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Chapter Text

Late Month of Wholeness

“That’s the deal, then. You can expect to see the payment by end of next week.”

“Likewise. You can expect the first shipment by end of the month.” 

Zahir smiled, out of habit. 

If he needed a reason, though, the transaction he just made was a good one: a haul of high-quality weapons and armor for his troops, at a reasonable price.

“Once again, thank you for your cooperation, Nasrin,” he said. “I must admit that I was worried at first, when the relations between our houses aren’t the best— but you’ve been nothing but lovely today. In both action and form.”

Most women grew at least a little bashful when he used that voice while wearing lighter clothing. 

Nasrin Gochihr shrugged, nonplussed as ever. Maybe she was trying to keep her distance because she was married and considered flirting with other men scandalous, especially if that other man was Shahid’s— her own husband’s— half-brother. 

“You pay for the goods and I supply them,” she said, taking out her small notebook. “That’s how business works.” 

Or maybe it was true that she truly held no interests aside from engineering and selling weapons. 

Gochihr was the largest cadet branch of Azhdar, and as well as the house Shahid’s mother— Nasrin’s father’s sister— hailed from. Most of its members were just as wary of Mardikh as the main branch, and would never do anything to help a prince whose mother was from their rival’s governing house. 

Nasrin, however, sold to anyone and everyone, so long as they paid. Foreigners, Mardikh, Bahmut, Samaran, Zimourv, even those nomads in Kargdan, even commoner merchants and mercenaries. Surely not everyone in her family approved, but it seemed that she didn’t need them to; being married to the prince they wanted on the throne and providing him with free weapons must’ve been enough to shut them up. 

And he would’ve very much enjoyed seducing Shahid and Azhdar’s arsenal away right under his nose, but he also knew an unobtainable target when he encountered one. Nasrin clearly didn’t marry her foolish cousin for love, but if she was busy scribbling away on her notebook while an eligible young bachelor sat across from her with his tunic halfway unbuttoned, then she wasn’t interested in an affair, either. 

Zahir closed his robe and cleared his throat. 

“By the way,” he said. “Is it true that you’ve been looking to buy Kargdan lead as of late?”

“Yes,” Nasrin replied, not looking up. 

“For what? They’re too soft to make blades or armor out of.”

“Personal projects. Nothing I’m planning to sell, so I’m afraid there aren’t any spots for you to reserve.”

Zahir chuckled. That was a joke, probably. 

“Oh, no, it’s not that. I was just thinking that it would be convenient for both of us if I could pay for my future purchases with Kargdan lead,” he said. “I’m on good terms with their governor, so I get priority purchase on exports.”

The people of Kargdan had rather— primitive lifestyles, but their land was full of precious minerals, so forging an alliance with them didn’t hurt. And the province’s governing family was more civilized than the other tribes, even if it was regrettable that their main cultural influence was Azhdar. 

If he couldn’t win Nasrin over personally, he’d entangle her financially. 

“There’s no need,” was her reply. “Shahid already took care of that.”

A blink.

“Big brother? How?”  

The Shahid he knew was the last person who’d make a deal with, quote, “those filthy tent-dwelling herders.” 

“I told him I’d give extra weapons to take to the western border if he could bring it up real nice to that one sister of yours, what was her name— Munira,” Nasrin said, yawning. “I guess she did the rest, convincing her mom’s side and all.”

Ah, that was the key: Fódlan. Shahid disliked other provinces in the realm, but he hated Fódlanis, in large part due to their youngest sibling. Fair game to use the less civilized against the uncivilized, was it. One would imagine that Khalid going missing last year and effectively being out of the succession conflict would let him rest easier, yet Shahid’s obsession towards the conquest of Fódlan had only increased since. 

Specifically, the conquest of Fódlan by himself, instead of a much more politically competent and popular prince aligned with Mardikh. 

Zahir found it cute, really, that his older brother just assumed he was also dying to conquer those western barbarians, and that scrambling to do it first would be of any help in winning the throne. Not that he considered it completely off the table, especially in the long run, but there was such thing as a proper order of affairs.

It would’ve been cuter if Munira wasn’t involved.

“Well, it’s good to hear that my dear brother can be more than a pain,” he said, fully aware he was smiling too hard. 

“He’s useful sometimes,” Nasrin agreed, still not looking up.

Zahir stood and smoothed his clothes. 

“Speaking of which, I heard from a messenger that Shahid’s men lost at the border and are on their way back,” he said, keeping his tone as neutral as possible. “I’m certain the problem wasn’t your weapons, though, so your sales should be safe even after the news spreads.” 

Hopefully he’d find the prices lower on his next purchase. 

6th of Garland Moon

Every month, the three house leaders of Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy gathered for a conference where they shared and discussed what they learned from their assignments. It was meant to prepare them for their future posts, encourage collaboration between the three nations, and generally be a meaningful time for everyone involved.

But judging by the conversation on the other side of the door. 

“Macedon phase, let’s go.”

“Please do not do anything that will force us to debate the rules for an hour again, Claude.”

“You should know that saying that will only encourage him, Dimitri.”

“What, it’s fine for you two to wreck your ways across Archanea with the overpowered bases on Sable Knights and the Wolfguard, but as soon as I start utilizing the unique advantages the Whitewings have as fliers, that’s “bending the rules” and “not fair?” Come on now.”

“You moved eight times on your last turn.”

“Galeforce is a feature, not an error. If you have a hard time defending against it, that might be, how we put it— a skill issue? Don’t you agree, Edelgard?”

“Perhaps Aurelis should declare war on Macedon after all.”

Judging by that, they got done discussing a long time ago and were now playing Infernal Insignia, an excessively convoluted war simulation strategy game popular with people who had too much time on their hands and spent it getting angry at each other over scenarios that played out on the board. 

Byleth didn’t understand. But if it kept these kids entertained, good for them. 

A knock on the door. 

“Hold on a moment, we’re wrapping up something important! Thanks!” Claude called, then began talking twice as fast as he usually did: “Okay I send Est’s squadron northeast to bandits on Altea, roll for Galeforce, got Galeforce, go further, roll for reconnaissance, got reconnaissance, spot Khadein’s academy city, send back the messenger I didn’t use last turn. Catria and Palla squadrons receive the message, they also go the same route to the bandits, roll for Galeforce times two got Galeforce times two, go further to the academy city but it doesn’t allow entrance so I take half of the Khadenian prisoners of war I traded with Grust and Aurelis,”

“So this is why you paid to take them off our hands.”

“I’m not done yet, I roll for Blackmail and it works they enter Khadein as spies then I send Minerva squadron over which I can do because the Blackmail from holding Maria hostage is still active,”

“Have you truly built your entire strategy around using Blackmail?” 

“I roll for Galeforce get Galeforce put Minerva squadron outside the city then I roll for Convince on the bishop because I meet the charisma check and Convince works, academy city now open so Minerva squadron barges right in and attacks the central building and then I send that thief I didn’t use the last time down to the underground chamber and then—”

Byleth opened the door and announced:

“The Knights retrieved information that the Western Church plans to assassinate the Archbishop on the first of next moon, during the Rite of Rebirth. All three classes are assigned to assist bolstering security this month.”

At the same time, Claude finished by saying: 

“I use the guaranteed Assassinate on the bishop to… take the Lightsphere…”

Silence. 

Claude coughed and set down a miniature piece on the board. 

“End turn.”

The house leaders divided up the tasks among themselves on the spot. The Lions were to accompany the Knights on a mission to suppress a rebellion in Gaspard, obviously planned in tandem with the Western Church’s assassination plot. The Eagles were to patrol the mountains around Garreg Mach to look for and eliminate suspicious hideouts. The Deer, having taken on a combat mission less than a week ago (even though most of the students didn’t fight), got the relatively less intense mission of ensuring security around and in the monastery. 

Shortly after reporting this, Dimitri and Edelgard ran back to their class with their respective professors, while Rhea and Seteth were whisked away by some officials to a meeting.

A knight approached with a piece of parchment. 

“What’s this?” Claude asked. 

“We’ve compiled a list of potential Western Church spies and collaborators,” said the knight. “Your assignment will include investigating and interrogating them.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be careful,” Claude shrugged, taking the parchment and holding it up.

As they read down the list, his expression stayed neutral— but his grip grew tighter. 

“What’s the criteria for putting people on here?” he asked. 

“People whose whereabouts were unclear for extended periods of time over the past few years,” the knight replied, “among a few others.”

Byleth took the document and continued reading.

The knight’s stated criteria was logical enough. Many people gathered at Garreg Mach, despite the surrounding mountain ranges, and the Church was surprisingly lenient about who was allowed in (possibly because they didn’t have enough manpower to be strict). Someone could have taken advantage of that. 

According to the list, that “someone” was most likely a commoner outside the clergy or knights.

That wasn’t unreasonable, going by sheer numbers. Most people at Garreg Mach weren’t a part of the clergy or knighthood (although many worked for the Church, one way or another) and there were more commoners than nobles. 

Kaya Kusch / F / former prostitute / whereabouts unclear prior to this year

Sebastian Beltia / M / butcher / former resident of Rowe; when approaching, be cautious of alcoholic rage

Maureen Fedor / F / dancer / travels frequently, possible association with brothels and criminal gangs

Matthew Schumacher / M / former sellsword / whereabouts unclear prior to 1179; may have been hired in Mach during rebellion of 1178

Suzanna Richell / F / beggar / past association with bandits; when approaching, be cautious of hysteric fits

Genril / M / merchant / Morfisian, non-believer

Yet reading the brief descriptions next to each name made her insides twist. 

Why?

“‘Ashe Ubert, male, student, resident of Gaspard and adoptive son of the lord,’” Claude read out loud. “‘Dedue Molinaro, male, student, Duscurian.’ Are you sure these two should be left to us? I’m not sure if Dimitri will appreciate the future leader of a different country interrogating his subjects. Especially his vassal.” 

“While you are a student at the Officer’s Academy, your focus should not be on political rivalries, but rather on helping your fellow monastery residents and ensuring their safety,” the knight said. “That is the purpose of the investigations. Your cooperation is appreciated.”

Claude slowly nodded, glancing back and forth. 

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Safety first. Very important.”

That seemed to satisfy the knight, now turning around with a light step. 

“Which is why I plan to request a total lockdown of the monastery while we investigate every single resident.” 

“What?”

Claude shrugged. 

“There are some pretty high-profile people on the list,” he said, stepping closer to the knight. “Faerghan crown prince’s vassal, princess of Brigid, a veteran member of the Knights and partner to Thunder Catherine, and the archbishop’s servant.” 

Dedue Molinaro, Petra Macneary, Shamir Nevrand, and Cyril. 

“If people in those crucial positions might be working with the Western Church, then we’re in pretty deep trouble right now— I’m sure the archbishop will understand that’s more than enough reason,” Claude continued, then leaned in and dropped his voice low. “And it’s quite likely that they have others covering for them, too. Like their classmates, and other members of the Knights of Seiros.”

The knight’s faced crumpled.

“This is no joking matter. Please do not make light of it, and investigate the suspected persons as requested— without taking any absurd measures.”

Claude exhaled and crossed his arms. 

“I am taking this seriously, I assure you,” he said, voice rising with irritation. “That’s why I’m concerned about people whose whereabouts should have been pretty damn clear being on the list. Or is Church and Knights of Seiros the kind of shoddy organization that lets potential spies hang around in their ranks for years without doing anything about it?”

“Read the list again,” said the knight, voice also growing louder. “The other criterias taken into account are written in plain sight.”

Byleth skimmed to the very bottom of the list. 

“Duscurian, Brigidan, Dagdan, Almyran, non-believer. That?”

“Yes.”

Shez / M / ward of the church / claims to have no memories, yet a capable fighter; likely to be lying about the amnesia; found in an abandoned fortress used as base by bandits; possible former bandit, may have other criminal associations

“So the Church and Knights are allowed to accuse hardworking students and their own comrades of being traitors, just because they happened to have been born outside of Fódlan—”

Byleth yanked the knight towards her by the forearm and shoved the list forward.

“Put me on this list,” she stated. 

Silence. 

Claude blinked. 

“Teach?”

“Put me on the list. Put Jeralt on the list. Put everyone in our company in the list.”

The knight tried to step away. Byleth squeezed.

“Our whereabouts are also unverifiable up until a few months ago. We could all be Western Church spies. You should interrogate us.” 

She lowered the parchment. The knight’s face grew pallid.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Claude slowly backing away. 

“My current employer is the archbishop,” she said, calmly. “Was she the one who ordered this investigation.”

“Y-yes,” the knight whispered, clearly not thinking this through.

“Was she the one who approved of this list.”

“Y-yes, she was.”

Byleth leaned in closer and made eye contact. 

“Then I would like to hear the orders from her.”

The knight hyperventilated. 

Between the shallow breaths, there were squeaks that sounded something like, “She’s busy with the meeting right now, come back later, please?”

Byleth let go of the knight’s wrist and turned around. Without a word, Claude pointed at himself, then at the staircase. 

She nodded.

“Go ahead.” 

He ran off. 

Byleth wandered over to one of the chairs, sat down, and looked at the knight. 

“Let’s wait,” she said. 

“So why does the Western Church want to attack the Central Church and the archbishop? Aren’t they both the Church of Seiros?”

Claude knew one could never be too careful, but the clueless expression on Shez’s face wasn’t something that could be easily faked. A glance at the rest of the class and he could practically hear them think, Oh, this is going to take a while. 

If he needed to determine whether Shez was a spy, though, then observing how he reacted to an overview of the situation was a good place to start. Of course Claude wasn’t giving that stupid list any credit, not at all, but—

But in the light of the current situation, it was hard to not wonder. 

He unrolled the map of Fódlan on the classroom desk.

“They are, but it’s been a few hundred years since the Western Church was established,” he began, pointing at the sliver of territory designated for the institution. “Their doctrines became different over time, but more importantly.”

He moved his finger up.

“The groups who support them, spiritually and financially, are different,” he said. “The Western Church is supported entirely by Mach, the western region of the Kingdom. The Central Church gets donations from everywhere, but within the Kingdom, the east— Faerghus— is where the crown and the strongest houses are located, and they owe their political legitimacy to the Central Church, so they go extra lengths to pay their respects.”

He tapped between Faerghus and Mach on the map with his index and middle fingers. 

“Coincidentally, Faerghus and Mach also happen to have a longtime feud. Coincidentally, Mach uses the Western Church’s doctrines to justify themselves, while Faerghus uses the Central Church’s. You see where this is going?”

Lysithea got the answer before anyone else.

“This is a spillover of the Kingdom’s factional conflict.”

“What’s stopping them from just fighting it out in the Kingdom?” Shez asked.

Lorenz, of all people, chimed in with helpful context: 

“They already have. Only two years ago, the western lords incited a large-scale rebellion. I was in Fhirdiad at the time, to be educated in magic at the School of Sorcery, but the unrest forced me to prioritize safety and return to Gloucester. Father believed they were on the verge of a civil war.”

“Sheesh, it was that bad? The news I heard in Goneril made it sound like it was only a skirmish,” Hilda said.

“Hope you at least got your tuition refunded,” Leonie joked.

“Please, it is not becoming of noble to request such petty things. I signed the rest as donations for the school under my name before taking my leave, so that they may remember that House Gloucester supports the noble pursuit of education, even in the direst of times.”

Lorenz looked proud of himself. Leonie rolled her eyes. 

“But it didn’t become a war, right,” Shez said, bringing them back onto the discussion. 

“Nope, it didn’t,” Claude said. “The rebellion was suppressed by the crown and eastern houses. Pretty brutally, so they wouldn’t try it again. Which clearly didn’t work on Gaspard.” 

“Do you think other western lords secretly support what’s going on?” Hilda asked. “With Gaspard and the Western Church, I mean.”

“They’re certainly not doing anything to stop it,” Lysithea said. 

“And the core issue they’re fighting over hasn’t been solved,” Claude added. 

“What is the core issue? Don’t tell me it’s more abstract nonsense over Crests that only nobles have time to care about.”

Lorenz looked offended at Leonie’s quip. Claude held back a laugh.

“That’s a part of it,” Lysithea began. “But there’s more than that. Look at the map.”

She pointed at the eastern half of the Kingdom. 

“As you can see, most of the houses that are direct descendants of the Ten Elites, with Crests and Relics, are in Faerghus. All the ore to make weapons are there, too, so they’re mostly in charge of military and defense. But the land isn’t very good for farming.”

She pointed at the western half. 

“That’s where Mach comes in. The only house with a Crest is Dominic, and they’re just a barony. Overall, the west isn’t as strong in terms of military— but they do grow a majority of the crops for the Kingdom.”

“So they need each other to eat and to stay safe,” Raphael, who’d been busy eating jerky for most of the discussion, spoke up. “Why would they fight?”

That, indeed, was the question.

“Well, they’re the Kingdom,” Hilda said, holding up a hand to her mouth in a pseudo-whisper. “They take Crests and Relics really, really seriously, plus they put way too much weight on combat and chivalry and knighthood and not much else. You know? And if one part of that meathead country has Relics and strong military while the other doesn’t…”

“The latter… gets ignored,” Ignatz correctly guessed. “They don’t get as much political influence.”

“Then can’t the western houses just intermarry with the east?” Leonie asked. “Marrying for Crests is pretty common among nobles, right?”

Marianne muttered something, but all Claude caught was, “have to be careful.” Lysithea ignored her and replied,

“I hear the eastern houses refuse intermarriage. At least, they refuse to send any Crested heirs over to the west.”

“Why?”

“Because when you get down to it, it’s physically easier and faster for Mach to get Crests than it is for Faerghus to grow crops,” Claude said. “If Mach intermarries, they might have an heir with a Crest in a generation or so, but there’s no guarantee that Faerghus can ever become self-sufficient in terms of food. In short, Mach gains more from the deal than Faerghus.”

“But if Mach keeps growing crops the same after they get Crests, shouldn’t there still be enough to feed people in Faerghus?” Shez asked. “They can just… keep doing what they did before. Helping with the food, I mean.”

The sentiment was so hopelessly innocent that Claude wasn’t sure where to start. 

“Just because they can help, doesn’t mean they will,” Lysithea said, before he could. “If Mach gains Crests and Relics and becomes self-sufficient, what they’ll do break away from the Kingdom, just like Leicester did, and leave Faerghus to starve as revenge.”

For a few seconds, Shez looked like a sad wet puppy, in the way only an amnesiac learning about cruelties of the world for the first time could. 

Then he asked: 

“The Alliance used to be a part of the Kingdom?”

Claude looked at his classmates again, who all looked back with the same expressions on their faces.

They really had a lot to explain. 

“And the Kingdom used to be a part of the Empire,” he began. “Fódlan’s history involves lots of regions breaking off, you see.”

“To be precise, the Empire once ruled over all of Fódlan, but Faerghus and Mach had complaints about their rule and split off, in the War of Eagle and Lion,” Lysithea continued. “Leicester stayed under the Empire for another half century, but they grew increasingly tyrannical in that period, forcing excessive taxes to make up for their losses during the war.”

“It’s called the Stone Prison Years in Goneril,” Hilda said. “They forced a bunch of mining operations in our mountains so they could stockpile magical weapons in hopes of taking back Faerghus, and people who refused to work in the mines were dragged off to prisons in Adrestia and never seen again. Awful, right?”

“Indeed. That was why our ancestors rebelled and took the chance to join the Kingdom, as they promised us the autonomy and freedom that Leicester always valued,” Lorenz said, then shook his head. “But eventually, the Faerghan crown grew tyrannical, too. Not only did they force excessive taxes and interfere in trade, they actively sought to stifle every profitable innovations and inventions that came from Leicester— out of fear that we would become wealthier and more powerful than the king.” 

Said stifling often involved the Faerghus tattling the new inventions to the Church, saying that they were blasphemous for one reason or another, but Lorenz left that out.

Claude nodded to continue. 

“So about three hundred years go, Malcolm von Riegan, Luis von Daphnel, Erik Dichter Goneril, Adelaide Marceline Gloucester, and Io von Ordelia rallied the region, promising a new form of government where power wouldn’t be concentrated on a crown, and every territory was free to rule themselves in the way they most saw fit in the Crescent Moon War. It took twenty years,” because the Central Church didn’t step in to mediate like they did in Eagle and Lion, as petty revenge for all the so-called blasphemous inventions, “but in the end, Leicester secured independence. And that’s how we’re here.”

Shez visibly reeled from the amount of new information. 

It reminded Claude of— himself, a year ago, doing a crash course on Fódlan history, so nobody would suspect his origins. 

(And to get a better idea on how to accomplish his goals, but avoiding suspicion was more urgent.)

(Did Shez even suspect he was being suspected?)

“So,” Claude began again, looking at Shez. “What do you think? About this whole churches and Kingdom affair.”

A blink, then Shez furrowed his brows. 

Was he thinking of the correct response? Or was he struggling to come up with a response at all?

“That it’s complicated,” Shez replied. “I don’t know what I did before I got here, but I guess it wasn’t politics.”

Then he thought some more. 

“But I know I don’t want you guys getting hurt in the attack.”

Dammit. 

If this was spy merely pretending to be a clueless amnesiac concerned about the first group of people he got close to, then maybe he deserved to get away with it. Maybe score a spot in a theater troupe, if he managed to quit the job alive. 

Lysithea raised a hand. Perfect timing, Claude thought, since he had nothing clever to respond to Shez with. 

“Lysithea?” 

“Aren’t we taking the enemy’s plans too much at face value?” 

Ah. Someone else had noticed. 

“Well, how else are we supposed to take it? The letter had like, sixteen-step instructions with three backup plans,” Leonie said. “They’re not kidding around.”

“Yeah, but they also made it too easy to discover,” Claude said. “Lonato had it on him until the very end. It wouldn’t have been difficult to hand it to a messenger and send them off.” 

Lorenz frowned.

“You are saying that the plot to assassinate Lady Rhea is a distraction, and that their true goal is something else?”

“It makes sense, logistically speaking. The security around the Goddess Tower will be further strengthened with the assassination threat, but that means it will be weakened elsewhere. Not good for killing your target in the former, great for doing something you usually can’t do in the latter.”

“Well, then, what are they after?” Hilda asked. 

That, Claude drew a blank on. It was a large monastery with a large populace; eliminating one target barely narrowed things down. 

“Maybe the vault,” was Leonie’s suggestion. “Must be lots of gold there.”

“Or the pantry,” Raphael said. “Lots of food there.”

Pause. 

“I also think it’s the pantry,” Shez said.

Another pause.

“M-maybe they want something related to the Goddess and the saints,” Ignatz spoke up, looking overly nervous. “Like statues and icons. Or, um, artifacts?”

Artifacts— the Church naturally had lots of those. Some were purely ceremonial or for display, like the assortment of everyday objects said to be used or blessed by the saints. Claude wasn’t sure what the point of revering thousand years old cups and handkerchiefs were, but apparently that was spiritually important. 

Did the Western Church think stealing some mundane doodads would be worth the risk they were taking? 

Maybe. Maybe their priorities were that skewed. This was the problem with fanatics— taking their insanity into account made him feel insane. 

Anyway. 

“Artifacts, you say… and saints…”

Saints were another subject that was hard to make objective sense of. Aside from Seiros and the Four Saints, there were at least a few hundred others from the War of Heroes, but the only remaining records on most of those “saints” were which battle they died in. Claude was willing to bet that the title was given out posthumously left and right during the war for propaganda, rather than based on any coherent standards. 

But some saints did have more extensively recorded contributions, such as developing powerful— not as much as Relics but still powerful— weapons, credited one of the crucial factors in Imperial victory, alongside its large population and plentiful resources. 

Powerful weapons that didn’t require Crests to use, many of which the Church kept in normally inaccessible places with heavy security. 

“I, I might be wrong, I know “artifacts” is too nebulous—”

“That’s it,” Claude said, palm slapping the surface of the table. 

His classmates looked at him, quizzical. 

He grinned and snapped his fingers.

“They’re going to loot the Sacred Weapons.”

14th of Garland Moon

The evening library was emptier than usual, with students from the other two classes gone. 

It had been a long week. Every morning, the Deer gathered at the training grounds for combat training. After lunch, they investigated locations around the monastery for potential targets. Before dinner, they gathered at the classroom to discuss what they found and come up with strategies. 

Most students went straight to bed after dinner, thoroughly exhausted from the activities. Some even dozed off in the middle of investigating. Byleth would be lying if she claimed she wasn’t tired as well— albeit less from sparring and investigating, more from herding eight kids and an amnesiac around. 

They weren’t a bad crowd. Each had potential, if not yet fully realized. When they focused, they focused. 

Problem was, they were awful at keeping it that way. 

The previous missions put them in foreign environments, forcing alertness and obedience to her instructions. Yet in the monastery, which they considered home turf, they broke into arguments over meaningless things: where to go next, who deserved to take the lead, who might be the most correct about the enemy’s plans. 

This wasn’t a competition. When Byleth told them it wasn’t, her students replied, yes, Professor, and went back to arguing minutes later. 

Clearly she was doing something wrong. 

Her first thought was to ask Jeralt for help, but he was gone for most of the day, accompanying the Eagles as they patrolled the mountains, and once he returned he was busy dealing with other knights and church officials. Her second thought was to ask Hanneman or Manuela, but Hanneman was also gone for most of the day with the Eagles, and Manuela already had her hands full trying to console that Ashe kid about his adopted father. 

Alois was busy. Those knights, Catherine and Shamir, didn’t seem to like her that much, and they were busy. Gilbert wasn’t interested in talking.  She could never catch Tomas awake. Jeritza was utterly uninterested in anything other than combat.

As for the archbishop— after that brief talk last week confirming the suspects list and investigation was something a few knights made up on their own whim, she did tell Byleth that she could come anytime she had concerns. But asking for clarification on an directions was one thing, admitting she was struggling with the job she was hired to do was another. She couldn’t say the second part to the person paying her. 

Finally, the archbishop’s secretary— was his name Seteth?— really, really didn’t like her. And he was busy. 

It was the voice in her head, thoroughly annoyed by the agonizing, that told her where she could find examples to learn from. 

History, the girl said. There is over a thousand years of written records by those who came before you— the problem you have now is nothing others have not faced before! 

Fair point. Byleth supposed she needed to learn more about history and politics anyway, if she wanted any level of credulity in this new job. 

“Is this everything?”

And if Shez wanted to study along, because he wanted to understand what everyone else was talking about, then, well. 

“Should be.”

He’d be good company, she thought, as Shez balanced the tall stack of books on his arms. 

She tried to not think about what she did after seeing his name on that list last week. 

Because that was— embarrassing? 

No. That couldn’t be it. She didn’t want to go back in time and stop herself from doing that, or anything along those lines. That knight was getting in the way of her job and she’d only done what she needed to do to get herself back on track. 

But yet again, that alone didn’t feel like enough of an explanation— 

Byleth blinked and cleared her thoughts. 

“Let’s go.”

Since when did she need explanations?

They walked around the bookshelf, to the designated desk. Two others were already there, which was a surprise. 

“Professor? Shez?”

“What brings you two here?”

Who they were wasn’t, being Lysithea and Claude. They sat across each other, with a pile of books in between— a look at the titles told that they were all books on Crestology. 

The two had several overlapping interests. If only they could make more use of that during the investigations and put aside the banter. 

“Studying,” Byleth replied. “Must be the same for you two.”

Claude chuckled and sighed. 

“Yeah, we actually planned to go through all of these,” he gestured at the book pile, “over the week, but as you can see, we’re a bit off-schedule. Lysithea’s forcing me to cram with her over the weekend.”

“I never asked you to join— I’m perfectly capable of studying by myself,” Lysithea retorted. “You, on the other hand, die if you don’t have someone to blabber to, so if you’re going to do it at me, the least you can do is stay caught up.”

Byleth dragged out two chairs next to Claude while Shez set the books on the desk. She sat down, grabbed Records on Fódlan’s Wars, and opened it to the first page. Shez took three books and opened all of them. 

When she got to the bottom of the introduction, she heard two page flips. 

“You’re reading all three of them,” Byleth said. 

“Yep,” Shez replied. 

He flipped the page on the third book. 

“At the same time.”

“Yep.”

Byleth shrugged. 

Across the table, Lysithea whispered a very small,

“What.”

Contrary to the claim that Claude thought out loud as he studied, neither him or Lysithea spoke much in the next hour— not even to ask if Shez’s way of reading worked, despite the occasional bewildered glances.

Eventually, Shez pointed at a page with one hand, raised the other, and said,

“I have a question,”

so Byleth figured he was managing. 

“About what?” Lysithea asked back.

“The Relics. It says here that one of the Elites turned into a monster using it even though he had a matching Crest, so, uh,” Shez paused, frowned. “Are those things really safe for you guys to use?”

Lysithea and Claude’s expressions already told that the answer was not a confident “yes.”

Claude cleared his throat. 

“You have to take the stuff about Elites with a grain of salt,” he said. “Most of the written records up north were destroyed, so it’s hard to tell truth from folktales and hearsay.”

“Like the part where they lived for hundreds of years?”

“That’s largely agreed upon to be true,” Lysithea replied. “The most conservative estimates, cross-checked with multiple sources and evidences, put them as having lived at least a hundred and fifty years. Most say two or three hundred.”

Shez scratched his head.

“You know, I’m starting to think that they wrote this history thing to mess with unsuspecting chumps like me.”

Claude snorted, but Lysithea didn’t look as amused. 

Byleth thought it was pretty funny.

“At any rate, the Elites’ circumstances were vastly different from our own. They used Relics much more often and much longer than any of us ever will, so they’re not the best examples to extrapolate from or compare to,” Lysithea summarized. “Relics do place more stress on the wielder than other enchanted or blessed weapons, but as long as they have a matching Crest, it should be— survivable.”

Shez’s brows furrowed further. 

“We’ll be fine,” Claude assured. “The only territory in the Alliance that regularly used Relics in the last generation was Goneril, but in our generation— well, you’ve seen Hilda, and Holst does fine without a Crest or a Relic. We might trot them out once in a while to show off, but that should be about it.”

Shez tilted his head once, twice. 

“If you say so,” he said, still looking concerned.

They all went back to their respective books. 

One page flicked, then another, then three at once. Byleth heard fingernails taping against the desk from Claude’s side. 

“Speaking of Relics, though, it’s odd that nobody made more, isn’t it,” he said. “Especially the Empire. If you read Imperial Crestology papers following the Leicester secession, they sure sound like they want Relics of their own to get even with the north. Hard to believe they haven’t tried.” 

Lysithea frowned. 

“Relics aren’t something people can simply make,” she said. “Even if they could, doing so would be disrespectful. And dangerous.” 

“Yeah, yeah, , blessings from the goddess and all that,” Claude said, not sounding reverent at all. “Still, you’d think they’d at least be busy looking for some of those lost Relics, like Dromi’s Fetters and Hrotti.”

Brief pause. 

“And the Sword of the Creator.”

He was the most interested in that one. 

“I thought the Church kept them? You said they keep the Sacred Weapons,” Shez said. 

“Well, we know for certain Church keeps the Sacred Weapons because they bring them out for ceremonies once every few years,” Claude said. “The real deal, too, and not replicas. But they’ve never brought out missing Relics.”

Another pause. 

“You’d think they’d at least show off the Creator Sword. A weapon bestowed by the goddess herself has to be religiously significant, right? Maybe it’s still out there somewhere.”

Byleth looked up. 

“Do you want to find it.”

Claude shrugged, poker-faced as ever. 

“I hope something it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands, in the very least,” he said. “Legends say it could split mountains, and I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration, but the gist is that you don’t want to mess with whoever wields that kind of power. Wouldn’t want that misused, right?”

He didn’t say it shouldn’t be used.

Byleth reached up to crack her neck with a hand, warding off the chill from her spine. 

She didn’t know much about this kid, she suddenly realized. He talked to everyone with a smile, yet he barely shared anything about his own background; just a little bit more than Shez, and Shez didn’t have his memories. He didn’t speak loudly of his political ambitions, like Lorenz or Ferdinand from the Eagles did— or more quietly, like the other two house leaders who occasionally gave inputs on current events when she passed them by.  

But he was interested in powerful weapons and how they worked. 

Whatever nobles with their Crests and Relics got up to wasn’t a commoner’s business, the people around her used to say. The aristocrats began conflicts, the lowlives fought in them, and if they were lucky, they got paid for it. At the end of the day, individual combatants were expendable to their employers. 

Right now, though, she wasn’t an expendable foot soldier. 

She was a professor— one both noble and commoner students listened to. 

So.

Was she teaching kids who’d one day command thousands to be cold and ruthless? Was she teaching kids who’d one day be commanded to accept being a casualty?

If the future leader of the Leicester Alliance, after learning how to fight and how to take lives from her, began conflicts and got thousands like herself and Jeralt and others in the band killed— would that be her fault?

She didn’t know. 

She needed to know. 

About her students, not only on how they fought, but on what they liked and disliked and were afraid of and dreamed about. On what they wished to learn and why and how. On how to be a— she supposed the term was— “good role model,” to these delicate beings who couldn’t look at fresh corpses for long and panicked when one of their classmates went into the front lines.

She wanted to know, even if nothing in her contract specified that she had to.

How odd, she thought, flipping back through a few pages she’d skimmed and taking a closer look at the words. 

“Yes, I hope not.”

How tricky, how odd. 

16th of Garland Moon

“Teach and Shez aren’t here yet?” Claude asked, walking into the classroom.  

Lysithea sat closest to the entrance, but she shot a dirty look and didn’t answer. 

Touché. He thought she’d be friendlier after he carried her sleeping self back to her dorm room two nights ago, after the particularly long study session with Teach and Shez, and— okay, she probably didn’t appreciate that he’d teased and scared her back to bed last night by saying there were ghosts in the library. 

Nonetheless, she looked better after a good night’s sleep, as he’d hoped. She looked awfully tired after last week, and would have worn herself out further over the month if left to her own devices— but the Deer couldn’t afford to have their strongest magical attacker out of commission in the upcoming (current?) assignment. 

“Shez must’ve sleepwalked again,” Leonie answered, from the back of the classroom. “Wonder where he turned up this time.”

Ah, the sleepwalking. 

He’d carefully brought it up to Teach, after she did something to that knight, and returned with a confirmation straight from the archbishop that they didn’t need to do any interrogations.  

(Claude figured the Church was still running their own investigations on potential spies behind the scenes, but whatever they were doing there was subtler than using a teacher and student as proxies to harass foreigners. Probably.)

Of course that knight was an asshole, he’s said, and of course Shez couldn’t be a spy. But clearly some people disliked him enough to throw those accusations around, and although Shez was more than capable of defending himself physically, out of everyone in the monastery, he was the most vulnerable socially. 

They needed to be prepared, in case more incidents like this occurred. And if it did, Shez’s totally innocuous sleepwalking would surely come under scrutiny at one point. And considering Teach already took it upon herself to find Shez in the mornings and was the person he followed the most, she should start closely observing that habit of his now, since it could come useful in proving his innocence later. 

Or his guilt, but Claude didn’t say that part out loud. 

“Say, are you guys sure that it’s really sleepwalking that he’s doing at nights?” 

Hilda’s statement nearly made Claude flinch. Both because of the content and because it wasn’t like Hilda to be here so early. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“Well, Professor and Shez say they always turn up together in the morning because she needs to drag him back from his sleepwalking destinations, buuuut…”

Hilda leaned towards Leonie, waggling her eyebrows. 

“Are we sure they weren’t doing something else together?”

Ah. 

That’s what she meant. 

“Now that you mention it, they do seem pretty close,” Leonie said. “Shez follows her around everywhere.”

“They eat together a lot,” Raphael said. “And train together! I’m glad they’re friends.”

“Oh, they’re going to be more than that pretty soon!” Hilda giggled. “If they’re not already. Who would’ve thought the first couple of the school year would be those two?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” Lysithea said, pretending to read a textbook. “Just because two people end up in proximity often doesn’t mean they’re romantically involved.”

Claude blinked. Was that a dig at him? 

“As a matter of fact, one party could be severely annoying the other in such a situation.”

That was a dig at him. 

“Professor doesn’t seem annoyed by Shez, though…” Ignatz pointed out. “Although, I’m… not sure if she ever is?”

“She’s difficult to read,” Claude agreed. 

Then he heard what he really should have expected, but was no less irritating for it:

“Perhaps that is only because you are negligent in your duties, Claude. As house leader, it is your role to coordinate and communicate with our professor before anyone else.”

Claude took a breath and turned his head towards Lorenz, grinning. 

“I’ll take that to mean you’ll be better at it and ask Teach what’s going on between her and Shez?”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea. Pretend you’re just ‘making sure nothing improper is going on,’” Hilda chimed in, “and see how they react!”

Lorenz frowned. 

“I am not certain those two would be aware of what constitutes to ‘improper,’” he said, which was a good point, frustratingly enough. “And being that they are commoners, it would be quite unfair to hold them to the same standards on the matters of courtship as nobles.” 

“Oh, I get it,” Leonie said, rolling her eyes. “The common rabble are basically animals, so it doesn’t matter who’s mating with who? It’s beneath a noble to care?”

“That is not—”

“C’mon, Lorenz, don’t act like you’re not curious.”

“Yeah, do it for us! For the Alliance!”

Leonie and Hilda continued to heckle Lorenz, more for fun than to seriously convince him. Claude saw no reason to stop them, so he didn’t. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Lysithea balled one hand into a fist.

“I wonder how Shez doesn’t get scared,” Ignatz said, softly, probably to himself. “Even though I still find Professor so intimidating to talk to one on one…”

That wasn’t an uncommon sentiment, not only among students but among the monastery’s populace in general. Claude overheard people whisper things like, what was Lady Rhea thinking, hiring a killer to teach, more than once. 

And to be completely honest, he would have pissed his pants if he was on the receiving end of what she did to that knight. 

Still, it was obvious that many simply disliked her for being an outsider who lived a different life from their own, intimidation aside. Nobody had the nerve to say it to Teach’s face, though, because of her father and the archbishop backing her. 

Not to mention— she was dangerous, if you ended up on the wrong side of her blade. That was why Claude wanted to make damn sure he— and Riegan and the Alliance— wouldn’t. 

“I think it’s ‘cause Shez is really strong,” Raphael suggested, voice booming loud as usual. “He goes toe to toe with Professor, doesn’t he?” 

“You guys saw him at the Locket,” Leonie said. “I guess he’s more fun for the professor to spar with than a bunch of whelps like us, and vice versa.”

“Honestly, I don’t get the whole romantic sparring stuff myself, but I guess it suits them,” Hilda said. “Like in the novels— ‘our blades tell us that we are meant to be!’”

Lysithea finally slammed her book down on the desk and twisted her body around.

“Have you considered that maybe Professor and Shez get along because neither of them sit around making childish speculations about other people based on trite novels?”

Hilda tsked and made jabbing motions with both index fingers. 

“So you admit that they make a good pair?”

“That is beside the point.”

“But it’s the entire point— the subject of the hour is our mysterious professor and her equally mysterious potential lover that she found in a fortress!”

“Consider finding better subjects.” 

At the far end of the desk, Marianne muttered something. 

“Hm? Did you want to say something, Marianne?” Hilda asked. 

A jolt. 

“N-no, um…”

“Please, do go ahead,” Lorenz said, ever the gentleman towards noble women he saw as potential political suitors.

Marianne fidgeted her fingers, looking down and back and forth. 

“I… just had a thought, that, um…”

Everyone leaned in. 

“That…?”

She looked up, eyebrows slightly furrowed and gaze timid. 

“That maybe Professor and Shez are, long lost siblings, tragically separated at birth,” she said, voice quiet as ever. “A-and… upon being reunited by chance years later, they felt an inexplicable draw to one another… and began falling into a, f-f-forbidden relationship, unaware that they’re family…”

Silence. 

Claude swore several question marks appeared in the air above.  

When Marianne began to shrink back, Hilda laughed and clapped her hands together with awkward enthusiasm.

“M-maybe that’s it!” she said. “That might explain why they’re both so good with swords.”

That was a reach. 

Ignatz tilted his head, like he realized something. 

“They’re both extremely fast and strong for their size and eat a lot and never get tired…”

That was. 

Less of a reach? 

“Both are rather— odd in habit and temperament,” Lorenz added, which really meant, both are complete freaks. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re all seriously considering this,” Lysithea said, deadpan. “They look nothing alike.”

“Professor doesn’t look much like Captain Jeralt, if we’re going there,” Leonie said. “And she never said she didn’t have siblings.”

True, Teach didn’t talk about her family or upbringing with them beyond what everyone already knew or could easily infer, which wasn’t much. She didn’t share much about herself in general, which didn’t help with the fearsome reputation. 

Then again— had any of them bothered to approach her and ask? 

Lysithea sighed a derogatory sigh. 

“Those are very weak bases for a hypothesis. If any if you intend to study reason and logic this year, you should be worried about failing.”

“Hey, we’re not taking an exam here, just having fun speculating,” Claude said. “It’s not every year that we get to see two outstandingly weird people like Teach and Shez interact—”

“Who’s outstandingly weird.”

Claude stumbled diagonally. He regained his balance as he spun around, facing the subjects of class gossip. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Shez said. “Took a while to get down from the stable roof and check in with different facilities for today’s stuff.”

So he sleepwalked onto the roof. 

“Facilities? For investigation?”

Teach stood next to the podium instead of behind it like for lectures. That was enough to get everyone’s attention. 

“Investigations are done. We’ve already looked everywhere the Western Church might. From here on, we will prepare for battle.”

Claude swallowed. There was something jarring about the word battle in the context of an event in that would take place in the monastery. 

Of course a clash between two armed forces was a battle, by definition, but it sounded like Teach intended for them to fight this time, instead of hiding behind her. 

Fight, and kill. 

“We’ll meet at the training grounds after lunch,” she continued. “But before that.”

She pointed. 

“Leonie, Lorenz, to the barn.”

Both of them blinked. 

“Huh? With him?”

“What for? Surely you do not mean—”

“Stable duties, yes. They’re low on hands without the knights,” Teach said, monotone as ever. “Marianne and Lysithea, to the library. You’ll file and organize reports.” 

Lysithea glared in Marianne’s direction. Marianne shrunk. 

“Raphael and Hilda, to the kitchen. You’ll manage the pantry.”

“Leave it to me!”

“I’ll cheer you on!”

Hilda’s smile fell when Teach added: 

“The staff has been told there will be two helpers. They expect even contributions.”

And with that, the only ones left were—

“Claude, Ignatz, to the armory. You’ll do weapon maintenance. Mostly bows.”

Claude glanced at Ignatz. Not the worst partner with for that particular task, he supposed. 

Teach looked around the classroom one last time. 

“We’ll spar two against two in the afternoon,” she said. “You’ll form a team with your chore partner. If you believe either part will be impossible to do with the current arrangement, tell me now.”

Low groans and sighs and nervous glances, but no outright protests. Some pairs didn’t get along the best or know each other well; didn’t mean the tasks would be impossible. 

That must have been the point. 

Teach nodded. 

“Head to your destinations,” she ordered.

The class shuffled up and headed towards the door. Claude waited at the entrance for Ignatz; Lysithea stood next to him and did the same for Marianne, despite looking disgruntled about it. 

Right as they were about to walk off, he heard Shez ask: 

“We’re going to the marketplace next, right?”

Claude turned his head real quick. 

“Have fun on your da—”

Lysithea jabbed his side with her elbow.

20th of Garland Moon

Chores in the morning, training in the afternoon, and Crestology study in the evening was one hell of a schedule to keep up for a week. 

Claude’s body ached almost as much as it did when he first learned how to ride a wyvern, which ached just short of getting poisoned or catching a bad case of grippe. At least his Crest helped with the recovery. 

Summer weather was in full swing, and most of the students had switched over to the thinner beige uniforms now. For training, Leonie and Raphael changed from that into even lighter loungewear— which scandalized Lorenz, as everything in the world tended to. 

“You’re here. Sit.”

Claude currently thought he should’ve followed suite with the loungewear, though, because the late afternoon sun was blistering hot in the gardens Teach invited him to, and he had a feeling that he couldn’t escape this in the middle. 

The patio table she sat behind had a large jug, two beer mugs, and a plate. When he stepped closer, he saw that the plate was full of pickles and meat jerky, cut into bite-sized pieces. 

“What’s this for?” he asked, pulling out the chair and sitting down. 

“Snacks,” Teach replied, reaching for the jug. “For tea.”

With that, she poured reddish brown liquid to the brim of his mug. Briefly, Claude’s eyes mistook it for beer, despite her word. Then steam rose from the cup, bringing the aroma of chamomile with it. 

Maybe this was how they did it in Fódlan, he thought. Maybe elaborate wares and tea ceremonies were only a convention in Almyra?

Until he remembered that no, it quite literally wasn’t. One of the first things Oswald drilled into him upon arriving in Fódlan was how to hold a conversation with other aristocrats over tea, and he’d used proper teaware for that. The snacks served were mostly expensive pastries— which Claude found weren’t to his taste, but they still seemed like better options than pickles and jerky. 

Teach stared. Claude lifted the cup and took a sip. 

Sweat beaded on his forehead from the steam. 

“How is it,” she asked.

“Tastes great,” he said, placing the cup down. “Tastes great. Thanks for, uh, inviting me today.” 

A nod, and then, silence. 

Teach spoke right as Claude was about to ask what this was for. 

“You did well in training this week,” she said, face expressionless and voice flat. “I appreciate your effort.”

It took few seconds to realize that was a compliment. 

“Just doing what I can,” he replied. “Your method of putting everyone in pairs is useful. Makes me consider things I normally wouldn’t.”

They had different partners for the chores and training every day of the week; it was a lot, but Claude tried to take note of who worked well together. 

“You’ll fight alongside others more than not. Taking them into account should soon feel normal.”

Right. 

Fighting off assassins and fighting battles were different. 

“You dodge well,” Teach continued, “and you already have exceptional accuracy with your arrows. I assume you already have extensive training in archery.” 

“Since I was a kid, yeah.”

“Do you have experience in close quarters combat.”

Knives, since they were small and easy to conceal. He had one in his jacket and another in his boots right now. 

“Some sword fighting,” he replied, which wasn’t false, if sparring with his mother once in a while counted. “I’m no good with lances, though.”

“Have you considered axes.”

Not particularly. His other siblings were (Shahid was) much better at axe fighting than he was, and training with them typically ended with him on the receiving end of a beatdown— ones that were a tad harsh for “just sparring.” 

“Nope. Should I?”

“It’s good for strength training. In a real battle, you need to be able to land a finishing blow.” 

Claude held back a wince. Of course battles involved killing, and not just for self defense— and he wasn’t naïve enough to believe he could stop every death in a conflict. 

Hearing it like this still unnerved him. 

“Disabling them from further combat still counts as “finishing,” right? Keeping the enemy alive but incapacitated can be useful.”

Teach tilted her head ever so slightly. 

“Such as,” she pressed. 

“Like if you want to interrogate them, for example,” he said. “Can’t get answers out of a corpse, you know?” 

A nod. Teach grabbed a piece of jerky and threw it into her mouth. 

Claude sipped hot tea, even though he felt sweat roll down his back. 

“I think we should try to take the people from Western Church alive,” he finally said. “Find out if they’re planning anything else. I’d rather not have this school year be filled with vigilante attacks.” 

“I hear the Church already intends to interrogate captives from the Gaspard rebellion.”

“Ah.”

About what he expected. 

“But I’m sure they’ll appreciate multiple sources.”

For blackmailing and other less-than-holy tactics, Claude assumed. Not that he was above dirty tactics himself, but he wasn’t a part of a religious institution that preached— whatever the Church preached to frame themselves as the moral standard for the continent. 

Yet again, he wondered why Garreg Mach wasn’t officially an autonomous territory with a proper government and military. They did it in Almyra, with Zimourv being a province whose ruling family all held positions at the Seven Immortals’ Temple; which came with its own bundle of headaches, but at least the Zimourvans didn’t send their troops into other provinces at whim like the Church did. 

“At any rate, let’s try to keep the casualties down,” he said. “Especially on our side.”

“Yes.”

Teach chugged tea like beer, then poured more from the jug. She grabbed a pickle and pushed the plate towards him. 

“Eat. You won’t get stronger without food.”

Claude dutifully grabbed a jerky piece and put it into his mouth. It was salty enough to pickle his tongue. 

The late afternoon sunshine scorched down on the gardens. He wiped sweat off his forehead before washing it down with large gulps of tea. 

Teach refilled his mug to the brim. 

Claude drank, wondering if he’d done something to upset her. 

“So— about what we discussed last week,” he began, after clearing his throat. “About. You know.”

“Shez.”

A quick glance around. 

“Yeah. Did you— you didn’t find anything, right? Anything that can be construed as suspicious by others, I mean.”

Teach shook her head. 

“No.”

That didn’t leave room for many questions. 

“How’d he sleepwalk onto the roof?” Claude asked anyway, because he was genuinely curious.

A shrug. 

“He’s a good climber.” 

And that was the end of that. 

A bird chirped in the background as Teach crunched on pickles. 

“I wonder if someone will come looking for him eventually,” he thought out loud, just to break the silence. “A guy who fights well enough to go toe to toe with the Ashen Demon has to have made a name for himself somewhere.”

Shez even knew how to read and write. If that was because he was a noble or a knight in service of one, they had to have people searching for him. 

Teach fidgeted her fingers against the napkin. 

“You think so,” she said.

“Yeah. Even if he didn’t, his family must be worried sick,” Claude said, taking some jerky. “What about you, Teach? Wasn’t your mother worried about you going off to become a mercenary?” 

“I never knew my mother.”

Shit. He should have figured. 

“So you— grew up on the battlefield with your father,” he managed to continue, like he hadn’t fumbled. “No wonder you’re so composed. I guess it’s only natural that you’re different from young nobles who grew up in the lap of luxury.”

And now that he thought of it, he should’ve known something similar might be the case for Shez, too. A young man who was a good fighter and had nearly died alone in an odd place— that was more likely a mercenary, not a knight.

Had Teach already guessed all that? 

“You’re unusual for a noble, yourself. I thought they weren’t ones to get rowdy at feasts.”

Ah, the post-battle feast at the Throat. That was a good time, some of the soldiers’ drunk comments about Almyrans aside. Putting laxatives in the viscounty heirs’ drinks was just a bonus. (As was clearing up the misunderstanding with Lysithea.)

“Hey, it’s only polite enjoy the celebrations with the rest of the crowd— nobody likes a downer at parties,” Claude joked. “But rest assured, I’m still the proper and well-behaved heir to the Alliance’s leading house when I need to be.” 

Teach snorted. The corner of her mouth slightly— but visibly— twitched. 

You’re on her good side, he thought. Quick, think of how to stay there. 

“It’s true I didn’t grow up posh and safe like most nobles, though,” he added. “I guess that’s why it’s nice to have you and Shez around. Oddballs like us should stick together, don’t you think?”

Maybe he didn’t have the right to say that in regards to Shez after suspecting him. But it was true Shez was an outsider, and Teach was so awfully protective of him as a result; it wasn’t lying to state a belief of his that happened to resonate with both of those factors. 

A pondering pause. 

“Yes,” she replied. “So feel free to ask me for help on problems. Whether it’s classwork or something else. I’m your teacher, so I will do all I can to help.” 

The sentences suddenly had intonation— not much, but it was there. Like she’d practiced. 

Had she set this tea party up just to tell him that? 

A small laugh escaped him. Pleasant cooling breeze washed over the gardens. 

“Thanks, Teach,” he said. “I’m glad bribing you with money gathered through a, questionable and wasteful form of recreation, paid off.” 

“Good investment,” she agreed. “I will use it to fund tea parties with you and your classmates for rest of the year. If you want expensive leaves, send additional bribes.”

Claude chuckled some more. She was going to use that bribe joke for all of her students, wasn’t she? Maybe it would scandalize the more straitlaced students. Like Lorenz. Or Lysithea. 

Then his eyes fell on the platter, the mugs, and the beer jug. 

“Speaking of,” he said. “Did the kitchen not have teacups available for today?”

Teach looked at him, then at the mug.

“They had cups,” she said. “We’re drinking from it.”

Claude blinked. 

“No, I mean, like— teacups.”

Teach put her fingers to her chin and tilted her head. 

“These are cups,” she said, “with tea inside.”

Claude rotated the sentence in his head several times. 

“Yeah,” he croaked out. “They are.”

Silence. Teach looked proud of herself. Good for her. 

“Are you, uh, going to have tea with others over the weekend?”

“If they accept, yes. Lorenz and Hilda are first on the list tomorrow.”

Claude smiled as he finished the chamomile tea, and thanked her for the time one last time as he stood up. Teach thanked him back and waved goodbye. 

He sprinted to the marketplace once he was out of her sight, determined to secure a tea set and prevent several shock-induced deaths.

1st of Blue Sea Moon

They gathered just before midnight.  

The underground chambers were cold even in summer. Byleth brought extra cloaks for the students, a large pouch full of jerky, and several bottles of water. There was no telling how long they’d have to wait until the Western Church agents showed up; best to make sure nobody collapsed from hunger. (They all had a late night meal at the dining hall, but just in case.)

The students clung onto their weapons, uncharacteristically quiet. Some knights accompanied them, all on the green side. 

If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t have to deal with many enemies, if at all. The Western Church would likely use mages specializing in long-distance warping from the mountains, but there was a limit to how far and how precisely they could place the persons and objects being warped. They wouldn’t be able to land the agents inside the Holy Mausoleum (they would’ve stolen the artifacts already if they could), so their best shot would be landing multiple small groups in various relatively inconspicuous spots around the monastery, then hoping enough would make it to the designated spot from there. 

The Lions subdued Western Church and their supporters at their home base. The Eagles patrolled the mountains and rooted out every suspicious hideout. The knights who weren’t protecting the archbishop at the Goddess Tower were stationed at the potential landing spots. 

This mission could be easier than last month’s. 

If everything went according to plan. 

Lysithea, huddled at the center of the crowd, shivered. Byleth wrapped an extra cloak around her. Shez offered her a small cookie, which they baked together as snacks to go with tea, after Lorenz lectured her about proper teatime confections, but high sugar content also made it appropriate as pre-battle snacks. 

Somewhat reluctantly, then as quickly as possible, Lysithea took the cookie and ate it. 

“Professor,” she began, after wiping the crumbs from the corner of her mouth.

“Yes.”

Soft words echoed. 

“Do you think the Western Church and Mach lords are doing this by themselves?”

Pause. 

Claude spoke next. 

“What do you mean?” 

“They’re too bold,” Lysithea said. “Why try this now, after swallowing the problem for centuries?”

“There has been an economic downturn and general unrest following the death of the king,” Lorenz said. “And the current regent is known to be… less than capable. Vile opportunists taking advantage of the situation is quite expected, unfortunately.”

“This is hardly the first time their monarch has died early, or the first time their regime has been headed by someone incompetent,” Lysithea pointed out. “If that was all it took, Mach would have broken off during the three-way succession conflict or the Crescent Moon War.”

In the end, one of the history books had written, the allied territories of Leicester have what Mach does not: the means to defend their resources and autonomy, and a vision for a future differentiated from its rivals. Without Relics, Mach could not hope to assert and defend its sovereignty from the Faerghan regime that did, and with their minds still bound to the values that venerated absolute obedience to a crown, any independence achieved would not have lasted long. 

The book was penned by a Leicesterian author shortly following the Crescent Moon War, with obvious biases. Nonetheless, no other texts Byleth read debated that it was the lack of military power and specifically Relics that kept Mach a part of the Kingdom. 

“Just— if they truly are planning to warp troops in, where did they find mages who can do that? Long-distance warping takes years to master, and anyone in the Kingdom skilled enough to pull it off has to be associated with the School of Sorcery at the capital. Surely they’re not letting valuable human assets associate with rebellious factions.” 

“Not if the regent is more interested in women and alcohol than the government,” Claude quipped, only half-joking. “What was his nickname again? Rufus the Blubbering Drabber? You know it’s bad when the gossip makes it to another country.”

“Ugh, yeah, I heard he has a bastard running around in Leicester after he…” Hilda crinkled her nose, then leaned towards the three other girls. “You ladies stay way from anyone who says they’ve got connections with him at balls.”

“Don’t think I’ll be attending balls, but I guess I’ll try to avoid taking jobs from that crowd.”

“Yeah, don’t hang around guys you wouldn’t let your little brother or sister hang around.”

Lysithea narrowed her eyes, like she knew that the subject matter was unpleasant but couldn’t figure out the specifics. They’d eventually have to talk about it in class, Byleth figured. 

The class continued to banter in hushed voices. Lysithea didn’t bother bringing up her point again, looking lost in thought. 

Shez offered her another cookie; Lysithea glared and snatched it to eat. Shez shrugged, looking perplexed but not offended. 

Suddenly, he froze, eyes wide.

“Can you feel that,” he whispered, hand on hilt.

Byleth drew her sword. Claude drew his bow and arrow, albeit with a questioning look; the rest of the class followed suite with their own weapons. 

The worse-than-death thing filled the air. 

“Who’s— ?!”

A masked cavalier stood at the center aisle. 

Another wave of that thick constricting liquid through her head, and more soldiers stood at the aisles. 

The cavalier must have summoned them. But how did he get in here—

“P-Professor?!”

No time to ponder.

“Claude, right. Leonie, left. Lysithea, Ignatz, with us.”

Claude, Marianne, and Hilda ran with Hilda at the front. Leonie, Raphael, and Lorenz ran with Raphael at the front. They all remembered the plan. Good. 

“Send one to get reinforcements. The rest, watch their backs,” Byleth ordered to the knights, and shot forward. 

The two masked mages slung spells— she dodged left, right, then swerved left towards one of them. 

Another dodge, and her blade plunged into the torso with a splatter of blood. The mage fell without a word. Byleth did not feel life’s glow fade. 

They were never alive, the girl whispered, in horror.  

How?

“P-P-Professor!!!” 

Two blasts of dark magic. Byleth jumped in front of Ignatz, arm held up. The first spell hit the shield, the second grazed her waist and twisted her intestines. 

A wave of white magic. Ignatz fired arrows, keeping the mage distracted just long enough for her to recover. 

As soon as she cut the second mage down, she ducked to avoid the swing of a scythe. 

“You.”

The masked cavalier was alive, and fast. 

Ugly squeals and terrified yells rang through the mausoleum. The scythe swung. Byleth stepped back, back, back, back. 

An opening. She needed an opening— 

“Over here, spiky-ass!”

—which came in the form of Shez throwing a knife at the cavalier. 

Byleth struck the horse. It whinnied and reared, allowing just enough time for her to move to the side. 

Shez rolled to avoid the scythe and jumped onto his feet. He attacked almost too fast, and recklessly— but that was exactly what caught the cavalier off guard. Byleth lunged from the other direction.

One, two, up, down, left, right, three, four. They couldn’t get strikes in on him, he couldn’t get strikes in on them. 

The horse reared again. They jumped away and apart, out of the scythe sweeping in a great arc.

Byleth readied herself for the next attack. A deep chuckle came in its stead. 

“I have no interest in weaklings,” the cavalier rasped. “But you two…”

“Get down!”

The air rippled. Thorns pierced through the cavalier.

Once the dark magic cleared, he was slumped forward. Lysithea ran up, readying another spell.

“Tch.”

In another sickening flash, the cavalier disappeared.

More masked mages, ahead and behind them. One ran towards the casket at the far end. 

“They’re trying to take Saint Seiros’ remains!” a knight cried. “Stop them! We’ll hold off the rest until reinforcements arrive!”

A quick survey of the other two aisles. Leonie held a kneeling Western Church soldier at lancepoint, Claude pressed one into the ground with his boots. 

“Take the Western Church troops alive,” Byleth called. “Knock them out if you have to. Kill the mages.”

She nodded at Shez.

“With me,” she said, then looked at Lysithea and Ignatz. “Hide behind the pillars while you attack.”

“Understood.”

“O-okay!”

Byleth sliced the arm off of the first mage she closed the distance on. Barely any reaction, just some staggering before preparing another spell. She punched the thing on its stomach, then bashed its head into the next one before slitting both throats. 

A glance ahead at the casket. The mage there fiddled with the lock, firing all kinds of spells. 

“Persistent, aren’t you!” Shez yelled, kicking one hooded figure away before being swarmed by three more.

None of the masked creatures fought with a semblance of self-preservation; it seemed their sole goal was to hinder them and earn time. 

Byleth grabbed and dragged one off Shez. Multiple others followed when she dashed to the side, towards the pillars. 

“Lysithea, Ignatz.”

Arrows and spells. It wasn’t quite enough to kill, but enough to weaken. One, two, three stabs in the neck, the fourth she threw on the ground and stomped the head in. 

Ahead, the mage struggled to lift the lid of the casket. Behind, more shouts as reinforcements arrived. 

Byleth broke into full sprint. The mage reached in and picked up— a sword?

A spell flew straight at her. The shield damn near melted when she blocked it. 

Another spell, from the back. It must have been one of the other creatures. Could they still move after fatal injuries because they weren’t alive?

This one was alive, however. She was within striking distance.

Blades clashed. 

Take the sword! the girl yelled. That sword, I— 

The mage mumbled and the air rippled with magic,

“No, you’re not!”

until Shez hurtled forward out of nowhere, ramming his head into the mage’s side. Byleth stumbled back, and both weapons went flying. 

Time slowed.

Her hand plucked the Creator Sword out of the air, and— 

[CHECKING CREST ID…]

[CHECKING ADMINISTRATIVE PERMISSIONS…]

[AUTHENTICATION COMPLETE]

[NOW LOADING…]

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.

.

[WELCOME BACK.]

Summer, many years ago

The lifelings cried out for them. 

Some went to the isles, others to the steppes, some to the riverbank surrounded by desert. She went to the canyon in the middle of the small land shaped like a great beast's head, form resembling what was called a mother. 

How odd the lifelings were, she thought, with their soft flesh and gangly limbs. No sharp claws or fangs, duller noses and ears, and in full sprint they could not hope to match the four-legged creatures. 

They were persistent enough to outlast other creatures and hunt them down, dexterous enough to pick and peel and crack through shells, clever enough to test and observe and use and adapt. 

They were helpless in the face of great disasters, of floods and storms following monsoons, of diseases that made children shiver in summer. 

The few remaining members of the tribe huddled around a juvenile in the dark cave, knowing he was on his last breath. 

She entered. One took a spear and blocked her way. When she asked to pass in their tongue, more stood, wary. 

How tricky, she thought. 

On one hand she lit a small fire, on the other she held a large, ripe fruit. The lifelings winced at the sudden light. 

It is for the child, she said. Let me in, and I will teach you how to find more. 

Cautiously, they parted way. They hovered around her when she knelt next to the child, laying on a pelt with pallid sunken face and a dull gaze. 

With fire floating around her, she took a sharpened stone and cut into the fruit's flesh. The boy could barely swallow drops of juice at first; the larger lifelings waited with baited breath between the small morsels. 

Then the child began to eat faster and faster. He took a bite right out of the fruit when she held it took his mouth, then winced and sat up and grabbed it from from her hands, chewing and swallowing with fervor. 

He glanced at her after a content sigh, fidgeting with the seed. When she held out her hand, he took it and stood up. 

Follow me, she said, and the tribe did.

They walked to a raised patch of land, near a small stream. The soil was rich and dark; they dug, placed the seed at the center, and covered it up again. 

She pat ground, and stepped back. The lifelings stuck their neck out, confused and curious. 

A sprout burst out of the ground and grew into a great tree. Verdant leaves glowed under the moonlight, white petals blossomed and fell away, fruits ripened until the branches bowed. 

They watched in awe, and swallowed. 

Eat as much as you want, she said. It is a gift. 

As they ran forward to gather, she walked to a spot nearby and placed the fire in a pit. She sat down on a rounded boulder and whistled as she poked and kindled the flames with a stick. 

Something tugged on her dress. She glanced down. 

The boy stood on his tiptoes to hold out a fruit. When she took it, he tugged on her dress some more and pointed at the tree. 

I want to do that, he said. Teach me?

She examined the boy's face; the sunken cheeks from earlier were now plump and rosy, the dull gaze now bright and fiery.

He had fruit juice and dirt and snot smudged on his face, and a cowlick sticking up on one side of his head. 

She fluffed his hair. 

I will teach you, she said. But first, let's go have a drink at the stream. 

The boy squealed in delight as she picked him up and set him on her shoulders. Adults of the tribe now regarded her passing by with— reverence.

How tricky these lifelings were, she thought, setting the boy down. How odd they were.

She dipped her sleeve in water and gently wiped the boy's face. He laughed out, It tickles! 

She laughed, too. 

How tricky, how odd, how lovely. 

End card & bonus: 

(Very rough map of Almyra + simplified geography overview)

(Almyran royal heirs, where their mothers are from, and their age compared to Claude)