grandmotherly-like talents. It gave her a sense of peace, and made every day a bit easier on her. She could cook, clean, and sew as much as she wanted, and there was no pressure on her to finish by a specific time. Relaxing became a part of her daily routine, and she quickly found perks to being old.

Yes, being old was wonderful. She found herself enjoying it far more than she should have been, but she wasn’t going to complain. There was no reason when she was finally finding some sense of consistent happiness. When she was young, there was always so much pressure on her, especially as the eldest of many siblings. It was always said the eldest was doomed to fail, but for once she was thriving.

Of course, things weren’t always that way.

In reality, Mercedes was the young age of 28. She was the only daughter of her mother’s first marriage, but had two half-siblings and many step-siblings. While her step-siblings and half-sister lived with her step-father elsewhere, she, her mother, and her half-brother ran a bakery with the help of her best friend. It was busy, especially when her best friend missed days to study magic, but it made them enough money to live somewhat comfortably. With how popular their shop was, however, there was never a day of rest.

Mercedes’ sweets were well known around the city of Fhirdiad, and some believed eating one even brought good luck. She heard stories of women meeting the love of their lives, or men finding the perfect job after eating her sweets, but she chalked it up to fairytales. As a little joke to herself, however, she sometimes would whisper little make-believe enchantments to the sweets while she made them.

She’d whisper things such as “you’ll make a man very rich” or “somebody will find great happiness after eating you” to the sweets before giggling to herself and putting them up for sale. It brought her great joy to play such a fun little game, though her best friend found it to be a bit silly. Annette always told her magic spells required much more than willing things to happen, but she supported Mercedes’ little game nonetheless. Things were simple in Mercedes’ life, and she told herself she wouldn’t trade it for anything, even if she was doomed to fail. At least like this, she wouldn’t lose much.

She never expected that a curse would actually make her life better.

There is a recurring dream she’s had since the death of her father. She is on stage in full costume. She cannot see the audience watching her from the darkness, but every seat is full. She knows that much.

The music that plays, the routine she dances changes with every iteration, but some smaller details—the stage where she stands, the audience she cannot see, and the fact that it is always, always a pas de deux—are constant.

Tonight, it is the Act I pas de deux of The Nutcracker, but what is strange about this iteration of this dream is that it continues into Waltz of the Snowflakes. Suddenly she is no longer alone on stage with her still-faceless partner, but performing among a shadow corps de ballet. She catches only glimpses of their faces, their identities, but she knows them, recognizes them. Her mother, healthy and vibrant as she once was. Director Rhea, carefree and belonging as she once did. Her old classmates. Flayn. Edelgard. Students of the academy, past and present.

Around and above, flakes fall from the snow machines up above, but when the particles make contact with her bare skin, it is cold and sharp and biting in a way only real snow can be.

And she thinks, Yes. This is how it should be. She feels alive. Utterly so. This is why she decided to follow her mother’s footsteps. This is the sort of feeling that makes those hours of practice and pain worth it in the end.

As intoxicating as the scent of evergreen trees and the sound of soft singing in her ears may be, she nonetheless expects this dream to end the same way it always does—with her fall. However, when her partner once again takes her hand in his own, she turns her head around to face him as she leans back, she sees him, the one who is dancing the part of the Nutcracker to her Clara.

Blond hair, blue eyes, and hands that belong not to a danseur, but a pianist.

Ferdinand was not staring at his phone. It currently sat snuggly within the back pocket of his jeans while his hands were juggling cups of iced coffee and packets of pastries. It would, however, be a lie to say his thoughts were not consumed by his phone, that the normally invisible weight of it did not feel like a stone dragging him down, that his fingers did not twitch to refresh his email app over and over again.

Unfortunately, or perhaps in this case fortunately, the Imperial Espresso Bar and Bakery was flooded with more than its usual mix of university students. Whatever was going on downtown had drawn in the townies, hoping for iced lattes to save them from the late September heat. Ferdinand lost count of how many times he'd nearly knocked Bernadetta over in their mad scramble to fill orders for a line reaching all the way back to the entrance. There was no time to check over his phone. No time to let the nagging thoughts of 'did I get the part? What if I did not? What if I did?' consume him. Those thoughts already stole a night of sleep from him. He could not let them take the day as well.

Swinging around Bernadetta, he plopped a latte down on the counter and called out, "Carla! Aditya!" before swinging past her again to take charge of the register. When his eyes focused, he saw an all too familiar face standing there. Eerily pale skin, too thin brows, greasy hair and face locked in a perpetual sneer. Hubert. Ferdinand spared a glance over Hubert's shoulder, and yes, in the back corner of the shop, having somehow managed to commandeer a couch despite the crowd, sat the woman Hubert followed like a loyal hound, Edelgard, knees curled to her as she paged through a stack of leaflets laying on the counter.

"Two coffees, black and a cheese danish?" Ferdinand asked, voice level.

"You remembered. How impressive," Hubert replied, sounding anything but impressed.

"At the Imperial Espresso, we have the most impressive customer service," Ferdinand beamed, hoping his smile conveyed the less than charitable thoughts he was aiming at Hubert. But, he did need this job, so he penned in Hubert's name down on the cup, refrained from drawing a serpent next to it, and went to pour the coffee. But just as Ferdinand began to handle the steaming hot liquid, his phone began to vibrate.

He jerked. The coffee sloshed in the cup before splashing onto his hand. "Wha-!" Ferdinand gasped, and the hand that was pushing on the coffee dispenser pushed harder. Streams of coffee missed the cup, landing on Ferdinand's apron and shoes. He yelped again, stumbling further back and bumping into Bernadetta. The iced mocha she was carrying went flying. The coffee in Ferdinand's hand fell to the ground splashing him with even more scalding liquid.

“Hey, beautiful mercenary lady – do you want to dance?” Sylvain holds out his hand with a flourish.

“No.”

She should probably try to be more polite but Sylvain only laughs at her rejection and turns to the blonde woman instead. “Ouch. Well then, my dear Ingrid, how about you? Will you dance with your old friend Sylvain?”

She sighs but accepts his hand, shrugging lightly at Byleth as she lets Sylvain lead her to the dance floor.

Byleth thinks that will be the end of it, that the other man will leave too, but he stays, also watching his friends for a moment before he says, out of nowhere, “Dancing is stupid.”

Byleth, surprised, says nothing. She doesn’t really agree – dancing can be fun, but she doesn’t like this kind of stuffy, noble dancing, and she doesn’t really know the steps anyway.

Subtly, she takes in the dark haired man. Also clearly from Faerghus, he’s wearing a weapon. Two, in fact. And they’re both real, she’s sure. Nothing ceremonial about them. He’s not as tall or as broad as Sylvain, but is clearly strong and powerful underneath his fancy clothes.

He’s just as handsome as his friend, but in a different way. In a way that Byleth finds she rather likes, and with a flicker of embarrassment, she turns her eyes forward again, looking at anything but him.

“What’s your name?” he asks after a moment, still not looking at her. His voice still has that biting, demanding tone.

She crosses her arms. “Byleth Eisner.”

He starts slightly at that and turns to look at her more fully. “Are you related to Jeralt Eisner? The Blade Breaker?”

Byleth meets his intrigued gaze. “You know my father?”

He shakes his head. “No. My own father hired him and his troop a few times to help with the monsters in our territory.” He pauses. “In Fraldarius.”

Eyes widening slightly, Byleth turns back to look at the crowd again. Fraldarius.

She had not accompanied her father up north to Fraldarius, where he’d been hired by Duke Rodrigue. The Duke had fallen some time ago… two, three years ago? She’s not sure. His son is Duke now, she knows, right hand man to King Dimitri.This must be him.

And, oh, shit, she’s been ogling a Duke.

Felix’s heart soars when the audience showers his first jump with applause, a smile tugging at his lips. Gliding on the ice, picking up speed for his next element, he can almost taste it. Taste the gold. The victory.

He has come second after the short program, but the point difference is marginal. Claude is only one point ahead of him. He needs a seasons best, sure. But he has reached more before and he always peaks at the World Championships.

If not now, then when? This is not just about taking gold at Worlds. This is about setting himself up as the favorite for the Olympic Gold.

Gliding. Leaping. Spinning.

He has done it a thousand of times. Again, and again. Through grueling practice sessions and under intense pressure during competitions. When his muscles scream, he smiles, falls in character of his routine, enthralls the crowd with the composition of his movements.

The air feels electric, the anticipation of the audience awaiting his next jump. The outside three-turn comes easy to him, ingrained through countless repetitions. The next moment he is up in the air, his arms above him. When his blade hits the ice, the applause rises. Rises with the swing of his leg into a split as he rasps for air. Thrill pours through his veins, exhilaration driving him.

His breathing is heavy when he jumps into his spin. His hand reaches for his free foot, rising to his height, body the perfect form of a teardrop. He ignores the blade cutting into his palm with his grasp so tight. His grasp so tight on the top of the podium.

It will be sweet. To stand there.

But some things… are not meant to be.

mari i’m sorryyyy >__< seems that i’ve got fever

Hilda’s message, coupled with a picture of her frowning face next to a thermometer marked well above 37 degree, was what greeted Marianne Saturday morning.

Oh no!

Marianne typed as fast as she could, her worry making her make typos and erase back and forth.

Are you okay, Hilda? Do I need to come to your house?

A few seconds later, another picture popped up in her chat. It was a shot of Holst, Hilda’s brother that she spoke highly of from time to time, with a towel in one hand and medicine in the other; accompanying it was another text from Hilda:

dw lol holst’s already here! you stay there and focus on your photoshoot

Marianne let out a sigh of relief.

But you’re sick! Don’t tell me you’re forcing yourself to go!

i found someone who could help! he’ll be at your house soon ;)

Rather than relief, Hilda’s reply brought terror to Marianne. ‘He’? Did Hilda just send one of her guy friends right to her house without telling her at all?

She was not looking forward to the flurry of questions his father would surely have for her if he saw a guy standing in front of his house, asking for his daughter.

Before she could write up a proper reply to Hilda and tell her to call her friend off, the doorbell rang. Her heart dropped. Barely making time to change out of her pajamas, she hurried out of her room and down the stairs, almost losing her balance on her way to the front door.

To her horror, her father got to the guest first. Marianne slowed down, realizing the futility in rushing any more, and sat down patiently, waiting for her father to finish chatting up with whoever the guest was. He seemed to enjoy talking to the mystery guest, so much that he only noticed Marianne sitting and waiting anxiously for him to finish after long enough.

“Marianne, you have a guest!” He called out to her and gestured at her to come. “It’s the Gloucesters’ son.”

Straightening his coat, Dimitri weaved through the throngs of ballroom guests, which was quite difficult for a man of his size. Some nobles eagerly stepped from his path as if he were a leper among the healthy. Dimitri didn’t need to look at them to see their spiteful stares, their wary, sometimes fearful expressions. He’d memorized them one at a time over the years. No matter who wore them, those faces never changed.

“He’s a madman,” someone whispered. Dimitri continued on.

The closer he came to the girl with blue hair, the more he noticed her beauty, until Dimitri was struck still and froze to the spot. Her body language spoke of anxiety and the way she wrung her hands suggested an inner battle, which Dimitri was all too familiar with. The slope of her jaw complimented her cheekbones and her shoulders were decorated with dozens of little freckles. His heart began to race. What was an angel like her doing here, tucked away at the back of the ball like a wilted flower in a bouquet?

Dimitri swallowed. His throat was dry. Hesitantly, and only because he knew he was being watched, he came forward until he stood at the girl’s left side.

She blinked up at him. Her eyes, her eyes, so beautiful in the candlelight, grey-brown but warm and filled with hesitation. He wondered what his one good eye looked like. Would she see his uncertainty? His boyish lack of knowledge in the world of women?

“Hello,” he said stupidly. Dimitri expected her to walk away. The girl did not, and instead, she curtsied as any polite lady of the nobility would. “You, uh... you look lonely.”

“My friends are getting champagne,” she replied, her voice high and soft. “I don’t really belong here.”

“Neither do I,” said Dimitri. “I’ve always detested things like this. If it weren’t for my sister, I wouldn’t be here at all. I suppose that’s a downside to being family to someone so important.”

The girl cocked her head to the side, a curious dove. The realization dawned on her. She gasped, her hand over her mouth. “Oh! You’re Duke Blaiddyd. The queen’s brother.”

“There’s no need for titles,” he said.

She curtsied lower than before, ashamed of having done it wrong the first time. The edges of her butterfly-patterned gown spread along the marble floor. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. I should’ve been more polite.”

“Nonsense,” said Dimitri with a frown. “Please, forget the formalities. I much prefer being called Dimitri. I’m no one special.”

She straightened her back. Delicate fingers curled a strand of hair behind her ear, and she looked at him like he was a test, a problem that needed solving. Not in an ill-mannered way. It was a look of endearment. “Dimitri.”

It’s quiet.

Save for the faint song of crickets and the trees rustling in the chilly autumn wind, there isn’t a sound to be heard from the forest. The clouds don’t help; with the light of the moon obstructed, it’s even harder to spot their targets. Crouched down behind a shrub, Edelgard squints into the darkness, hoping to see something, anything, but the only movement comes from the occasional leaf drifting to the ground.

Crunch.

Edelgard whips her head around, and Claude, only a few feet behind her, holds a hand up. “Easy there, Princess,” he whispers. “It’s just me.”

“You had better be more careful,” Edelgard hisses. “And stop calling me that.”

“Nothing’s biting,” Claude replies. He steps on another dead leaf, which crackles underneath his boot. Edelgard thinks it’s the loudest thing she’s ever heard. “Maybe if we make a little noise, they’ll come to us.”

Edelgard ignores him, pushing a stray white hair out of her face and shoving it back into her ponytail. One hand rests on her rifle, always.

“Hey, maybe there aren’t any out tonight,” Claude says. “Maybe they’re all busy being—I don’t know—human?” He sounds almost hopeful.

“They’re not human,” Edelgard says. “Besides, it’s almost the full moon. They’ll be out.”

For a few moments, neither of them say anything; they just watch and wait.

Then: a howl.

“Told you,” Edelgard says. She aims her gun in the direction of the sound. It’s showtime.

Claude sighs. His knuckles are pale from how tightly he grips his weapon, a silver dagger with a running deer engraved on the blade. He’s never really liked this; he always was more of a pacifist. In his words, the main reason he decided to join her in her quest for revenge was because he didn’t want her to go it alone. Then again, it’s not like Edelgard particularly enjoys it either. She’s just gotten used to it. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for—

A lone gray wolf bursts out of the brush, its hackles raised. A werewolf—Edelgard can tell by its lack of a tail. (“A telltale sign, you might say,” Claude once quipped. Edelgard had smacked him.)

The wolf’s lip curls into a snarl, and a low growl rumbles in its throat. No doubt it can smell them.

It takes a few steps forward, out from behind the cover of a tree. Edelgard has a perfect shot at its skull; she should be able to kill it with one blow. Good—silver bullets aren’t cheap.

She aims. The wolf looks up.

She fires.

The werewolf falls to the ground with a whimper and a dull thud. Beside her, Claude breathes a sigh, a mixture of relief and bitter resignation. No, he’s never liked this. But they don’t have very much of a choice.

He dreams of starlight.

Since he was a small boy, casting bright and curious viridescent eyes, inherited from his maman, to the voluminous sky alight with sparkling aster he had always taken comfort in the stars. Eagerly seeking out the source of the stories his maman would tell him before bed, weaving tales of mighty heroes and explorers whose adventures were so infamous that they had etched themselves permanently into the night sky.

How he dreamed of travelling among them himself once he reached the proper age. Setting off in search of his own story, his own adventures, uncovering centuries old mysteries and discovering worlds unexplored by man, and who knew? Maybe, just maybe he could stamp his own mark upon the heavens.

And among those very heavens, the stars convene and cluster within his dreams into the form of the most feminine and divine manifestation, the adorated shape of Claude’s most precious and beloved guiding star.

With hair like the milky way, shimmering and floating around them, and eyes of dazzling stardust, she offers him a smile brighter than any constellation, reaching her hand out to him. Beckoning him to her, the celestial vision calls to him, her voice like a siren’s sweet song, as if he could ever resist such a sweet temptation.

“Khal?” A voice so familiar, so soft, calls to him from beyond the cosmos, as he floats adrift the aster, free and untethered.

“Hmm?” He hums, still half asleep as his consciousness begins to return to the living world.

His body feels heavy, warm, but comfortable among cotton sheets and fluffy pillows. An equally warm body pressed against his side so perfectly, he wonders what gods had taken pity on him in order to find a partner who, happily he might add, fit just so.

“It’s time to wake up, or we’ll be late to the morning briefing,” the sweet voice continues, nimble fingers tracing a gentle path from the stubble of his face to his collarbone.

“‘is fine…we can be a little late…” He groans, reaching for soft tresses.

“Love, we’re the ones running the meeting” Byleth laughs softly, as his fingers tangle in her hair. “We can’t be late to our own briefings, imagine if Hilda is there before us? We’d never hear the end of it from Lorenz. Well, you would never hear the end of it from Lorenz.”

He groans pitifully, shifting against his sheets. She’s right. If there is one thing he cannot abide it is the helmsman’s insufferable adherence to protocol, nor the idea of granting said man the opportunity to throw it back in his face. He could already hear his voice, shrill and patronizing, ‘Really, Claude? As the Captain of this vessel it is your duty to set an example for the rest of the crew – etc., etc.…’

“Fine, fine..! You win…” Grumbling, he forces himself to open his eyes. The lights of his personal cabin are mercifully still dim, “You always win…”

“As if that fact has ever bothered you before,” Byleth teases, slipping from his grasp and their shared bed.

Bernadetta spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning her condo. She finds channeling her nervous energy into mundane and mindless tasks like mopping the floors and decluttering the kitchen helps to alleviate her anxiety. Wiping the sweat from her brow, Bernadetta bemoans the sheer size of her condo, with its two levels and array of bedrooms and bathrooms to organize. Bernadetta takes a break for a drink of water when her eyes catch on the clock hanging on the wall. She nearly chokes and water dribbles out of her mouth and onto her top.

The bodyguard will be here at any moment.

Bernadetta makes a beeline for her bedroom, racing' up the stairs two at a time for a quick change of clothes. She wrangles the spit-soaked top off her and runs into her walk-in closet, frantically searching for something presentable. The front door bell goes off downstairs.

Just put something on, Bernie! Anything!

She tears a hoodie off its hanger and pulls it over her head just as the bell goes off again. She races back down the stairs, skidding to a halt in front of the fancy home intercom system installed next to her door. A high-resolution image of someone too tall and close to the camera fills the screen. Bernadetta's stomach begins to knot with dread.

"Hello?" she hears through the intercom.

"Um," Bernadetta hastily presses a button on the intercom that allows people on the outside to hear her, "one second please!" Despite living here for over a year, she has not had practice with using the intercom device to unlock the door. She can count on one hand the number of guests she's had inside since she moved in. When she finally gets the door to open, she begins with a rapid-fire apology. "S-sorry, I--" She immediately stumbles over the rest of her words as soon as she takes her new bodyguard in.

At first, her eyes land on his shoes. She finds, when meeting new people, it tends to be easier to start with their feet before looking directly into their face. While the shoes are nothing special, the thighs most definitely are. Thick and muscular, they easily stretch the pant seams, as if the person wearing them couldn't be bothered finding a pair that could be loose enough to leave anything to the imagination. The navy blue security jacket hangs a bit short on their tall and broad frame, unzipped. Beneath it, a basic black tee clings to a brawny chest and narrows along the hips. Bernadetta swallows a lump in her throat and finally meets their eyes. Piercing golden eyes meet her with a smile.

"Hi, I'm Raphael Kirsten, your new security detail."

FELIX

The water's ice-cold but that's exactly what my overheated body craves. I wade in, shirt billowing up around me on the water's surface. I fight a shiver, clenching my jaw as I sink in until the water's sitting just below my lower lip.

Swiveling around, I'm met with an inconvenient sight: Sylvain.

He's already out of his shirt. I wouldn't say heavy muscle is my type but he sits comfortably between bulk and leanness. The asshole has no business having a body like that. It's offensive. To make this whole sight worse, he steps out of his baggy shorts, too. The inconvenience of his broad shoulders and lean waist ramps up to all-out discomfort. Navy blue boxer briefs, hugging tight to every contour.

I sink deeper into the water to cool my cheeks. Turn roughly away to watch the others splashing like woodland nymphs. Annette's soaked crop top flies past me; I'm too distracted to catch it.

Sylvain isn't. He lunges past me and snaps the top out of the air.

"Don't get too spicy, Nette," he shouts (right in my fucking ear).

"I'm not!" she calls back, snapping her sports bra strap. "But maybe once this camp's over, we can consider a commemorative skinny dip."

"I will pretend I did not hear that!" Flayn exclaims from shore.

Sylvain swings Annette's top right into my face with a loud, sopping plunk.

"Whoops."

Whoops. Fucking whoops, he says. I hate him. I. Hate. Him.

I wipe the water out of my eyes and peel away the hair plastered to my cheeks. He isn't deterred by my glare. He just smirks, soft and malicious, like a cat that's just pushed a glass of water off a table.

"Do that again," I mutter. "See what happens."

He actually laughs. Adding insult to injury, he completely ignores me and turns his attentions onto Ingrid and Mercedes. Ingrid takes Annette's shirt from Sylvain. They chat.

Fuck him. I stalk off into the waters, low down, crocodilian. Let the whispered rush of water fill my senses. Drown out the laughter, the voices. Only one voice refuses to quiet. It grows louder in my head, the way all noises sound when you're just about to drift into sleep.

And then it's behind me.

"What'll happen, then?"

His face takes up my entire view over my shoulder.

"What?" I snap.

"You heard me." His voice is low enough that no one else can hear. It strikes me suddenly that I've drifted away from the main group. Not far, but far enough that Sylvain in my space feels terribly unsafe, coupled with the tone of his voice. "What'll happen if I do that again? You gonna kick my ass? You?" He laughs at that last bit.

"Go ahead. Laugh."

"Is that supposed to be threatening?" Raising an eyebrow, he glances back at the main group. Dimitri's swimming over. Both corners of Sylvain's mouth lift into a self-satisfied grin as he—wisely—backs away from me. But he isn't done: "You. Threatening me. Adorable."

“Well, I don’t really want to walk around with slushie all over me and my place is a bit too far to walk from here.” The guy flashes a sly little smile. “Unless this is your plan to murder me.”

Dimitri holds his hands up and frantically shakes his head.

“No, no. No murdering. My step-mom has a lot of stuff for getting out stains.”

That sly grin stays in place. “Like blood?”

“No!” he says, but he can’t help but allow laughter to creep into his words. “I’m Dimitri.”

“Ashe.”

The name somehow suits him perfectly with his silvery-gray messy head of hair. Dimitri smiles.

“Do you remember that day?” Her voice is that same monotonous, manufactured tone he’s endured for months now. “The day of the incident?”

‘The incident’, Dimitri thinks bitterly.

Once upon a time, it was called ‘the accident’—before his younger self had gone mad at the thought that what had happened to him was merely an everyday occurrence that could happen to anyone. The therapist of then, Hanneman, had decidedly changed his referral of the most devastating seventeen seconds of his life to ‘the incident’. As if that were any different. As if the horror of that moment could be smoothed over as a mild inconvenience so long as you use a different synonym.

He knows better now, though; ‘the accident’ is how he should refer to it, even though it’s probably closer to ‘disaster’ and side by side with ‘tragedy’ despite what everybody wants him to believe.

“Just bits and pieces,” he says honestly. “Sometimes thinking about it hurts.”

“But you are remembering,” his new therapist—Doctor Eisner, that’s her name—nods. She writes something down, the grating of her pen against the clipboard loud in the quiet of the room. “Are you alright with that?”

Dimitri lends the question some thought even though he already knows the answer. “Most days I think it would be better not to. I already know the end result, so what would it change?”

"Sylvain,” Glenn starts in a way that Felix recognizes as a sign that he’s about to get annihilated by his older brother, “I have to ask: how did you get away with writing about Felix like that without him murdering you?”

Felix places his fork down in a calm manner that only makes the dishes closest to him gently rattle. "What." To his left, Sylvain chokes on his water and hastily covers his mouth with his napkin, taking entirely too long to wipe up the dribble of water Felix saw roll down his chin.

Across the table, Ingrid bursts to life, careening around Rodrigue to look at Glenn. "I knew that character was inspired by Felix!" She says, narrowly avoiding slamming her elbow into his father’s roast.

"Right? It has to be, the paragraphs about the hair—"

"What paragraphs?" Felix hisses, his glare on Sylvain unwavering.

Sylvain, to his credit, is doing an incredible job at carefully observing every person and object in the room except for Felix. He’s seemingly enraptured by the ceiling’s molding when he starts, "Well, actually, the book's an amalgamation of lots of people's experiences, and that character isn't even real, it's just when Hector is hallucinating, so anything he resembles—"

"It's okay, kiddo, you don't have to lie, we're family!"

"Glenn, what."

“See!” Glenn says mid-laugh, waving his fork at Felix. A piece of asparagus flies off his fork and lands on the tablecloth. Rodrigue and Ingrid wince, and Felix would laugh if he wasn’t seething with fury. “That's the murderous intent, how did you escape that?"

"I actually thought that sequence was beautifully written, Sylvain.” Dimitri chimes in, surely thinking he’s helping. “And the prose afterwards where he comes down from the panic of realizing his latent feelings is truly—"

"Felix never read the book," Sylvain blurts, finally making eye contact with a wary grin. The table's attention immediately snapped to Felix with a simultaneous chorus:

Glenn, confused: "What?"

Dimitri, genuinely offended: "What?"

Rodrigue, exhausted: "What?"

Ingrid, oddly unreadable: "What?

Felix continues to glare at Sylvain who is surreptitiously sipping his water as if he hadn’t just thrown his fake-boyfriend under the bus.

"Felix Hugo, your boyfriend publishes his first book and it skyrockets to the top of the charts, and you've never made the time to read it?" Rodrigue asks, his forehead filled with extra lines. Everyone's silent, waiting for Felix to speak, and he desperately wonders why it's only now that people are finally content to stop talking.

Felix is surely going to die before the end of the holidays.

It had been a long day. In the morning, the board members quibbled senselessly for hours at the monthly meeting, and upon its adjournment, a laundry list of matters which all required his immediate attention ate away at his afternoon. He had not even a moment to breathe, never mind to eat. On top of that? The letter he received just as he was preparing to leave the office had been his undoing.

Felix needed a drink, to say the least.

The broad boulevards of Montmartre were bustling on a Saturday night, a colorful potpourri of sights and sounds and smells. But he paid them no attention. He kept his face tucked under the large feathered hat slanted over his head, walking briskly down the Boulevard Marguerite-de-Rochechouart.

A warm spring wind hurried him forward. Every year, there would always be a false spring that teased at the promise of life for a brief few days. Then, the heavy cold rains came and killed the spring. It felt sad and unnatural, as though a young person had died for a hopeless cause.

Along the tree-lined boulevard, Café Jeritza was impossible to miss. The entrance was flanked by twin demon statues whose crazed smiles revealed multiple rows of jagged teeth. From their mangled skeleture sprouted a winged archway that welcomed the daring and curious. Follow the stone steps down toward the café, and you would slip into the dark belly of an alternative universe.

Felix pushed at the heavy steel door with one gloved hand. As he stepped through the tall threshold, his eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light from the flickering red candles placed around the café.

He had just begun to make out the outlines of the patrons crowded into the dining room when he met the eyes of a man seated at the center table. He was among an exuberant group speaking as loudly with their flamboyant fashion as they were with their mixed tongue. Felix struggled to distinguish his every feature but could see that he was tall, with a shock of red hair and round, bright eyes.

The man had disengaged from the conversation at his table and was simply looking at Felix. His mouth was left slightly ajar, as if in recognition. But Felix could be certain of having never seen him before; he would’ve remembered otherwise.

He averted his gaze and fled toward the bar.

Rapid gusts of wind flew against the lovely golden locks that covered the once beloved Prince Blaiddyd, his blue eyes hastily shifting towards the opposite end of its course. Winter had begun to fade as flowers bloomed throughout the ancient Faerghan forests, deer and mares had soon retaken their place at their treasured home. Winters in Faerghus however, were known to be quite unforgiving, and long was their departure from the already frigid lands.

Prince Dimitri Blaiddyd had grown accustomed to such weathers from the moment he was brought upon the world. His father, the renowned and cherished King Lambert, had taught him to live within the forest, to hunt and care for animals on equal measures; his own gentle, blue eyes glinting with adoration and the need for survival. Such was the way of Faerghus, Dimitri had been taught--where lands could be dry for years, and lords could be wealthier than kings.

Young Mitya walked in silence beside his trusted companions, one hanging by each of his sides as the stealthy leader of their group wrote down every movement each of them would later take. The mission, although perhaps a little hasty in its arrangement, had been cleverly thought enough for each of the bandits to return to their den in safety, heavy pockets full of coins hanging from each hand. Such was the way with Yuri Leclerc, Dimitri had soon learned, impulsive in its measure, but furtive in its process--careful to take each outcome into account.

Mitya had become acquainted with the young man after having made his home in the frigidity of the forest, their gazes locking for some time after each of them sought to hunt a wild boar. Mitya, although carefully guarded as his beloved friend Dedue, was in as much necessity for survival as the clever Yuri, and upon few well thought weeks, found himself joining the small group of mercenaries, Deduce closely tailing behind.

The group, although perhaps rather disfunctional compared to those from the tales King Lambert would often read to him, had been welcoming and kind to the two strangers that had stepped inside the den. They were witty as they were clever, each in their own way. They would read old folk tales to each other, legends of knights and princesses, the Nabateans who had disappeared from the land; they would share their meals with Mitya, and cook beside Dedue, sharing every meal and piece of bread with their companions, gifting each other gentle smiles as they carried with their day.

Mitya had quickly grown accustomed to such living, to the company of friends. Young men and women who hardly knew his name or origin, and never gave their own away. It was as such with these bandits--this group of mercenaries who had once been at the mercy of injustices, but were never ones to tell the tale.

Even for Ashe, who tends to get a little carried away when he has the time, it's a lot of food - a stack of pancakes the size of Bernie's head, big plates of eggs and bacon, orange juice poured from the carton into one of Ignatz's fancy carafes and a full pot of coffee dark and rich in the French press. It's more food by half, at least, than he makes even when Dedue stays the night, except for the first time, when he was nervous, and - ah. Ashe cooks his feelings, so this much cooking must mean a lot of feelings. Did he - he wouldn't have been so sweet and eager this morning if he and Dedue broke up, right? Or if they had a fight, the kind of serious fight serious couples have? Dedue has never minded the, um, benefits part of this friendship, but maybe he's changed his mind, or decided they've crossed some threshold where it's suddenly a problem, and - Bernie looks at Ignatz, better at reading people and less prone to spinning out thinking up tragedies than she is for a clue, but he just shrugs. He doesn't look worried, but that doesn't always - people usually don't look worried when Bernie is and sometimes that just means Bernie figured something horrible out first.

"Sit, sit," Ashe says, as bright and cheerful as he always is in the morning; it doesn't look like he's faking it.

"He'll tell us when he's ready," Ignatz says, and pulls out Bernie's chair with a gentle smile. She bites her lip and sits, reaching for a biscuit more so she can pull it apart into layers than because she intends to eat before Ashe has finished laying out his feast. Ignatz rests his hand on her thigh, gentle like his smile, like he always is with her, like she's going to break. Which, well, she's drifting into the worst parts of her brain over a slightly bigger brunch than usual, so it's not like his care is entirely misplaced.

Dorothea borders on chameleonic when she’s chooses to be, a fact Hubert has come to appreciate. Her singing is fine, but it’s her acting he favors — though he can’t complain about her aptitude with a knife, either.

“Oh, Hubie”, she’d smiled, looking up from the tenement sink and the dress she’d never quite soak the blood out of. “Don’t tell me I’d fooled you, too? I thought you, of all people, would know better.”

Of course a songstress couldn’t slit a throat without panache.

“You’re glowering again,” Edelgard says, the tiniest ounce of amusement tinging her reproach.

“It’s my job to keep the hoipoloi from you,” he answers. “The right look is the most expedient tool.”

“Ferdinand would be wounded if he knew you called him that.”

“Mr. Von Aegir should know that I am wounded when he throws the curtains wide to ‘greet the day.’”

“You could just do what Dorothea does.”

“Though I admire her commitment, pillows are hardly my favored projectile.”

“I’ve never known you to favor physical combat at all.”

“It leaves too much evidence.”

Felix comes to the monastery a few days later, demands to see Byleth, and leaves a few minutes after his audience. He returns with a short, red-haired woman who stays close to his side, looking somewhat anxious and pale as she glances around. The Church members on the monastery grounds clear out of their way as Felix marches them back through, making room as much through curiosity of who the new woman is as fear of the expression on Felix’s face. Though he always seems to be perpetually scowling just as a matter of how his face is arranged, the look on his face today is thunderous, promising swift, wrathful retaliation to anyone who dares disrupt him.

Byleth receives the two of them into their conference room, and though the guards stationed outside the door strain their ears, they can’t hear anything. The room had been soundproofed too well, and the guards pull away, disappointed. Good gossip is always worth someone’s dessert in the dining hall. Their patience is rewarded when the door opens again and Felix exits, followed by the red-haired woman. He takes her hand and, in a voice softer than anything they’ve ever heard from him before, says, “Come on,” and leads her down the hall toward the wing of rooms Byleth keeps for their trusted retainers.

The two guards dine very well after their shift indeed.

Information flows more quickly once Felix is returned, and everyone within the monastery’s walls learns of Dimitri’s fall and the subsequent dissolution of the Lions. The whole place is hushed for a day following that news: never in living memory has one of the Fodlan houses been completely disbanded. The Church came the closest to drifting into nothingness, but they only languished in obscurity rather than being wiped out. It’s something that no one ever really thought could or would happen, especially not in their lifetime.

Literally overnight, the balance of power in the city shifts. It’s subtle and only those who know what they’re looking for will see it, but those in the know can tell: there’s chaos on the horizon. With a power vacuum in Lion territory, any small-time gangster with a complex will attempt to seize control of whatever bits they can grab onto.

START SERVER

Turning on logging…

dumpnsf-w

[20S9:0702-0JS2]

[GoodbyeSothis]: 01/ 31/ 4060 12:01 > SSF-SIRIUS.server.txt

DARK SPACE

The screech of red alarms across the long hallway made Byleth’s eyes bleed. Small lights going high and low as she rushed into the crew cabin while wearing nothing but her pajama shorts and a black t-shirt. With a grunt, she plops over the Captain’s chair and takes control of navigation.

“Took you long enough!” A woman screeched,her voice was high pitched. “Always oversleeping! I won’t coddle you in the middle of a crisis. Which I warned you about, mind you!”

“Sothis! What the hell is going on?” Byleth shouts to her private AI that colored most screens green.

“Less talking and more driving!” Sothis says as she inputs a command to start the lower engines, “As I had warned you a few hours ago, a star would explode and sharp debris would annihilate this ship and you along with it. Well guess what now, we have flying junk everywhere!” Sothis appears beside Byleth in a hologramm, holding her hips, ready to keep chiding.

“but you ignored me!” Her long hair sways with her grunt. “and you left the manual pilot on! I was a sitting duck.”

“I was drunk.” Byleth admits monotone, rubbing her irritated eyes with an arm.

“You’re still drunk, you’re always drunk!” Sothis pulled on her braids, “but that doesn’t matter right now! You must drive across the meteorite system and overload this ship with cosmo energy if you want to FTL and Hyper Jump!”

“FTL?” Byleth’s eyes gleam a little in recognition, mouth staying thin though still dry. Her hands clench the steering controls, maneuvering her spaceship in a 180 angle before thrusting ahead with roaring engines. The ship’s shields began sparkling with blue flashes.

“Seriously? Faster Than Light, Byleth!” Sothis dims most lights, saving all energy just for the reactors. “Oh, you’re such a sufferable boulder!”

“and you scream more than you explain. Why would I need to hyper jump for mere space garbage?” Byleth mumbles.

“No, I take it back!I would prefer a bolder! At least I could stick googly eyes on a rock to have some expression!”

Before Byleth could bite back at Sothis's bark, a large meteor stuck them across a short wing, spinning them out of control and crashing against harder objects lost in the space debris. With visual bars shutting down and the spacecraft caught in complete darkness, emergency dim lights came up; they did their task, but heated the lobby to Byleth’s dismay.

With diarrayed hair and a seat belt tightly adjusted on her waist by Sothis, Byleth inputs a forced scan to tabulate damages. “Fuck,” Every limb felt sore, ”Sothis. Hey, are you up?”

“YOU FOOL!” All screens became green before displaying the outside view.

“I’ll take that as yes.” Byleth confirmed with a weak grin.

Sylvain prays to a goddess that he isn't sure he believes in that Claude will answer his text. He could have made a real plan in advance instead of what he's doing now. Instead he's driving around in the snow.

There's a code that they agreed on when they met. And they'd only met once and there was a fair chance that Claude wouldn't even respond but Sylvain had to do something.

" Hey are you free 2night (;"

Felix scream reads in his ear out of nowhere. No longer satisfied by angry silence

"Are you texting a guy? Sylvain, what is wrong with you"

Normally, Sylvain would say something like, ' oh do you want a list?' Or considering it's Felix he'd already know.

Considering it's Felix he should probably tell him what his plan is before Felix crashes the car or stabs him or starts crying. None of those things would be fun to deal with. Though Sylvain was hoping to know what the plan was more himself. Like it'll reveal itself in the snow like some sort of Faerghus magic.

" Listen, Felix,"

Felix glares at him and sort of looks like he's listening. " What?"

He looks around, whether their car is wiretapped or not.

Actually, he turns up the radio and some weird pop song starts planning.

Sylvain whispers, " We're going to meet Claude Riegan?"

Felix blinks a couple times, goes from angry and irritated to irritated and confused. "Who?"

" Who?" Sylvain repeats, dumbfounded. " How do you not know who he is?"

" Unless he's going to help us save them then I don't care."

"He is." Sylvain hopes he is. "Don't you remember hearing about the Golden Deer?"

" I don't like deer."

" No, they aren't actual deer. Oh, goddess, Fe don't you pay attention to anything?"

" I don't know why you turned this obnoxious pop song on to whisper about deer."

Sylvain groans. He holds his head in his free hand. He decides to go for the shortest explanation. " The Golden Deer are like mercenaries. Claude is their leader.

And that's enough apparently to keep Felix from crashing the car.

" Why are you flirting with him?"

" Okay, when this is all over I'm teaching you how to flirt. Sending a smiley face is not flirting."

Felix looks wholly unconvinced and like he wants to stab him again.