Chapter Text
The last time Claude danced, he accidentally stepped on his professor's shoes.
Truthfully, he shouldn't have been dancing at all. Marianne was the one receiving lessons; Marianne was their representative for the White Heron Cup. But when the entire Golden Deer house barged into practice to cheer for her, everything spiraled into chaos, and soon enough, the professor was giving everyone lessons, and they were all taking a turn about the courtyard, waltzing and singing like ridiculous fools.
When Claude's turn came, he stepped on the professor's shoes three times. He apologized five times.
It's not that I'm clumsy, Teach, he said with a blithe smile. I'm just not—
And he promptly stopped short, because not used to the dancing of Fódlan would've begged too many questions.
He'll never forget the way the professor dropped his hands, looked him dead in the eye, and said, her every word crisp and clear:
Not used to the dancing of Fódlan?
At the time, his mouth ran dry. He was so shaken that he couldn't work up a response—or even a vague smile. The only thought that pulsed in his mind was how does she know, how does she know, how does she know, over and over again until it drowned out his footsteps on the dewy grass.
He didn't ask her about it, and she never brought it up again.
Now, five years later, Claude von Riegan looks out into the splendor of the Leicester courtyard, where gold-rimmed lanterns are strung from tower to tower and banquet dishes are carefully laid over rows of ornate tables. It's been years since he could host a proper celebration; the war with the Empire nearly destroyed the Alliance from the inside-out, fracturing them into factions and dissolving them with infighting. But now, there's a reason to celebrate: the Alliance is patched back together, albeit at a heavy price.
This celebration is different from that distant day five years ago. There's no raucous laughter, no silly faces, no haphazard pranks. Everything is carefully refined to perfection, strategically planned so the Alliance nobles will forget their squabbles and unite under one banner. A ball for bonds, a masquerade for masters.
Claude's mouth lifts wryly. Nowadays, even his parties have schemes.
He lets his gaze wander past Hilda, who manages to naturally sport a bold and brash flamingo mask, and Lorenz, who bears the feathery visage of a purple starling. Something catches his eye through the sea of nobles: a woman dancing on the far edge of the courtyard.
Unlike the other comely guests, who've donned masks resembling animals like birds and mammals, this woman has chosen a shocking mask of bone that settles over her nose and around her eyes. A sewn-in veil sheathes the lower half of her face, and a velvet hood covers her hair. She's completely obscured.
Claude frowns and lowers his drink to the nearest table.
Something about her strikes him as odd, and it's not just her clothes—though her clothes are unique indeed. Exquisitely dark in the color of the night sky, with gold rimming the hem in baroque patterns, her dress reflects the Goddess's own. She borders on Fódlan blasphemy.
Claude finds himself walking closer, brushing past nobles and stepping around tables.
She pivots on one foot, achingly graceful.
He's drawn in by her movements like he's caught in a current.
The woman notices his presence as he approaches. She slows, curbing her dance to a light sway of the hips, and curtsies.
"Good evening, my lord," she says mildly.
Claude bears a stag mask, but it's a formality more than anything; everyone knows his identity from the honey-gold cape bracing his shoulder.
"Good evening," he says. He smiles without meaning. "Care for a dance?"
"I would be honored."
Her voice has a soothing lull to it, but hearing it churns a tight ball of emotion in the pit of Claude's stomach. He almost frowns as he takes her hand.
They start in the standard fashion: a bow, a curtsy, an inoffensive and indifferent sweep around the feet. Claude swallows away his nerves; it's been too long since he's formally danced, and unlike the other nobles, he didn't have the luxury of being brought up in the culture.
"Are you enjoying the festivities?" he asks, turning her around.
"They're quite impressive." The woman steps out, then in. "I wasn't aware you danced."
An odd statement. A calculating one, maybe accusatory. With no balls in five years, there's hardly been reason to dance.
"Well, everyone can change," Claude says lightly—defensively. "I guess that I'm no different."
"Yes," says the woman, soft with a hint of texture, like honeyed almonds. "You've grown well."
Claude frowns lightly, filing the words in the back of his mind.
"Grown well into your role," the woman adds—almost hastily, except the lilt in her voice is undisturbed. "Rumors always abound around the surprise heir of the Leicester Alliance."
Claude steps to the swell of the music, turning the words in his mind.
What she said was quite true: when the war began, his legitimacy was a controversial issue among the nobles. Many wanted proof. More wanted bribes. All of them ignored the threat of the Imperial army knocking on their doorstep, choosing to focus on padding their own coffers or expanding their own territory.
There were many nights where Claude screamed in frustration to the stars, screamed for the aristocracy's blindness and their petty games, screamed because his professor was somewhere in the constellations and nowhere on the ground where she could guide him. He had to fumble through politicking without a north star, relying on nothing but distant dreams to show him the way.
"Rumors of me abound, you say?" Claude says smoothly, pivoting. "All good things, I hope."
The woman is in lockstep with him, perfectly matched. "I have to disappoint. Very few are good."
He laughs, mostly out of bewilderment. He's never met a noble so blunt.
"Ouch," he says lightly. "Then what's the word on the street? That I'm too devilishly handsome for my own good?"
The woman quiets. Her veil sways as he turns her gently. He waits for a word, but she says nothing.
Did he intimidate her?
"Your secret is safe with me," he says. He keeps his tone teasing, yet coaxing; he throws in a wink for good measure. "Can't blame a guy for being curious of his own reputation, can you?"
She swirls her skirts as the violins jump, then takes his hand again. When her fingers meet his, Claude realizes it: her hand feels achingly, unusually familiar, but he can't place it.
She breathes in, then speaks.
"They call you the Coin," she says softly. "A man with two faces who can change at the flick of a finger."
Claude's smile remains on his face, practiced and hardened. It masks the chill in his veins.
"I see," he says. "I wasn't aware."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Do I seem that knowledgable?"
"You seem that resourceful."
She steps close for one tantalizing moment, and he smells ocean spray; with a pang, he's reminded of Almyran ships, and it almost makes him choke up.
Claude locks his jaw. This woman is taking him apart, striking at every weak point he's tried to shield over the years: his legitimacy, his dreams, his origins. She's besetting him with a multi-pronged attack, whether she's aware of it or not.
Whether it's through guile or coincidence, her tactics end here.
"Apparently, I'm not as resourceful as you," he says blithely. "A mercenary who managed to filch Lady Kestrel's invitation and sneak her way into the ball? You have my respect."
That catches her off guard; he can pick out the minute stumble as she follows his pivot.
How do you know, is the unspoken question.
Claude's mouth broadens. "Your target selection was unfortunate. Lady Kestrel is quite a rabble-rouser, and her absence is sorely marked. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed if you picked someone more forgettable."
She sweeps around him, but her motions are tighter, more angular. She's losing her form.
Claude nods at her feet. "I know a lifelong warrior when I see one. The grace of a socialite and the grace of a swordmaster is painfully distinct. And if you had to steal an invitation, then you're not part of an upper guild or a noble house; you're a commoner. Since you're skilled enough to infiltrate the ball, but arrived without any accomplices to protect you, I can only assume that you're a consummate professional: a lifelong mercenary."
Around them, the music tapers to a close. She halts before him for a curtsy. He bows in return.
"Clever," she breathes.
Claude freezes. Clever. He's heard that word before, in that exact same tone of voice, somewhere else, somewhen else, when was it—
The woman steps in. Her mask of bone shimmers under the lanterns, and the veil wafts with her movement.
Claude blinks, and for one moment, he swears that he can see a sword at her hip. He's seen that step before—a swift step to close distance, as elegant and efficient as the wind.
"Thank you for the dance, Lord Riegan," she says, her voice lilting. "Now that I've been discovered, I'll be on my way. Perhaps refrain from calling the guards on me. I wouldn't want to disrupt the festivities."
He's so distracted that he misses the veiled threat. Familiar. She's so familiar, yet he can't place her. She's out of place. Why is she—
Then the woman turns.
Her step is just a touch too swift; the motion flutters a fragment of her veil, swaying over the cleft of her ear and a flash of—
—pale green hair.
Claude's gut bottoms out. Before she can slip into the crowd, he seizes her arm, unthinking. Something rattles deep in his brain, like a stone key finally locking into place.
The grace, the wit, the sync of their steps.
No.
You were dead.
You are dead.
"By—" He swallows the syllable. It takes immense effort. His pulse is rioting in his chest, swelling in his throat until it's nearly impossible to speak.
The woman stills, waiting. She is deathly impassive beneath her mask of bone.
Claude fights to recover his even, blasé tone, strangling away that bit of wild hope rising in him—because it couldn't be, it couldn't be.
"By the way," he says loosely, easing his grip on her wrist, "I never caught your name."
She tilts her head. The veil sways teasingly. "It's not proper to exchange names at a masquerade."
He throws in a test. "Are you one for propriety?"
"Shouldn't the leader of the Alliance be?"
Lightning-quick retorts, no hesitation. Strike one. His lips quirk upward.
When he was a student, they had this exact rapport—back and forth, snappy, playful with a hint of bite and a pinch of doubt. He liked to stir the pot and prod her, seeking a reaction. She never gave.
What're you up to, Teach? he would say, swaying into the library past midnight. And she'd reply: The same as you, apparently. When he'd try to get a rise out of her with, Careful with that cabinet, you can get in trouble for those forbidden books if someone reported you, she'd only respond: How do you know where the forbidden books are?
Every day was a test, a game. She tested his schemes and his likelihood of betrayal. He tested her suspicious background and her competency as a strategist. But right as he was about to take an honest plunge—to trust her entirely—she was snapped away by the yawning abyss.
The woman is watching him carefully from beneath her veil. He realizes he's been silent for a long time, too long. His faint smile must appear suspicious.
He releases her arm, letting his mouth widen into something warm, almost cajoling.
"Well, you've heard the rumors," he says jauntily. "You must know I don't always play by the rules. Propriety included."
"Yet here you stand, the leader of them all," the woman says. Her tone is strange to his ears: is that suspicion? "You must have sacrificed much."
"No more than anyone else," he says evasively.
He clasps his gloved hands together so they won't shake. Why does it sound like she's chiding him? Why does it seem like she knows the deals he's had to cut, the injustices to which he's had to blind himself, the hands he's had to shake in the shadows?
Why does it feel like she knows what he's done?
Strike two, he thinks haltingly. His professor of five years ago had always been able to see right through him.
The woman's head tilts slightly. Her veil shifts—not enough, not nearly enough. "You're an intriguing man, Lord Riegan, humoring a humble mercenary."
"Is that what you are?" He tries to sound blasé. Instead, his throat catches.
"My lot since birth."
Claude strikes. He steps in close, his arm winding around her waist and just barely brushing against the small of her back. He's surprised—but satisfied—to feel a small, latent shiver up her spine.
"What if we changed that?" he murmurs.
The woman is silent for a moment. The glare of her mask is harsh under the light—too harsh for him to see her eyes. Her fingers flutter at her hip, as if seeking the comfort of a blade.
She steps away, sliding out of his hold like water.
"You flatter me exceedingly with your attentions," she says blandly. "Surely the public would be disappointed to learn that your tastes are so... common."
He smiles. "Maybe I'm striving for a world without barriers like status."
"A kind sentiment, but naive."
His smile widens. "If I fail, I was naive. But if I succeed, I was a visionary."
She falters at that. He clocks how her shoulders stiffen and how her fingers flutter again, just for a moment.
Strike three.
Five years ago, his professor told him those exact words. He was discouraged, slumped against the ramparts of a watchtower late at night, haunted by the the carnage of Remire Village from that morning. So much needed to change, and there he was, too powerless to help a single village.
Naive, Teach, he said with a despairing laugh. I'm so damn naive. Why did I ever think I could change anything?
They didn't know each other well, not at all—but in that moment of vulnerability, she met him. She slid a hand on his shoulder and said, quiet and pragmatic, but with that firm thread of faith and certainty that nothing could take away:
You're only naive if you fail. If you succeed, you're a visionary.
He clung to those words as he unified the Alliance. More than she'll ever know. Maybe more than he should have.
"I," says the woman, hastily reaching up to adjust her mask of bone, "I should get going. No use in lingering now that I've been found out, wouldn't you say?"
Claude says nothing as she ducks into a hasty curtsy. He lets her flee, watching as she pushes past nobles and darts under the entrance wreath.
The moment she's out of sight, he pulls out of the courtyard and ducks into a cellar.
He slides next to the second wine barrel and kneels down, hands searching the wooden flooring. He finds what he's looking for: the iron of a trapdoor handle. One pull later, and he's dropped into a pitch-black underground passage.
He knows this palace like the back of his hand: every secret, every weak point... and everywhere it could possibly lead.
Claude grips his stag mask and drops it, letting it crack at the impact. He strides through the darkness of the passage, heaves open a rusty door—
—and swings out into the middle of an abandoned corridor, catching the woman as she passes by him.
He pivots, shoving her weight against the wall and pinning her down—one hand firmly at her hip, the other at her collarbone. She inhales sharply as she's driven against the stone.
She's deathly close; as he pins her in with his weight, he can feel the heat rolling off her skin and smell the ocean spray feathering over his nose. His face is only an inch away from the ridge of her mask.
It's a dangerous distance, but Claude only leans closer.
"I know who you are," he says, low and trembling. His hand lies on her hip. He feels the grooves of a knife concealed in her robes, and his gut pounds. "No more games."
For a long, painful second, she says nothing. Then—
"No more games," she agrees softly.
Claude's hand presses tighter. Two of his fingers rest on the curve of her skin, healthy and whole, the warmth burning into him like a brand. The other three fingers pressure her knife so it'll be a slow draw, slower than his.
He works through the words on his clumsy tongue: "Are you here to kill me?"
She watches him silently. In the dimness of the corridor, he can finally make out the shade of her eyes behind the mask: pale silver touched with hues of green. The familiar color winds him.
"Would you believe what I tell you?" she says.
"Yes." Gods, yes. He's almost choking. "Yes, I would. The truth. I need..."
"I'm not here to kill you." He doesn't relax. "I came to see if I'd have to."
"Reconnaissance?" he says lightly, even while her every word punches deeper into his gut.
"I had to see for myself." She quiets. "I don't recognize Edelgard anymore."
There's layers behind that statement, too many for him to unpack. Had she visited the Empire first, had she considered joining Edelgard, had she tried to assassinate the empress? Had she turned her gaze from the Alliance and ignored them all this time?
"Oh, so is that what you've been up to these past five years?" Claude says lightly.
His thumb presses harder on the hilt of her dagger, digging the metal uncomfortably into her flesh. She doesn't flinch.
"No," she says evenly. "I was sleeping."
Claude stops. His eyes narrow.
The veil still sheaths her mouth, but there's no sign of a smile in her gaze.
"Sleeping," he echoes.
Slowly, he draws off a glove and raises his bare hand in the dim light, letting silver reflect off of his skin.
Pale, weblike scars wind down his palm to his wrist.
He hears a quiet inhale.
"I got these five years ago," he says roughly. "From moving rubble. Turns out that even wreckage can still cut deep. I almost lost my hands because I was too reckless. Some priests told me I'd never draw a bow again."
A shiver behind those green eyes. "Claude."
"See, when the Imperial army finished ransacking the monastery and moved on, I snuck back in. Pulled up everything I could: cobblestone, brick, shrapnel and wood. One side of the building even collapsed—almost crushed me beneath a metal bar. But I had to keep going, had to keep searching, because if there was even a one percent chance that you'd be alive, then I had to take it."
"Claude—"
"We searched. Everywhere." He lifts his gaze and stares right at her, hoping that the storm of heat in his gut is burning through. "For you, Byleth. For weeks. And we mourned. We wore black, we burned a pyre, we had a ceremony. So, no need for the life story, but you tell me straight—you owe us that much. What the hell were you doing these past five years?"
She meets his gaze, unmoving. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes, shallow and controlled, like she's gearing up for battle.
Then she reaches up and unlatches her mask.
White bone clatters to the floor atop a dusty veil.
And Byleth Eisner looks up at Claude von Riegan.
Claude isn't prepared for the sucker punch to his gut. The vibrancy of her eyes, the afterglow of her pale hair, the porcelain swell of her cheek—she looks like she's walked straight out of his nightmares, completely untouched by Time. Seeing her exactly how he remembered stirs up a lingering emotion that he's long shelved in the back of his head.
Byleth is alive.
Claude swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His heart is pounding hard somewhere in his collarbone.
All he can feel is the grooves of the knife at her hip.
Byleth's gaze searches his face. She doesn't seem to find any answers; he's gotten too good at hiding them over the years.
"I'm not lying," she says emphatically. "I was unconscious for five years. Something kept me in stasis—luck, my altered body, the blessing of the Goddess, take your pick. Even I don't know what it was."
She's always had so much determination and resolve in her voice.
Claude's always been weak to it.
"Is that so," he says. His words aren't smooth anymore; they're clipped, ragged. "Lucky you. Lucky Edelgard."
Her eyes flash. "What?"
"So, you were asleep for five years. And then you woke, and then you headed right for Adrestia." Claude laughs without merriment. "Let me guess; you visited Faerghus, too. And the Alliance was the last on your list and the last on your mind—"
"When you go out for the day," Byleth says heatedly, "the last place you return to is home."
He stops short and cold. Behind her, the moon swells silver.
"I woke just a few weeks ago," Byleth says flatly. "To me, only a few hours had passed. To the world, it was five years. Of course I had to get my bearings. And of course the last place I hit will be the place I stay."
Stay. His scarred hand shudders.
She tilts her head up. Her eyes are fiery in the moonlight, and they blaze away his fog. "I came prepared to fight you, yes. Like you're prepared to fight me right now. But I always hoped that it wouldn't be that way, and that you'd still be the Claude I knew. Was I wrong?"
Silence falls. Claude hears the cicadas sing their lullaby.
He reaches out and takes her hand. Her skin is warm on his, velvety on the grooves of his scars. His pulse thrums unevenly in his throat.
"You were wrong, Teach," he says softly. "I'm not the person you once knew."
He crumples the glove and presses it into her hand, then closes her fingers over it.
"None of us are."
Claude turns and sweeps out of the corridor, ushering himself back into the light of the courtyard.
He doesn't look back.