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Chapter Text

There was a time when Dimitri asked for the story every night.

His stepmother would always sigh—though with a warm fondness in her expression—and say, “Again? Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he would insist. “Kyphon and the White Lady.”

And Patricia would tuck the covers over him and begin.

Once upon a time, there lived a brave knight named Kyphon, who had devoted his life to the service of the wise King Loog. 

Loog was just and kind, and beloved by his people, but he was beset by evil plots and deadly enemies. An envious Lord raised an army against the King, seeking a throne that was not rightfully his. And though Kyphon was bold and skilled, he feared that he would not be able to protect his King.

The traitor’s wicked army swept through the Kingdom, despite the work of many good and brave people who tried to stand in his way. Desperate for help, Kyphon went in search of a weapon that might defeat his King’s enemies—but when he reached the temple of legend, deep in a forest far from his liege, he discovered that the sacred building was in ruins, and its treasures had long since been lost to time. 

Kyphon knelt in the forest and wept, for he knew that all hope was lost. 

As his tears fell to the ground, a woman appeared before him.

She was lovely, this woman—the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, so beautiful that it nearly caused him pain to look at her. She was dressed all in white, with hair the color of new leaves in the spring, and she looked down at the Knight with great kindness in her eyes, and asked why he wept.

“My King is surrounded by his enemies, and I will not be able to save him,” Kyphon replied.

The woman took his chin in her hand. “Do not lose hope, sir Knight. I do not often meddle in human affairs. But I felt your sorrow when your tears soaked the earth. You are a pure soul with an honorable desire, and if I can, I will help you save your King.”

Kyphon caught his breath. “What do you need from me, my Lady?”

“I can give you the means to save your King and strike down his dark enemies,” the White Lady told him. “But I fear I cannot give such a gift as freely as I might wish.”

She told Kyphon the terms of her bargain, and he accepted.

When the traitorous lord arrived to lay siege to the capital, only one soldier waited for him on the battlefield before the King’s city. It was Kyphon, clad in white armor that shone bright as the noon sun, carrying a sword and shield that glowed red as flame. 

In a flash, Kyphon's sword flew from its scabbard. His blade hummed like the wind as he struck and parried, brushing aside each fighter who dared challenge him. In mere moments, the enemy’s forces lay vanquished, decimated by his mighty blows.

When his army was gone, the rebel lord drew his own blade to slay Kyphon. But none could stand against the White Lady’s gifts, and soon the traitor, too, lay dying on the battlefield.

The wise King rushed to thank his loyal knight, offering him land and fortunes and the hand of his beautiful eldest daughter. But Kyphon could only sigh in sadness and decline all reward.

“This is the last service I will perform for you, my liege,” said the Knight, bowing to his King one final time. “My vows must take me elsewhere, now.”

As the King watched, the White Lady appeared on the edge of the battlefield and extended her hand to Kyphon. The Knight crossed the field and knelt before her, just as he had once knelt before the King.

The White Lady placed her hand on his cheek, and they were gone.

Dimitri did not know why he was thinking of that story now, as he lay dying in a forest in Duscur, with the smell of smoke and blood and burned flesh all around him.

His father had been struck down. His stepmother had vanished. Glenn was dead— who will tell Felix? —and Dimitri knew he would never forget the panic or the pain in the young knight’s eyes as Glenn fell in defense of his Prince.

I will not have much longer to remember it.

Dimitri fought to live, fought to choke air into his lungs. There might yet be people he could help, people he could save; he had no right to give in, not yet. But he could not feel his legs, and every breath was wet with blood, and one of his eyes saw nothing. His body was afire with pain. Though he tried with everything in him to believe that he might live to see another sunrise, he knew how badly hurt he was, how futile that hope was.

Cornelia. It had been his stepmother’s closest friend, the court physician, who had orchestrated this. She was the one who had summoned the flames, who had commanded the soldiers with swords. Who laughed as one by one, the court of Faerghus fell dead to the ground.

Dimitri’s mind tried to make sense of the betrayal, tried to make sense of Cornelia’s joy as she watched the suffering and death unfold in front of her. But even as he slipped closer to death, understanding eluded him.

He also could not understand why, out of all the illusions his terrified mind might conjure, he was seeing the White Lady among the trees.

She was as beautiful as he had imagined her when Patricia told her story, tall and serene, dressed all in white with green hair spilling over her shoulders and a crown of gold-white lilies on her brow. He imagined her looking out over the carnage. Imagined her seeing him amidst the corpses. Imagined her crossing over the muck and blood and bodies, her hair flowing in an invisible breeze, the train of her white gown somehow staying pristine.

It was not until he felt the touch of her fingers against his face that Dimitri realized this was no hallucination.

“Poor boy—for you are just a boy. Fifteen? Sixteen, at most.” She stroked his hair from his forehead, her eyes luminous and sad in her lovely face. Up close, he could see that her ears were subtly pointed, their tips sharp and angular and just slightly inhuman.

Dimitri tried to respond, tried to plead with her to help Glenn, heal his father, find his stepmother. But all he could conjure was a cough, filled with more blood.

“They are beyond my aid,” she said softly, somehow knowing what he was going to ask. “But I may yet be able to save your life. Do you wish to hear my terms?”

Dimitri turned his head to the side as despair flowed through him. What right have I to live when they die?

Those cool fingers stroked his brow again, found his chin, turned his head back to face her. “It is not such a bad bargain,” she said gently, her gaze filled with sympathy. “Ten years and ten days. No more. Do as I require for ten years and ten days, and in exchange, I will give you everything you need to destroy the ones who did this.”

Dimitri’s breath froze in his throat. Revenge.

Yes. He could live for that.

With the last of his strength, Dimitri jerked his head in a nod.

And as his remaining eye closed, and he fell into blackness, he felt the White Lady place her hand on his cheek.

Chapter Text

Byleth Eisner also had a favorite bedtime story. It didn’t have a title, and when she mentioned it to other children, they would look puzzled and say they’d never heard it before. Byleth eventually realized that her mother had invented this story just for her.

Although “invented” was perhaps the wrong word. 

Once upon a time, there was a mortal man gravely wounded in defense of a small village.

The elders of the village brought him to their healer, who lived deep within the woods, but his wounds were beyond her care. The healer did her best to make the warrior comfortable, but both she and the warrior knew that he would not live to see the morning.

That night, as the warrior waited to die, the ruler of Faerie walked from her realm into the forest. She had felt the warrior’s suffering, and offered to save his life in exchange for a decade at her side.

The warrior accepted the bargain, for what other choice did he have? 

The Faerie ruler, who was called the White Lady, ruled over a people called the Nabateans. She took the warrior to her realm, where he fought at her side in endless battles against an enemy known as the Agarthans. The warrior became known as the Bladebreaker, for even the most fearsome weapons seemed to shatter when they met his lance. When his ten years were served, the Bladebreaker chose to stay in Faerie, and his declaration was greeted with a celebration that rivaled any seen before in the White Lady’s kingdom.

But all was not well, for the White Lady’s own daughter had fallen in love with this mortal Knight.

She did not think her love would ever be returned, for Nabateans and mortals alike were told that no such match was possible. But she could not help the way she felt, and she would bring him flowers for luck before he rode into battle.

One day, the Bladebreaker brought her flowers in return, and she realized that he loved her too.

They courted in secret, spoke vows heard by no one except themselves. And thus they might have continued—until the day the White Lady’s daughter realized she was with child. A half-mortal, half-Fae child was not a being that should have been possible, and the lovers did not know how the White Lady would greet the news.

But there were no secrets from the White Lady in Faerie, and soon enough she knew her daughter was expecting. To the parents’ surprise, the White Lady greeted the news with joy. She called all of the Nabateans to a grand celebration and proclaimed that she could scarcely wait for the baby’s birth.

But both parents could sense a darkness in the White Lady’s anticipation. There seemed to be a plan in place for the baby, one that the White Lady would not share even with her closest advisors. Though the parents had built a lovely nursery in the home they shared, the White Lady began converting a wing of her home for the baby. She filled it not with toys or games for a child, but with swords and relics and books of magic. As the birth grew closer, the White Lady withdrew into her palace, waiting and planning, and sharing her intentions with no one.

Try as they might, the parents could not deny their growing fear. And so, mere days before their child was born, the Bladebreaker and the White Lady’s daughter joined their hands and walked out of Faerie without a backward glance, out of love for the baby they had not yet met. They left the woods as quickly as they could, to journey beyond the White Lady’s reach.

Byleth was eight when she learned that her mother’s bedtime story was not really a story.

It was a week or so after Byleth’s birthday, and Jeralt was once again away on a mercenary job.  She and her mother decided to spend the day fishing. Most of the other residents in their little village favored fishing spots in the woods, where the trees shaded them from the bright sun. But Sitri always insisted on walking away from the forest to fish, even on a day like today that promised to turn hot in the noonday sun.

“Leonie says the best fishing is in the woods,” Byleth told her mother as they walked along. She hitched her fishing pole higher, trying to stop it from dragging in the dirt of the path. “Can I go with her sometime?”

Sitri pulled in a sharp, alarmed breath as she shook her head. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. It’s not safe. You must never go into the woods.”

“But why? ” Byleth whined. “It’s hot out here.”

“The woods are dangerous,” Sitri said gently. “You know that, Byleth.”

Byleth scowled. “Leonie says they’re fine.” 

“They’re not dangerous for everyone. But they’re dangerous for you.” Sitri’s mouth turned down in a worried frown; she seemed to be deciding something. Then she took a breath. “Byleth. The Bladebreaker story…”

And suddenly, Byleth knew. “Mama? Is Papa the Bladebreaker?”

The tension melted from Sitri’s face. It seemed as if she had been waiting years for Byleth to ask this very question. “Yes. He is.”

“Oh.” Byleth didn’t feel as surprised as she probably should have been. “That makes you the White Lady’s daughter.” She frowned. “Did you really leave Faerie for me? Don’t you miss it?”

Sitri looked down at Byleth with a smile and smoothed her hair back. “I miss some things about it. But I like our life in the mortal world, sweetheart. And I would not trade you for anything.”

“And you couldn’t have me in Faerie, because your mother wanted… something.” Byleth’s frown deepened. “What did she want? Why were you afraid?”

Sitri’s mouth drew down; her brow furrowed. “I don’t quite know,” she admitted. “All I can say is that my mother had a plan for you, one she wouldn’t share with us. And we weren’t willing to take chances when it came to you.”

Byleth considered this. “Should I be scared of her?” 

“Yes,” Sitri said simply—though there was sadness in her eyes as she said it. “My mother has a great deal of love in her heart, Byleth. But she is powerful, and ancient, and yes, dangerous—especially when she feels thwarted.” She swallowed, her right hand clutching her fishing rod so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “And whatever plans she made for you have indeed been thwarted.”

Byleth tugged her mother’s left hand until she stopped walking, then she dropped her fishing rod and wrapped her arms around Sitri’s waist in a hug. Sitri’s arm went around her, hugging her back just as fiercely.

Byleth was not yet eighteen when the sickness started.

Slowly, day by day, week by week, Sitri grew paler and thinner. She was cold all the time, no matter how many blankets Byleth brought her, and she could barely choke down bites of toast. She became so frail that she could not leave her bed without help, and Jeralt had to carry her from room to room, moving her with the sunlight so that she could soak in its warmth.

Though the three of them never admitted it out loud, they knew what was causing Sitri’s illness; Nabateans were not meant to live in the mortal world. They also knew there was only one thing they could do to save Sitri’s life.

One morning, as the sun rose, Byleth kissed her mother goodbye, and Jeralt carried his wife into the forest, hoping that the White Lady would take pity on her prodigal daughter. Byleth was not allowed to go into the forest with her parents, but Jeralt assured her that Sitri had chosen a beautiful spot in the woods, and that he had wrapped her in blankets before he left. His voice was hoarse and unsteady as he told her this story, and Byleth knew he would not be able to bear telling it again.

When Jeralt returned to the spot that night, Sitri was gone, and only the blankets remained.

“Will we have to move?” Byleth asked a day or two later, as she and Jeralt shared a melancholy breakfast. “Is it safe to stay in our house?”

Jeralt sighed and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not sure, kid. I think… I think we’re going to have to make some changes.”

When Jeralt rode out on his next mercenary job, Byleth rode at his side.

Chapter Text

When Dimitri woke for the first time after Duscur, he was cocooned in pure, crisp white silk, lying abed in a vast golden hall with windows but no ceiling. The light that streamed through the glass was bright as day, but through the ceiling above, he could see stars in a black sky.

He was in the White Lady’s realm. 

He was clean and safe and whole once more—or nearly so, for his eye was still missing. He did not know how much time had passed, and when he asked the men and women who came to tend his wounds and bring his meals, the question seemed to puzzle them, and they would offer no answers.

It was Lady Cethleann, the healer who had knit his battered body back together, who finally seemed to grasp what he was asking.

“Time flows differently here than in the mortal world. Or so I’m told,” she said, patting his shoulder as if to reassure him. Cethleann looked no more than fourteen or fifteen, with bright green hair curled in girlish ringlets around her face, but something about her seemed far older than her apparent years. 

Dimitri’s forehead wrinkled. “Or so you’re told?”

Cethleann sighed, her mouth pursing in irritation. “My father forbids me from having contact with mortals. Though I’m ever so curious about them.”

“I would not wish to get you in trouble,” Dimitri said, with some worry, as he slowly lifted a cup to his lips. The water within was nearly iridescent, purer and colder and sharper than any he’d had before.

Cethleann’s eyebrows drew together in confusion for a moment; then her expression cleared. “Oh, no. He will not mind if I speak with you. You may be mortal, but you are one of hers now. A Knight of Seiros, and a warrior of Faerie.”

She said that as if it explained everything. And perhaps it did.

Hour by hour, day by day, Dimitri regained his strength. As he did, he began to explore the realm he had pledged himself to. It was more difficult than he realized it would be, for in Faerie little was permanent. The White Lady’s subjects were called Nabateans, and the landscape seemed to change to suit their whims. The weather might shift from snow to blazing sun as he rounded a corner; a path that led to a beach one day might lead to a mountain the next. 

The only thing that seemed to remain the same was the gray stone structure called the Monastery, where the White Lady made her home. 

The White Lady had many names.

Rhea. Seiros. The Princess. The Archbishop.

But not “Queen,” Dimitri learned. Never “Queen.” That word was reserved for the woman who had once sat on a throne deep at the heart of the Monastery, the one who had been slain many thousands of years ago by the White Lady’s enemies. Dimitri glimpsed the throne once, on his explorations of Faerie. It was a beautiful seat, all carved oak and flowering vines, but something about its lonely setting made him uneasy, and he found he did not wish to see it again.

Though she would not accept the title, the White Lady was the ruler of the Nabateans, the one they went to in times of dispute, the one who set the rules of the realm and punished those who stepped outside them. She kept a court around her not unlike the court Dimitri had known as a Prince—but smaller, far smaller, with only three lords and Lady Cethleann to bear noble titles.

Lord Cichol, Lady Cethleann’s father, was most often at the White Lady’s side, offering advice with a shrewd look on his handsome face. Lady Cethleann was lively and kind, and the Nabateans loved her nearly as well as they loved the White Lady herself. Lord Macuil and Lord Indech were somewhat less beloved, though no less respected. Neither spent much time in human form, Dimitri learned; Lord Indech preferred to exist as a large tortoise, heavy and steady and able to retreat into his shell, while Lord Macuil assumed the form of a dragon with feathered wings, and was often seen soaring through the skies above the Monastery.

Dimitri soon realized that he was not the only mortal in this realm. The White Lady had struck other bargains with other warriors, and when he had regained his strength, this group—the Knights of Seiros—took him from his sickbed and began his training. 

The leader of these Knights was none other than the Kyphon of legend, a slim, dark-haired warrior who still carried the flame-red sword and shield Dimitri had heard about so often as a boy. Although Dimitri could not help but admire Kyphon, he found himself avoiding the ancient warrior’s company. In life Kyphon had been a Fraldarius, and the resemblance between Kyphon and Glenn and Felix was so uncanny as to be painful.

Of the Knights, Dimitri liked Alois best, for he was cheerful and funny and made the strangeness of Faerie seem nearly normal. The silent Shamir was more unnerving; Dimitri did not know what the White Lady had promised the markswoman to gain her pledge, and was afraid to ask. Cyril was just a boy, twelve or thirteen at most, but he wielded his axe with precision and was fiercely dedicated to the White Lady. Kyphon’s second-in-command, Catherine, was similarly devoted, and could often be found by the White Lady’s side, acting as her bodyguard.

Dimitri scarcely had time to wonder why the White Lady needed mortal Knights when the Agarthans attacked their borders for the first time. This, he learned after the battle, was a recurring event; the Agarthans, the dark version of the Fae under the White Lady’s protection, delighted in violence and pain. Ages ago they had murdered the White Lady’s mother, and ever since the two groups had been at war. The lords and lady of the court were fearsome warriors, but the Nabateans themselves made poor fighters; they were flighty, prone to distraction, and far less vicious than their enemies. By gathering skilled mortal fighters to her side, however, the White Lady was able to keep the hated King Thales at bay.

Slowly, Dimitri fell into a rhythm. Catherine declared that the lance would be his weapon, and Dimitri trained day and night with it, accepting training from Cichol and Alois and even from the White Lady herself. Though his eye never returned, the rest of his body grew stronger day by day, and as it did, Dimitri could feel the possibility of his revenge bright before him. On the days when the Agarthans threatened invasion, Dimitri rode into battle with his lance held high, and he imagined that he was wielding it against Cornelia and the shadowy figures by her side.

Ten years and ten days. And then they will fall before me, and I will have paid my debt to the dead.

Faerie was full of small changes—changes in weather, in fashion, in geography. Larger changes were rarer. 

And so it was more than a little notable when the White Lady called the entire Kingdom to a grand celebration and presented them with a stranger whom she called her daughter. Lady Sitri smiled shyly and seemed a bit embarrassed by all the fuss. But her round face was lovely, and her smile was kind, and Dimitri found himself liking her even before they spoke.

It was not long before Dimitri realized that Lady Sitri was sad. She spent little time with any of the other Nabateans, and even less at the Monastery. Dimitri would glimpse her wandering the shifting paths of Faerie, trailing her fingers through the curtain of ever-changing flowers and leaves that grew by the roadside, her eyes never quite focusing on anything before her.

She had the look of someone who did not feel at home here, and as grateful as he was for the White Lady’s intervention, Dimitri knew just how she felt.

One day, when his path crossed hers, Dimitri cleared his throat and spoke. “How do you find it here, Lady Sitri?” he asked, bowing as low as he could.

Lady Sitri waved a hand, as if to say he need not bow. “Much the same as when I left. And there’s good and bad in that,” she said, her smile rueful. “And you, mortal Knight?… Dimitri?”

He nodded. “Dimitri, yes, my Lady.”

“What did my mother promise you for your service?” She tilted her head. “She gives a promise to everyone. You don’t need to be ashamed.”

It had not occurred to Dimitri that he might be ashamed of his bargain until Sitri said so; the idea settled uneasily in his stomach. “She found me on the day my family was murdered. She promised me revenge against the people who killed them.”

“Ah.” Something seemed to clear in Sitri’s expression. “I must admit I can understand that.”

It was some time later—Dimitri could not have said how much time, but he was used to that by now—that the White Lady called Dimitri to her side.

“How are you, dear one?” she asked, her lovely eyes studying every plane of Dimitri’s face, making him feel both protected and utterly exposed all at once.

“I am well, my Lady.” He wondered if he should say more, but when he saw her smile at this answer, he realized it was the one she had hoped for.

“I have a task for you, Dimitri.” Her face grew grave. “You have seen, I think, that my daughter is unhappy.”

Dimitri suddenly felt as though he stood on a knife’s edge. As kind as the White Lady was to her people, he had also seen her rage in battle and with those who thwarted her will, and he did not know how she would respond should he agree that Lady Sitri was not happy here.

But the White Lady seemed to want no response. “She fell in love with a mortal man, and her daughter yet remains in the mortal world.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “It is difficult for a mortal and one of the Nabateans to truly make a life together, I fear. Sitri knew this when she left my realm. But she misses her daughter, as any mother would.”

Her gaze met his, and Dimitri nearly had to look away from the searing light in her eyes. “You have been in my service for ten years today. Did you know that?”

Dimitri shook his head and tried to hide his shock. He knew that time had passed; he knew that he had grown from a teenager to an adult. But a full decade? No, he had not known.

“Ten years and ten days. That was our bargain. So I have one last task for you, my knight.” She lay her hand against his cheek. “Travel to the mortal realm and find my granddaughter. Bring her here, and your service will be ended, and you will have your revenge.”

He was overwhelmed, and could not reply—but she accepted his nod as sufficient answer.

“I have a gift for you to carry to the mortal world. Two gifts, in fact. One for you, and one for my granddaughter.”

She clapped her hands, and as if from nowhere, two servants appeared. One carried a bright silver knife; the other held a sword white as bone.

“The knife is yours. Stab its blade into the ground in any deep woods, and you will open a door back to my realm,” the White Lady said. She handed the little blade to Dimitri; he placed it in his belt, in a sheath that had appeared from nowhere to serve just this purpose.

He murmured his thanks; the White Lady accepted them with a nod before she continued. “The sword is for my granddaughter. If you find she doubts your tale, place this blade in her hands. It is for her and her alone, and she will not be able to deny the truth of who she is when she holds it.”

Dimitri felt his brow furrow in puzzlement. “You think she might not believe me, my Lady?” 

“I do not know how she will react to your arrival, I fear. I know not if her parents told her of me and my realm.” The White Lady stroked the hilt of her granddaughter’s sword with her long, elegant fingers. “It is my hope, however, that she yearns for her true home as deeply as it yearns for her.” She looked at Dimitri, an eternity of sorrow on her face. “Bring her home, my Knight. Bring my granddaughter to my side, so that she may take her rightful place.”

Dimitri knelt before her. “I will not fail you, my Lady.”

It was a mere formality, something they all said before they rode to battle. But when he rose his face to meet the White Lady’s eyes, there was a coldness there he had never seen before.

“I would not give you this task if I thought you could not accomplish it,” she told him, her voice as icy as winter. There was an echo in her tone of something ancient, something dangerous and frightening. “But make no mistake, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. I will not tolerate failure in this. If my granddaughter does not cross the threshold of this realm in ten mortal days, you will have broken the terms of our bargain—and your revenge will be forfeit, and you will remain here as one of mine.”

Dimitri bowed his head, and tried to conceal the fear that rose in his chest. “Understood, my Lady.”

Chapter Text

Byleth took to life as a mercenary more quickly than either she or Jeralt had anticipated. Her father had trained her with a sword since she was old enough to walk, so they knew she was skilled with a blade—but, as her father often reminded her, it was one thing to swing a training sword, and another to wield a weapon in battle.

It turned out Byleth was good at both. By the time she was twenty-one, she had a nickname of her own: the Ashen Demon, a nod to her blue-black hair and her eerie calm in battle.

As their reputation spread, she and Jeralt traveled more and more, taking jobs further and further from the little house where Byleth had grown up. But they made a point to return to that house every few months, just in case Sitri was able to return. At first Byleth felt keen disappointment every time they found the house empty; gradually, that faded, replaced by a soft, sad wistfulness.

On the fifth anniversary of Sitri’s return to Faerie, Jeralt and Byleth were sitting at the table in their old house for the first time in nearly a year. The journeys back home had grown further and further apart over time. But, even though they never spoke of it out loud, they had both felt it important to return here for this date.

Jeralt was halfway through his bowl of soup when he cleared his throat and spoke. “What do you know about the Faerghus civil war?”

Byleth wrinkled her forehead. “Not much,” she admitted. “The King died recently?”

Jeralt nodded. “King Rufus. Second King in a row who died under mysterious circumstances. His brother Lambert was assassinated about ten years ago. Whoever did it took out a bunch of the most important nobles in Faerghus. They killed his kid, too.” Jeralt shook his head, his face tight with sorrow and disgust. “And now Rufus is dead too.”

“Rufus didn’t have heirs?” Byleth guessed. That was usually how civil wars started.

“No kids. But he did have a wife. Cornelia.” Jeralt’s expression grew dark, though Byleth was not sure why. “She’s saying she’s the rightful Queen. But some of the more powerful noble families in Faerghus aren’t behind her. Houses Fraldarius and Gautier are getting together an army to stop her from taking the throne.” He set down his spoon. “I just took a job with the Fraldarius forces.”

Byleth nodded. “When do we leave?”

“The company and I leave tomorrow. But you’re not going.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending. “I’m—what?”

“I don’t like what I’m hearing about Cornelia,” Jeralt said grimly, dunking his bread into the remains of his soup. “There are rumors that she can summon fire at will. That she can appear from nowhere, and force people to do her bidding.” He shook his head. “Maybe it’s just talk. But it feels too much like the result of a bargain with her.”

They both knew which “her” Jeralt meant.

Byleth understood why her father felt caution was prudent. She still felt mutinous at the idea of being left behind. “I’m twenty-three. I can take care of myself.”

Jeralt shrugged. “I was twenty-eight when I took that axe to the gut. You know, the one that sent me to live in a weird magic bubble where time doesn’t work the way it should.”

In spite of herself, Byleth had to laugh at his description. “But you’re not worried about an axe to my gut,” she pointed out. “You’re worried about her. My grandmother.”

Jeralt blew out a long, weary breath. “I am. So I don’t want you anywhere near Faerghus until I figure out just how much truth there is to the rumors.” He took the last bite of his soup, then pointed the spoon at her. “In the meantime, I want you to stay at Leonie’s.”

“At Leonie’s?” Byleth protested. Her father’s former apprentice—now one of his best mercenaries—lived in a shabby room above a blacksmith’s forge. “Why can’t I stay…”

But before she finished her question, she realized she already knew the answer. There was a reason few Nabateans ventured from the White Lady’s realm, why stories about the White Lady always had her crossing to the mortal world in a remote forest, why Sitri and Jeralt had made their home in a wood-and-mud cabin far from the nearest town. Iron hurt the White Lady's people. “Oh. Of course.”

Jeralt nodded. “Your mother could never get within a hundred feet of the smithy without feeling faint. I’m hoping it would be the same for anyone your grandmother might send after you.” 

Not for the first time, Byleth wondered why iron had never affected her, why she could wield an iron sword in battle when even the slightest touch of the stuff had made Sitri double over in pain. I suppose I’m more mortal than Nabatean. 

She wasn’t sure if that made her less useful to her grandmother, or more. 

Byleth saw her father and his company off the next morning, then did her best to settle in at Leonie’s. It wasn’t easy. Frugal Leonie had chosen this room for its cost and no other reason; the bed sagged, the windows rattled, and there were gaps between the boards of the ceiling that let water through when it rained. But Byleth had slept in worse conditions, and so she tried to ignore it.

“I’ll send for you after I’ve gotten a look at what’s going on,” Jeralt told her on the morning he left, clapping her affectionately on the shoulder. “Your old man’s probably just being paranoid.”

Byleth tried to believe that. But when it came to Faerie, she tended to trust Jeralt’s instincts.

With the mercenary company gone, the nameless little village was quiet and half-empty; nearly every family had a man or woman there who worked for Jeralt. To explain why she’d stayed behind in Leonie’s room, Byleth spread the quiet rumor that her leg had been injured and she could not make the walk from the market to their cabin while it recovered. The villagers afforded her space to recuperate from her imaginary injury. Byleth was grateful for that; she’d always had trouble with other people, had always felt like a stranger in this place where she had grown up. Solitude suited her, although she sometimes wished it didn’t suit her quite so well.

To pass the time, Byleth took walks, read books, trained with her sword in a clearing near the village. From Leonie’s window, she could see life in the village unfold below her in the mornings and evenings. Neighbors met on the dirt paths they pretended were streets; the baker delivered bread; children played games with rules they made up as they went along; once, on an especially eventful day, someone’s pig escaped its pen and then a peddler passed through selling trinkets from Enbarr.

The day after the peddler’s visit held little promise of equal excitement. It was an overcast morning with a light drizzle of rain. At first Byleth thought she would stay inside, but boredom soon made her irritable, and so she wrapped herself in a cloak and training leathers and followed the town’s single road out into the nearby countryside.

Byleth’s usual training spot was within striking distance of her family’s home, a patch of grass and flowers near the road with slightly uneven ground that challenged her footing. She liked it because of that challenge—and because from this spot she could see the place where the road met the edge of the forest. Nothing dangerous had emerged from it yet, but Byleth liked to be prepared.

The faint rain cleared as Byleth ran through her usual exercises. She tried to imagine Jeralt there, tried to imagine the ways he would feint and parry with his lance to keep her on her toes. As the blade flashed in the soft light of the cloudy day, she noticed once again that it was nicked and scarred, close to needing repair. But it was also her only iron sword—the rest were steel—and she had resisted handing it over to the blacksmith.

She had been in the clearing for nearly an hour when she spotted movement at the edge of the forest.

A single man was walking along the road, wrapped in a blue cloak and carrying a walking stick. Byleth could not see him well from this distance, but he was tall and blond, his steps confident, and his gaze swept the road ahead as if looking for something. An eyepatch covered the man’s right eye, harsh black against his pale skin.

A traveler on his way to the village, no doubt.

But Byleth could not shake a feeling of unease as the man continued his walk. Was that cloak too blue to have been fashioned by human hands? Was his hair too golden to belong to a mortal? Why did she see no mud on his boots or cloak, when the day had started with rain?

It’s not worth the chance.

Byleth sheathed her sword and turned back towards the village. There was distance between them; if she walked quickly, he would not overtake her, not before she reached the safety of the blacksmith’s forge and the room above it.

She forced herself not to look back as she walked, not to draw attention to herself. But she drew quiet breaths and listened intently for any sign that the man was drawing nearer, that he was hastening his steps. She heard nothing save for her own footsteps, splashing lightly in the mud left by the morning’s rain.

When she did hear something, it was not coming from behind her.

The sounds were indistinct at first. A voice raised in anger. A low, unconcerned chuckle in reply—the sound of someone confident they had the upper hand. Finally, two figures rounded a bend in the road, both walking away from the village. A strange man in mismatched leather armor was striding down the road with a basket clutched in his arms. The village baker—a slim, silver-haired young man named Ashe—was trailing behind the stranger, futilely insisting that he stop.

“Give that back!”

As they drew nearer to Byleth, Ashe rushed forward and planted himself in the thief’s path, his face set in a determined expression and his shoulders pulled back defiantly. “If you’re hungry, I’ll help with what I have left over,” he said, anger and desperation at war in his voice. “But that’s everything I baked today! Families with children need…”

“Don’t care.” The thief laughed, his upper lip curling in his greasy beard, revealing broken teeth. As she drew nearer, Byleth could see a sigil on his upper right shoulder, a gray crown and scepter. “I got mouths to feed too, boy. Now get outta my way, before me and my men decide you’re annoying us.”

A mercenary, Byleth suspected; but one who operated like an outlaw, moving from town to town, taking what his troops needed instead of paying for it, assuming no one would stop him. Well. Today, he would find that he was wrong. 

She stepped up next to Ashe. “Put down the basket.” Deliberately, she placed one hand on her sword. She didn’t draw it yet, but the or else was clear.

The thief and Ashe both turned their heads towards her. Ashe’s eyes widened, and she saw him glance at her leg, wondering if she was up to a fight; Byleth silently cursed her small lie, and tried to reassure him with a slight nod as their eyes met.

The thief chuckled as he looked her over. “This the best your little village has, boy? One girl with a sword?”

But that one small break in his concentration was all Ashe needed. With deceptive speed, the baker darted forward, seized the basket by its sides, and wrenched it from the thief’s grasp. The thief attempted to follow, but suddenly Byleth stood in his way, her sword now drawn and leveled at his throat.

“You think you can stop me from taking that back?” the thief snarled.

“I do.”

Byleth locked her eyes on his and held his gaze, breathing through her nose, sending calm flowing through her body. She’d been told it was unnerving to watch her before a battle, to watch her lack of emotion as she sized up her opponent, so she tried to use it to her advantage—and sure enough, behind the mess of the thief’s gray beard, she saw his throat bob as he swallowed nervously.

But then two more figures rounded the bend in the road. Two more men clad in ragged armor, wearing the same sigil as the thief.

And after them, three more.

All wearing battered leather armor. All carrying weapons. All looking at Byleth and Ashe with murderous intent.

As he heard the footsteps behind him, the anxiety on the thief’s face dissolved, replaced by a confident, predatory smirk. “How about now, girl? Hand over the bread. Then, why don’t you help your neighbors find us some coin, maybe a horse to ease our travels. Then we’ll be on our way. That’s the only way this doesn’t end in blood.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “Your blood. In case that wasn’t clear.”

Behind her, Byleth heard Ashe draw in a sharp breath.

“Six against one, girl,” the thief taunted when she didn’t reply. “You like those odds?”

“Count again. It’s two.”

And suddenly, there was someone standing at Byleth’s side.

The stranger from the forest had caught up to her.

Chapter Text

The stranger was taller than Byleth had realized, a full head taller than she. His hair gleamed golden even in the soft light of this cloudy day; his bright blue cloak was worn over a traveler’s plain garments. She could see, now, that the object in his hand was not a walking stick but a lance—a new one from the look of it, the blade sharp and silver and untouched by battle. Behind his shoulder, Byleth could see the outline of a sword hilt. 

Unease bubbled in her stomach once again. Sitri had always said the Fae and the members of the White Lady’s court were beautiful; this man more than fit the description. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his full mouth and sharp jaw so elegantly formed that he almost looked as if he’d been sculpted. Only the black patch over his eye broke the perfect symmetry of his face.

Their aid always comes with strings attached.

Byleth drew her shoulders back and glared at him. “I don’t need your help.”

The newcomer’s lips parted in surprise. But before he could reply, the thieves’ ringleader laughed out loud.

“Hear that, pretty boy? Girl wants you to mind your own business.” He flashed a broken-toothed smile at the blond man. “It’s smart advice. You should take it.”

Behind him, his subordinates drew their weapons.

The newcomer held his ground. His brows drew down and his jaw tightened as he glared at the mercenary band. In spite of herself, Byleth felt the hair on her arms stand on end. Rage radiated from this man like heat from a fire, and though he seemed to be on her side, Byleth had to fight the urge to put distance between them. 

“Save your warnings.” The man’s voice dropped low as he lifted his lance and pointed it at the thieves’ ringleader. “Walk away and leave this place. You will not have the option again.”

Byleth watched as a wave of unease rippled through the mercenary band, as the six exchanged glances, silently asking each other whether it might be wise to back down despite their advantage in numbers. For a moment, Byleth hoped—but then their ringleader snarled in frustration.

“You cowards! Attack!”

With a sigh, Byleth prepared for the inevitable.

The first man to reach Byleth fell to her sword, her blade easily sliding past the clumsy swing of his axe. She pulled the blade free and stayed in motion, moving easily over her fallen opponent to meet the next man, a swordsman who parried her first strike with at least some skill.

At her side, Byleth’s unexpected ally was fighting two men at once, using his lance to parry, dodging just in time as one of them swung for his head, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stepped back. For a moment Byleth thought her ally was in trouble—but the stumble had been a feint. The newcomer swung his lance straight for a bandit’s knees, and Byleth heard a wet crack just before the bandit collapsed to the ground, howling and clutching the injured leg. Byleth heard her own opponent catch his breath and took the opportunity to strike his wrist with the flat of her blade, bringing it down hard enough to break his arm. The thief gasped as his sword fell from his numbed fingers, and he leapt back, raising his uninjured arm in a clear gesture of surrender. 

Byleth looked over at her ally just as the man was pulling his lance blade from his second opponent’s chest, freeing it with a sharp twist of his wrist. His expression was cold, remote, and he looked at the remaining figures on the battlefield as if they were chess pieces rather than people. 

The last two thieves—the ringleader who had taken the bread, and an enormous bald man carrying a hammer—focused on the newcomer and charged forward. 

Byleth stepped into the ringleader’s way, using her first strike to put him off-balance, to force him to back away. The ringleader parried her easily and stood his ground, striking back with more speed than Byleth had expected. He’s more skilled than the others, then.

She smiled her most unsettling half-smile at him. “The odds seem to have evened.”

As she’d hoped, her opponent’s face reddened in fury. “Shut up, girl,” he snarled, pulling his axe back and swinging it at her with the full force of his rage.

Byleth shifted her sword, preparing an easy parry, followed by a swift punch to the man’s nose that would hopefully blind him. But then an unexpected snap reverberated up her arm, and she felt her stomach turn cold. The axe had caught her damaged sword in a weak spot, and half the blade now lay in the mud.

“Here!”

As Byleth fell back, dodging the ringleader’s next strike, she saw something flash through the air—a sword, white and slim, a weapon unlike anything Byleth had seen before. The newcomer had thrown her the blade he wore behind his shoulder, and it was flying in a slow arc towards her. It will be better than a broken weapon, she thought as she reached to catch it. 

She expected nothing more than an ordinary blade. But as the weight of the sword settled into her hand, Byleth felt time slow. Something she had never felt before surged from the sword as she gripped it—a sensation that she could only describe as power. It was warm and bright and deadly, and she could sense it coiled within the blade, waiting to be released. She felt the power pulse against her skin, almost as if she had her fingertips against a heartbeat within. Though she had never seen this weapon before, Byleth could feel that somehow, it knew her.

As her eyes widened and her breath sped, the blade in her hands turned from white to glowing orange, its light cutting through the gloom of the day, illuminating the muddying road with an almost otherworldly glow.

The thief fell back, his eyes growing wide. “What the…?”

Byleth had no answer to the thief's unfinished question. But somehow, she knew exactly what to do next.

Operating on pure instinct, she seized the power within it and twisted. The sword shimmered and grew, loosening into a whip-like weapon made of a series of sharp blades. She had never used such a blade before, and should not have known how to strike with it—but Byleth drew her arm back and sliced the blade forward so easily that it felt as if she had wielded this weapon for years. The blade unfurled to its full length and wrapped around the hilt of the thief's axe, coiling around it like a snake grasping its prey.

Byleth silently pulled on the power in the sword, willing it to do her bidding. The coils tightened, and the axe shattered, falling to the ground in neatly sliced bits.

With a twist of her arm, Byleth pulled the whip-like blade back to her, felt it knit itself back into a more ordinary sword as she glared at the thief. The thief stared back at her for a moment, his mouth agape, his face nearly white. Then he looked down at the pieces of his weapon lying in the road.

And then, he turned and ran. 

The surviving mercenaries followed him, limping with various degrees of injury. Somewhere deep within her mind, Byleth wondered if she should have forced them to surrender, but her former enemies were dark blurs at the edge of her consciousness. She stared at the sword as the glow faded and the power within it subsided, returning to rest, pulsing quietly against her palm. 

She spun her head to the side, her eyes seeking the newcomer. “What in the hells is—”

But her question died in her mouth, because to her shock, the man knelt in the middle of the muddy road. He laid his hand over his heart and bowed his head. “My lady. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

Dimitri could never have dared to hope it would be this easy.

The White Lady’s rift to the mortal realm had opened into a forest—unsurprising, for Dimitri knew that was where she had the greatest power. He had walked through the forest until he found a wider-than-normal space between trees; this had eventually turned into a dirt path, worn into the ground by footsteps and hooves and wagon wheels. 

Then he encountered the conflict in progress, the lone swordswoman defending a man from thieves. And despite himself—despite the charge he bore, despite the fact that his revenge was nearly in his grasp—Dimitri had been unable to walk away. It was partly because the thieves seemed so smug, so certain that they could take what they wanted and get away with it. The look on their leader’s face had reminded him of Cornelia’s laughter as his family died.

But he had mostly stayed on that road because of the woman. Because of the way she had stared down six opponents, defiant and unafraid. She reminded him of his father. Of Glenn. Of the boy Dimitri himself had been before Duscur. As badly as he wanted his revenge, he could not leave her to face those odds alone.

He’d thrown her the sword on pure instinct, out of a desire to win the fight and nothing more. But the moment she held it in her hands, it felt as though everything in the world was falling into place. He had found her. Here on this muddy road, he had somehow found the White Lady’s granddaughter.

And so when the battle was over, he knelt and bowed to her, greeted her with all the courtly polish he could recall from a decade ago. But he found it difficult to truly concentrate. His heart pounded, his blood rushed through his ears, and he could all but feel Cornelia’s throat between his fingers. 

Father. Mother. You will be avenged. I swear it.

“‘My lady’?”

He’d nearly forgotten the baker in the commotion. The young man was standing to the side, the basket in his arms, his wide green eyes darting between Lady Sitri’s daughter and Dimitri in confusion. “Byleth, what does he mean… How did that sword…?”

“It’s nothing.” The woman—Byleth—dropped the sword to the road as if it had burned her. “He—it’s a mistake. Just a mistake. Go back to the village, Ashe. Deliver the bread. I’ll—it’s fine. It’s just a mistake.”

Ashe did not look as if he believed her. But, after a pause, he nodded. “Thank you. Both of you,” he said, bowing his head to both of them in turn. “I suppose it was foolish to chase after that man myself. But… with everything going on in Faerghus, flour hasn’t been easy to come by.”

Dimitri felt his heart stutter in his chest. Faerghus. His home. The kingdom he was meant to rule, a lifetime ago. He had missed it every day in Faerie, wondered how his uncle was faring as King in his place. But he could tell from Ashe’s expression that whatever was going on there was nothing good.

He forced himself to swallow the question before he could ask it. He was not that Prince any more; he had not come back to claim a throne. His goal was Cornelia. Anything else was a distraction.

As the baker began to walk away, Dimitri looked back to Byleth. For the first time, he felt that he had a moment to pause and truly take her measure, truly take in the woman that the White Lady had sent him to find.

From a distance, she had looked like any other fighter. Up close, she was… remarkable. She wore black leather armor with a sigil on her shoulder—a broken sword, a slight irony given what had just happened in the fight—and carried herself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Her lovely face, a near copy of Lady Sitri’s, was calm and expressionless as she looked back at him.

Only the tension around her wide violet eyes gave her away. She was looking at Dimitri as if he were all of her worst nightmares come to life.

And for the life of him, Dimitri could not understand why.

He cleared his throat and bowed his head again. “My name is Dimitri, my lady.”

“It’s Byleth. Just Byleth.” She crossed her arms and took a breath. “You can take your sword back now.”

“It’s yours, my—er, Byleth.” He paused, then took a chance to push it further. “And I believe you know that.”

Byleth’s expression darkened; her brows drew together and her entire frame stiffened. “It’s not mine .” She almost spat those words out. “I don’t want it. And I don’t agree to whatever strings might be attached if I pick it up on purpose.”

A growing sense of unease began creeping along Dimitri’s spine. He had not had much time to imagine how this conversation might go—but whatever he had expected, this outright hostility was not it. He rose from his knees, futilely trying to brush the mud from his trousers, and tried to think of what he could say next.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

A bitter chuckle escaped Byleth’s mouth. “I suppose that depends on why you’re here, Dimitri.” She bent to pick up the hilt of her broken sword, turning it over in her hand as she watched him.

There seemed to be nothing for him to do but tell the truth. “I’m here on behalf of your grandmother.”

Byleth nodded. The tension around her eyes increased. “Ah. And what does my grandmother want?”

“For you to come to her in Faerie.”

There was no surprise on Byleth’s face as she took in this statement. She knew, then, who her grandmother was. For a moment, Dimitri hoped that the invitation would be enough to sway her—perhaps she was hostile because she had assumed she was not welcome in Faerie.

But when she opened her mouth, his hopes were shattered. “If you admit that so easily, you don’t know the kind of errand you’re on.” Byleth shook her head. “I’ll save you the trouble of trying to convince me. I’m not going.”

Fierce, cold terror seized Dimitri’s stomach. 

Everything within him shook as the full implications of Byleth’s words sunk in. He had imagined that the White Lady’s granddaughter might need persuading, that his story would seem preposterous, that she would not trust a stranger who claimed that her grandmother was the ruler of a Faerie realm. He had not been prepared for her to believe him and to refuse to go nonetheless.

“But you must,” he protested—though he could hear how thin and futile that response was.

Byleth pulled her shoulders back and looked him directly in the eye. “No.”

Dimitri moistened his lips with his tongue uneasily. This conversation was like walking through a shifting path of thorns; he could not see where to step next that would not further upset her. Perhaps I should share the reason the White Lady summoned her? 

“Your mother, Lady Sitri—she misses you.” 

As he’d hoped, the hostility in Byleth’s expression cracked. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and he could feel her longing as keenly as he felt his own. “My—my mother’s alive,” she whispered, as if she could hardly believe it.

And then, as quick as a summer storm, her expression darkened once more. “ No. If my mother thought I should come to Faerie, she would have come to fetch me herself.” 

Dimitri found himself staring at her in pure bafflement. He would have given anything to see Patricia or Lambert again; no one would ever make him this sort of offer, and he would never have even one more day by their side. The confusion quickly began to reshape itself into anger. How could this woman be so indifferent to her mother? So unwilling to even consider a journey to see her?

If Byleth sensed the darkness growing in him, her expression did not show it. “Enough of this. Go back to the White Lady,” she ordered, her eyes flashing. “Tell her I don’t know what she wants from me, but I know enough not to come, and she shouldn’t bother.”

Something dark began to rise in Dimitri, began to wind through him like a wicked vine. He felt his heartbeat pound in his ears, felt his upper lip curl in a snarl. He stepped forward, holding her gaze, all but daring her to back away. When she held her ground, he took another step forward, looming over her deliberately as he looked down at her. “I am not yours to dismiss,” he growled.

It happened so quickly Dimitri did not have time to react. He’d half-forgotten that Byleth had a broken sword in her hand, but suddenly the flat of the shattered blade was raised to his face, resting against his cheek, the metal cold and rough against his face.

Her eyes widened in shock. “You’re mortal. ”

Furious, Dimitri reached out to seize her wrist with his right hand, yanking the blade away from him, pushing her away even as his grip tightened around her arm. He stood there with his right hand wrapped around her right wrist, staring at her around the shattered blade. If his fingers pained her, she did not show it; she merely glared back at him, her eyes narrowing.

“It will take more than a touch of iron to be rid of me.” His voice was low and strange in his ears. 

For a moment, he contemplated reaching for her, subduing her, taking her back to the White Lady whether she wanted to go or not. But he remembered the way Byleth had moved in battle, the strength and speed with which she wielded her sword. He could also feel something as he held her wrist—a faint hum of energy, a coil of power within her, something that felt like all the strangest and most dangerous parts of Faerie. 

Dimitri had fought hundreds of battles, emerging victorious each time, but now, a startling thought occurred to him: If he fought Byleth, he was not certain which of them would win.

And so he merely stood there, inches from her, staring down at her as liquid rage heated his chest, as he tried and failed to find some way to make this infuriating woman see that she had to— had to —come with him.

The beat of a horse’s hooves startled them both.

Byleth reacted first; she wrenched her wrist from his grasp and shoved her way past him. “Leonie!”

When Dimitri turned, he saw a red-haired woman pull the horse to a halt and all but fall from its back. The woman’s leather armor was dark with sweat and blood; a jagged gash ran down her cheek. 

Byleth only just caught the newcomer before she fell to the ground. “Leonie, are you…”

The redhead did not wait for Byleth to finish. “It’s Captain Jeralt,” she gasped, her voice little more than a raspy croak. “They captured him, By.”

Chapter Text

“It happened when we were scouting.” Leonie’s voice was low and dull. She did not meet Byleth’s eyes; instead, she picked at her blankets with her left hand, her expression miserable. Her right arm was now in a sling, with thick bandages covering her right shoulder and hand.

“We were careful. We’re always careful, you know that. But suddenly…” Leonie drew a shuddering breath. “You’re going to think I’ve gone mad, By. But we walked and walked and heard nothing, then all of a sudden there was a woman with red hair—not red like mine, red like paint. We fought her for a bit. Then two men came—an old man with a walking stick, and a man with long brown hair wearing a red earring. The man with the earring—he waved his hand, and I swear, By, I swear it happened this way. Fire just… appeared. In a perfect circle all around us.”

Byleth felt a cold rush of certainty. Nabateans. Dread filled her chest, made her heart thump against her ribs. “I believe you.”

“I think they were going to kill us. But then the man with the red earring said he knew Captain Jeralt. Said they should keep him alive and take him to Fhirdiad, that Cornelia would find him useful. And then the Captain—he shoved me past the fire and told me to run, told me to find you and warn you. So I ran.” Her face crumpled. “I ran until I found a horse, and now I’m here.”

Byleth felt as if she were standing outside herself, as if her consciousness had floated away and she was watching what was happening from an unfathomable distance. What she and Jeralt did was dangerous; he had always been blunt about the risks of mercenary work. But this—this was different.

She had not realized until this moment just how much she had trusted her father to keep her safe from Faerie. Now Jeralt had been captured, and he was being carried further and further away from her, bound for Fhirdiad and a meeting with a notoriously brutal enemy. 

To make matters worse, one of her grandmother’s mortal lackeys had found her. The man—Dimitri, he’d said his name was—had not gone so far as to try and interfere with Leonie’s care; nor had he tried to force his way into the village healer’s infirmary. But Byleth knew he was outside, lurking, waiting to pick up where they’d left off. And she felt more exposed and afraid than she’d ever been in her life.

Leonie must have seen some of Byleth’s fear in her expression, and sensed that Byleth was holding something back; when she spoke again, her voice was more like her usual decisive self. “Who were those people, Byleth? How do they know your father?”

Byleth leaned her elbows onto her knees and rubbed her hands over her face. “I don’t know for sure,” she said honestly. “But—I think they have something to do with my mother.” She grimaced. “This next part may be difficult to believe.”

Leonie let out a little huff of laughter. “After what I saw? I’m guessing I’ll believe you anyway.”

Byleth did her best to keep the story short, to confine herself to the bare facts of Sitri’s marriage to Jeralt. She wasn’t sure if that made her story sound less outlandish, or more. But Leonie just nodded, taking in the story with the same calm acceptance with which she greeted new battle tactics.

“Jeralt had heard rumors about Cornelia and her people,” Byleth finished finally; she ran both hands over her face, simultaneously relieved and exhausted to have shared so much. “It’s why he didn’t want me to come to Faerghus.”

“I knew there was nothing wrong with your leg,” Leonie said, a faint hint of triumph in her voice. The satisfaction quickly faded from her face. “Just like the Captain, to keep you out of danger.” 

Byleth did not think Leonie had intended to blame her, but she felt guilt twist her stomach nonetheless. “I’ll find him, Leonie. I swear it.”

“Even the Ashen Demon has her limits, Byleth,” Leonie said bluntly. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see what these people can do. Captain Jeralt said to give you a warning, not a suicide mission.”

Byleth sat up and crossed her arms, glaring stubbornly at her friend. “If our places were reversed, and I was the one who’d ridden back to warn you, you’d already be on that horse heading out of the village.”

Leonie wrinkled her nose. “You know me too well. I still don’t think you should go. At least wait for me to—” Suddenly, she hissed in pain, pressing her left hand to her side. “—heal,” she finished, through gritted teeth.

Byleth’s eyes grew wide and alarmed. “Your side…”

“A few more burns. And a broken rib.” Leonie scowled. “I’ve had worse.”

“You need to rest. And someone’s got to stay here in case more of my grandmother’s people come out of the woods.” Byleth let out a worried breath. “The village will need iron weapons. Lots of them.”

“That reminds me. Who’s the blond guy who followed us back here?” Leonie’s eyes darted at the door, as if she’d only just remembered the very large man who was probably eavesdropping on them.

“He’s one of my grandmother’s people. Mortal, unfortunately, so the iron trick won’t work on him.” Byleth scowled. “But maybe he knows who has my father.”

Dimitri could hear voices inside the healer’s cottage, dim and indistinct. From what he could hear, Byleth’s friend would recover—but he could not fault Byleth for her alarm. The red-haired woman had clearly been through a nightmare. The injuries and burns had reminded him of Duscur. He wondered if he would ever see a battle wound in the mortal world without remembering the day he should have died.

After a while, Dimitri allowed himself to sit down and rest his back against the outer wall of the healer’s home. His body was fairly vibrating with anxiety, and with another sensation that he only slowly realized was hunger. In Faerie, banquets of food were always available in the gardens in front of the Monastery; the Nabateans did not eat, exactly, but the White Lady was careful to provide for her mortal knights.

I will have to find some way to get food, Dimitri realized. The thought was more than a bit irritating. Finding food might mean letting Byleth out of his sight, and that, he was not about to do.

Before he could worry too much over his meal, however, the door to the healer’s home opened and out stepped Byleth. Whatever she had learned from her friend, it was not welcome news. Her face was pale and her eyes unhappy. Then she saw Dimitri and her expression shifted to pure fury.

“Who has my father?” she demanded. “Is it her people? Your people?”

Dimitri blinked at her, pushing himself to stand. “I—what?”

“My father. Jeralt Eisner. The White Lady’s former knight. He was captured in Faerghus by people who can make circles of fire appear out of nowhere.” Byleth’s fists tightened at her side. “Does the name Cornelia mean anything to you?”

For a moment, Dimitri forgot how to breathe. He felt as if he’d frozen to the spot where he stood. As if the shock of hearing that name from Byleth’s lips might actually kill him there and then. Cornelia. She was involved in this? But—how?

Byleth saw his reaction and misread it. “Ah, so you do recognize the name. Friend of my grandmother’s? And yours?” she asked snidely.

That shook Dimitri from his frozen horror. “Don’t jest about things you don’t understand.” His hand tightened around his lance. “I do know the name. But she is the furthest thing I have from a friend. And she is not one of the White Lady’s people.”

Byleth crossed her arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How do you know?”

“Because that woman—that monster—killed my family. Here, in the mortal realm. Only the White Lady’s intervention saved my life.”

Silence fell between them. 

“Oh.” Byleth’s expression softened. “I’m—I’m sorry. Truly.”

He had not expected sympathy from her, and it put Dimitri off-balance. The Nabateans had often told him they were sorry for his loss, but it had been a remote sort of condolence, offered because they thought he wanted to hear it rather than out of any true understanding. And the other mortal Knights seldom spoke of what had brought them to Faerie and the White Lady’s service. It had been years since he’d truly spoken of what had happened to someone who understood what a mortal death meant, and it brought him pain and comfort in equal measures.

“Thank you,” he replied quietly, trying to hide his reaction.

They stood in silence for a moment after that—not an awkward silence, but not precisely a comfortable one either. Byleth broke it first. “So if the White Lady isn’t helping Cornelia and her friends, how did they summon the flames that burned Leonie? My father always said the Agarthans aren't interested in mortal affairs.”

“Cornelia summoned those same flames on the day my family died,” Dimitri said shortly. “I do not know how. All I know is that she is utterly without mercy or feeling. If she cannot find a use for your father, she will kill him without hesitation.”

Byleth’s mouth tightened. “Then I’m going to find him. You are going back to the White Lady.”

Once more, Dimitri felt a mixture of frustration and fury, a combination of emotions that Byleth seemed uniquely skilled at triggering within him. “I have already told you, I am not yours to dismiss.”

“And I am not a carpet you can throw over your shoulder and take wherever you please,” Byleth shot back. She glared at him, her eyes narrow and her jaw set. “For the last time, I’m not going to Faerie. Cornelia has my father. I’m going to save him. If you get in my way, I will cut you down. Are we clear?”

Dimitri felt his grip tighten around his lance as he felt everything threaten to spiral out of his control. He had to bring this woman to the White Lady; every hope he had for revenge rested on it. If he failed, he would spend eternity in Faerie knowing he had failed everyone who had ever loved him. Knowing that the woman who murdered them walked free in the mortal realm. He only had ten days before his revenge was forfeit.

And then suddenly, Dimitri saw a solution.

Ten days. I have ten days in the mortal realm. Ten days before the White Lady owns my life and loyalty.

Ten days to make Cornelia pay.

It would be difficult. Fhirdiad was a week’s ride away. But if Dimitri traveled swiftly, it could be done. He could kill Cornelia before his ten days were up. If he succeeded, then whether or not he managed to take Byleth to Faerie would be irrelevant. The White Lady would own his life and loyalty, true, but Dimitri knew he could fight many lifetimes at her side if he knew his parents had been avenged. 

He nearly ended the conversation with Byleth right then, nearly set off to take Cornelia’s head without a further word. But… when had imagined the day he would return to kill his enemy, he had imagined carrying whatever weapons the White Lady gave him into battle. He had not yet earned such a weapon; he had only his own skills to rely on. Meanwhile, Cornelia had thousands of soldiers, her own dark powers, and apparently more sorcerers by her side. Reaching her and killing her was a task that would strain even Dimitri’s considerable abilities.

But here in front of him, glaring at him with crossed arms, was a potential ally. 

Cornelia had Byleth’s father. Dimitri wanted Cornelia dead. And however Byleth felt about her grandmother, or about him, she was more than skilled. The two of them together might just be able to undertake this nearly impossible quest.

Dimitri took a breath, wondering how to try to strike this bargain with her, hoping against hope that she might accept. “What if I offered you my aid?” he asked, trying to make his voice calmer, more even than it had been.

Byleth shook her head with a humorless laugh. “I can guess exactly what your help would cost: A promise that I’ll go to Faerie. You won’t get that promise, Dimitri. I don’t need you.”

“My aid would cost you nothing but a truce,” he replied, emotion turning his voice rough. “As I’ve said, I have business with Cornelia. Allow me to ride with you. We can search for both of them, for your father and my enemy. If you help me find Cornelia and slay her, I swear on my father’s name that I will return to your grandmother empty-handed, and without a fight.”

Byleth crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side, slowly, considering what he offered. “If I have to choose between helping you find Cornelia and saving my father, I’m going to choose my father,” she warned.

“I did not expect anything different.” Dimitri, too, crossed his arms and met her gaze with an unspoken challenge in his eye. “And if I must choose between helping you save your father and giving that woman the end she deserves, I will choose her death without hesitation.”

Byleth closed her eyes for a moment. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” she said, half under her breath. “But—you have a deal.” She inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders, then stuck her hand out towards him. 

Dimitri shook it in his—once, quickly, ending the contact as soon as he was able. Touching this woman was unsettling. “Let us find a pair of horses, then. We cannot waste any more time.”

Chapter Text

What have I done?

That was the thought that kept running through Byleth’s mind as she packed her things back at Leonie’s room. Why had she accepted Dimitri’s bargain? Why was she allowing one of her grandmother’s people to come with her on such a delicate mission? 

Dad’s going to give me an earful, she thought ruefully as she shoved another pair of clean socks into an empty space in her knapsack.

Not for the first time, she wondered if she should attempt to lose Dimitri on the road. But then she remembered Leonie’s injuries, remembered the frightened look in her friend’s eyes as she told the story of Jeralt’s capture. And she remembered how Dimitri had fought—how he had wielded his lance with a speed and precision she’d never seen in all of her years as a mercenary.

She couldn’t turn down his help. Not with Jeralt’s life at stake.

With her clothing packed, Byleth looked over at Dimitri, who had taken a seat in the room’s sole chair. There was a weariness in his expression that felt unexpected; he was slumped a bit in the chair, his face pale and his eyes tired. He had seemed so untouchable in battle, so unyielding in their arguments, but right now he looked like nothing more than a man who needed a very long nap. 

Even after learning he was mortal, she had seen him only as one of the White Lady’s people—an enemy. Now, for the first time, she wondered who he had been before Faerie. Why Cornelia had killed his family. What bargain her grandmother had offered him, and why he had accepted.

He seemed to sense her scrutiny; his face hardened and his posture straightened as he turned his head towards her. “Are you ready?” he asked curtly.

Byleth nearly said something cutting in reply. She caught it on the tip of her tongue just in time. I’m going to be traveling with him. It won’t do Dad any good to pick a fight. “Almost. Only the food is left.”

As she pulled her foodstuffs onto Leonie’s table to wrap the ones that would travel well, Byleth heard a low gurgle come from somewhere in the room. She turned her head to see Dimitri looking away, a red blush rising on his pale face. 

That was his stomach, she realized, torn between amusement and surprise. 

Out of instinct, she reached for a small loaf of bread and held it out to him. “Here.” 

Dimitri looked at it with undisguised longing, but did not reach for it. “Keep your food. I am fine.”

“You’re hungry,” Byleth corrected, trying not to roll her eyes. “And if you faint from hunger, I’m not lifting you back on your horse.” She shook the loaf insistently.

After a pause, Dimitri accepted the bread.

While her reluctant ally sat and ate, Byleth finished her packing. He was taking the last bite as she tied her knapsack shut, and as she lifted it onto her shoulders, she heard Dimitri clear his throat. “Here. You will want this as well.”

Byleth looked up at him. Dimitri was holding the white sword out towards her, hilt first.

Disgust—or, possibly, terror—ran through Byleth’s entire body. “No. I don’t want it.”

“And if we need the power it offers in order to save your father?” Dimitri challenged.

“Then you can use it.” But even as she said those words, Byleth knew that was not a solution.

“It will not have the same power in my hands. And you know that.” Dimitri narrowed his eye impatiently. “You are willing to risk death or worse to find your father. This tool could make the difference between failure and success. Are you truly so stubborn that you…”

Byleth reached for the sword and took it from his hands. Partly to stop him before he finished that sentence, but mostly because she knew he was right. Maybe this weapon came with strings; maybe using it would tie her closer to her grandmother. But if its power could help save Jeralt, she would never forgive herself if she did not have it at the ready. 

I won’t use it unless I have to, she promised herself.

But setting that limitation brought her little peace of mind. With her father’s life at stake, she knew it would not take much to make her desperate.

For the first several hours of their trip, Dimitri and Byleth rode in silence. They kept as far apart from one another as they could on the road, drawing closer only to let other travelers pass. The silence was not hostile, but it was filled with unease. He could not say why, but he found himself looking over at Byleth again and again, studying her profile with his remaining eye, looking for hints of Lady Sitri’s welcoming smile and gentle nature in her daughter’s face. He found little of it. Byleth radiated an eerie calm as she rode, her posture straight and chin high, her eyes scanning the road for any warning signs of trouble.

And then suddenly, she turned her head and met his gaze full-on. She arched a wry eyebrow. “This is getting awkward, you know. All this silence and staring.”

“Is it?” Dimitri shrugged, though an unexpected shock of embarrassment ran through him. “I am afraid I am not skilled at the art of small talk.”

“I’m not either.” She returned his shrug with one of her own. “But it’s going to take us a week to get to Fhirdiad. Are we really going to say nothing to each other the entire time? We’re at least going to have to talk tactics at some point. You’re good with that lance. What other weapons can you use?”

“I am skilled with a sword and passable with a bow.” Dimitri felt himself relax slightly; this was ground on which he was comfortable. “Axes… are a struggle, though I can wield one if required. And you?”

“I’ll always choose a sword if I have the option. I’m fairly good with a bow. I can use a lance or an axe if I have to.” Her mouth thinned ruefully. “I should have asked Leonie if I could borrow her bow. Maybe we can barter for one in the next town we find.”

“A good thought.” Dimitri nodded approvingly. “A ranged weapon will give us options, should we need to breach a prison or the castle.”

Byleth’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Look at that. We’ve been talking for nearly a minute and we haven’t argued with each other.”

He let out a little huff of laughter. “Indeed. I suppose congratulations are in order.” 

He meant to continue the conversation with a light remark—something about the weather, perhaps, or further questions about her training. Instead, a far weightier query passed his lips. 

“Why do you fear your grandmother?”

Byleth’s lips parted in surprise. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and he braced himself to be told that it was none of his business. But instead, she watched him in silence for a moment, clearly weighing how to answer.

Finally, she spoke. “Because my parents do. She apparently had some sort of plan for me—something she wouldn’t explain to my mom or dad.” She smiled slightly. “But I suppose you’re going to tell me that of course the White Lady could never have anything other than my best interests in mind. That there could not possibly be any danger to me in Faerie, whatever my parents said.”

Dimitri had to pause for a long while, deciding what to say in response. 

“I owe my life to the White Lady,” he said at last. “She is a beloved ruler. The Nabateans look to her for guidance and protection and have for as long as any of them can remember. In my experience, she acts only with the good of her realm in mind. Her greatest goal is to keep her people safe.”

Byleth tilted her head curiously. “That’s a careful answer.” She paused, her teeth worrying her lower lip for just a moment. “But you didn’t say I would be safe there.”

It would have been so easy to claim that he had misspoken, that she had misunderstood, that her parents must have been wrong in their suspicions. To tell her that the White Lady only wanted her beloved granddaughter at her side, only wanted to see Lady Sitri smile for the first time since her return. To tell Byleth that of course she would be safe in Faerie.

But Dimitri had witnessed the Lady’s rage at those who defied her orders. Had watched her banish former subjects to the dark, shifting lands outside her realm to be at the mercy of the Agarthans. Had seen her make ruthless decisions in battle, sacrificing some subjects for a more total victory over her hated enemy. And though he was certain that the White Lady loved Lady Sitri, he also suspected that Lady Sitri knew her mother better than anyone.

If Sitri thought her mother a danger to Byleth… every instinct Dimitri possessed told him that Sitri was probably right.

“No,” Dimitri admitted softly. “No, I did not say I thought you would be safe there.”

Byleth nodded, and made no reply.

On the third day of their journey, they began seeing the refugees.

Wagon after wagon passed them on the road, loaded with people and belongings. More travelers came on foot, carrying heavy packs that threatened to tip them over. Parents held their childrens’ hands; younger people aided older. Fear and desperation and despair clung to the travelers like a cloud.

It did not take Byleth long to conclude that they were drawing closer to something very, very bad. 

“Where are you coming from?” she asked one young couple, a pair of men clasping hands, holding fast to each other as they carried their heavy packs down the road.

The taller of the two men glanced at his partner, who paused to study Byleth before shrugging. The two of them held a silent conversation with their eyes before the taller one replied. 

“Charon territory. The Count rose his banner against Cornelia. You can see the results of that wise decision.” There was a world of bitterness in his words. “Everything we had is gone. Razed. All of it.”

Byleth felt herself go cold; her fingers clutched the reins of her horse reflexively, as though a tighter grip could be a guard against what was happening. Next to her, Dimitri looked as horrified as she felt, his face pale and his jaw tight with anger.

“You should probably turn back,” the shorter man warned them. “We heard the Fraldarius forces were moving to intercept the witch’s army. Things are going to get bloody up that way.”

“I wish we could heed your warning,” Byleth said, shaking her head. “And I wish we could help.”

“A kind wish, stranger. But Faerghus is beyond help.” The expression on the taller man’s face was so weary, so hopeless, that Byleth felt her throat thicken with tears.

She and Dimitri rode on in silence, leaving the couple further and further behind. When they were alone again, with no sounds of footsteps or wheels approaching, she heard him clear his throat.

“I will make that woman pay.”

The words were spoken so low that they should have been hard to make out. But every syllable had a sharp, knifelike clarity; every sound vibrated with rage. Byleth had thought him angry when she refused to accompany him to Faerie. His response to her after their first battle together, however, had been a mere temper tantrum compared to the cold, all-encompassing fury she sensed from him now.

“You’re from Faerghus, aren’t you?”

“Would I need to be from Faerghus to despise the suffering Cornelia has wrought?” he shot back.

“No,” Byleth admitted. “But she’s been operating in Faerghus for years, and you said she killed your family.”

“So I did.” Dimitri’s tone, clipped and brusque, did not invite further inquiries.

A suspicion began to bubble at the back of Byleth’s mind. They killed his kid, too, Jeralt had said, speaking of the King before Rufus, of the way that King had died ten years ago. A handsome young Prince, near death, with no other hope left… he would have been just the sort of person who appealed to her grandmother.

She nearly voiced her suspicions, nearly demanded to know if she was speaking to the throne’s rightful heir. But though the coldness between them had begun to thaw somewhat, she could tell that this was not a subject Dimitri wished to discuss. And in the end, it did not truly matter who he’d been before, what rank he’d held. 

What mattered was reaching Fhirdiad so that they could save her father.

“Let’s press on further before we make camp,” she said, though the sun had only just began to touch the horizon, and it was early for a discussion of resting for the night. “We can cover a few more miles before it’s too dark to move safely.”

“Very well.” Dimitri cleared his throat, his relief at the change in topic clear. “A few more miles, then.”

Dimitri slept uneasily that night.

Sleep in the mortal realm had been a struggle. After a decade in Faerie, he was unused to the pressure of a rock against his back, or being too cold or too hot. He was certainly not used to having to trust a near-stranger to stand watch while he rested. 

But tonight it was his mind that tormented him. With guilt, and shame, and questions that he could not answer.

It would take seven days to reach Fhirdiad. His time would be nearly spent by the time they reached Cornelia’s domain. What would he do if the sun rose on the tenth day and the witch was not yet dead?

Should that come to pass, I will do what I must, he decided grimly. Byleth will go with me to Faerie, willing or no—or I will die in the attempt to take her there. She is my ally for now, but my duty is to the dead. They must be avenged whatever the cost.

And yet the thought sat uneasily, like a grain of sand underneath a plate of armor. Even assuming he could force Byleth to return with him to Faerie—and he was not certain he would win a confrontation between them, if it came to that—he could not say he liked the idea. 

If the circumstances had been different, he realized, he would have wanted to be her friend. He would have admired the bravery he witnessed on the day they met, her skill with her sword, her obvious care for her father and her friend, the slight curve of her mouth when she made a joke. 

Was Dimitri truly the sort of man to deliver her to an unknown fate? 

And yet… and yet. If Cornelia lived, it was not just Dimitri’s revenge that would be forfeit. Faerghus itself would be lost. Dimitri could not be their Prince any more, let alone their King. But Cornelia’s death could end this war. Did he not owe it to the people he had once thought of as his own to deliver them from the devastation that lay ahead—even if their lives came at the price of Byleth’s freedom? 

He found no answers, and little sleep.

If Byleth noticed the dark circles and haggard lines of his face the next morning, she did not mention them. She merely offered him a share of the breakfast she had cooked, bread warmed  on a rock near the fire and a slab of dried meat. Dimitri accepted it with gratitude; though he could not say he looked forward to the taste of the food, his stomach was gnawing at him again.

“I’m afraid it’s probably not what you’re used to,” Byleth said with one of her faint smiles, as Dimitri tore at the dried meat with his teeth. “My father hates trail rations. I think it’s half the reason he learned to fish, so that he could have something fresh on the road.”

She was trying to make conversation, Dimitri realized with some surprise. He was even more surprised when he realized he wished to return the courtesy.

“Did your father teach you to fish, as well?”

She nodded. “My mother, too. We used to go together as a family.” Her mouth quirked ruefully. “But always in the valley. Never in the woods.”

Dimitri did not know what to say to that, and so he changed the subject. “Your father taught you to fight as well, I assume? Did he always intend for you to be a mercenary?”

She shook her head, pushing a loose lock of blue-black hair behind her ear. “I don’t think so. I didn’t ride out with him on mercenary jobs until after my mother… uh, left. But taking me with him seemed like the best way to keep me safe, I think.”

“He must be skilled, if the White Lady accepted him as one of her knights,” Dimitri said tentatively, unsure if Byleth would view this as a compliment.

But she nodded and seemed to take it in the spirit he’d intended. “He is. My mother said he was the bravest of the knights, in fact.” She smiled. “Though Mom may not have been an objective source when it came to my father.”

Dimitri chuckled. “I suppose not.”

A shadow passed over Byleth’s face, and she looked down at her hands, turning the last bite of her breakfast over in her fingers. “Will you—could you tell her I love her? When you return? Tell her that—that it’s not that I don’t want to go to her. I do. I’d give almost anything to see her. But I—I know she wouldn’t want me to go there.”

The guilt and turmoil in Dimitri’s chest burned so bright he thought it might split him open. “I… will tell her so, when I see her next.”

It was midday on the fourth day when they found the ruins of the village in Charon territory. They smelled the ash, first, carried on morning winds from the still-heated wreckage of the town. Soon after they glimpsed the smoke, rising into the sky. 

Only when they grew close, however, did the full scale of the devastation became clear. An entire town had been reduced to little more than rubble. From a distance, the shattered stones might have been mistaken for a natural phenomenon, or perhaps a quarry. But when she looked more closely, Byleth saw signs of what these piles of rocks had once been. A church, its pews burned to ash. A bakery, its oven still mostly intact, but its flour stores burned. A house with a child’s doll lying abandoned in the wreckage. All of it was still smoking from the fire, and Byleth was not sure if the tears that stung her eyes were the result of the smoke, or of the heartbreaking sight.

Amidst this wreckage, they found an army.

Forces flying the Fraldarius banner were making camp amidst the ashes, digging trenches, planting stakes to deter horses, raising hastily-constructed platforms for their archers. And amid all of the bright blue Fraldarius crests, Byleth saw a more familiar sigil: the broken sword atop a field of orange, the symbol of Jeralt’s Mercenaries.

“We should stop,” she told Dimitri, squinting at the men and women making camp. “They may have news. It’s possible they’ve tried to ransom my father, or have heard more about where he’s been taken.”

“Your friend said he was bound for Fhirdiad, was he not?” Dimitri challenged, his shoulders stiffening.

“That was their initial plan. But plans change in war,” Byleth said simply. “I don’t want to get to Fhirdiad only to learn that Jeralt’s somewhere else entirely. It won’t take long, I promise.”

Dimitri’s mouth tightened in resignation. “I… very well.”

He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of moving among the army, and she assumed he would wait at the road for her to return. But to her surprise, when she dismounted, he did as well; he guided his horse after hers, following her lead as she looked around the camp for someone who might be able to answer her questions. And she did not mind.

She had dreaded his company when they started out. It was startling to realize that she now welcomed it. He was one of the White Lady’s people; she could not forget that. But he was also a mortal, one clearly haunted by what Cornelia had done to his family, one driven to rage by the suffering the would-be Queen had inflicted. She felt oddly protective of him—and strangely comforted by being around someone who knew Faerie even more intimately than she did.

It would be unwise to trust him. But surely, Byleth thought, it was not such a bad thing to like him.

“Halt! Name yourselves, strangers.”

Byleth froze her steps and looked for the sound of the voice, trying to appear non-threatening. “My name is Byleth Eisner,” she called back, as a small group of elegantly armored soldiers emerged from a nearby tent. “My father, Jeralt Eisner, is the leader of…”

“Jeralt’s Mercenaries. I know.”

The words came from the last man to emerge from the tent, a slim, dark-haired swordsman with sharp features and an irritated expression. The man looked at Byleth and Dimitri with narrowed eyes, evaluating them carefully before continuing.

“I’m Felix Fraldarius. My father hired your people. You’d better come with me.”

Chapter Text

Dimitri did the best he could to keep the shock from his face as he followed Byleth and Felix—Felix. Felix Fraldarius. Dear Goddess—into the camp’s largest tent. 

When he’d last seen his childhood friend, Felix had been a skinny scrap of a teenager, skilled with a sword but small for his age, often trailing behind his older and taller brother Glenn. Now Felix was nearly the spitting image of Kyphon himself, a dark-haired warrior with a shining silver sword behind his shoulder. His deep teal cloak rippled behind him as he walked through the camp; his long, dark hair was pulled behind his head in a high ponytail that would keep it out of the way during battle. 

Dimitri had never expected to see Felix again, and could not begin to describe the torrent of emotions that surged through him now that they were less than six feet from each other.

Once the three of them were alone in the command tent, Felix wasted no time on pleasantries. “So. You’re Eisner’s kid. And who’s this?” He jerked his chin towards Dimitri, though his gaze was still on Byleth.

He does not recognize me. Dimitri was torn between relief and pain at the thought. “My name is Alex,” he lied—uneasily, for he knew he was a poor actor. He wondered how Byleth would react to the false name, but she appeared unperturbed by the lie. 

“He’s new to the company,” Byleth added, perhaps sensing that Dimitri was struggling to account for himself. Her eyes bore into Felix’s face, as if searching him for clues. “You said you had news of my father?”

“Yes. And it’s not good.” Felix had apparently grown no less blunt since his teenage years. “Our intelligence reports indicate that he’s been captured.”

“I know,” Byleth replied, her tone calm, though Dimitri could see tension at the edges of her mouth and eyes. “It’s why I’m here. I’m hoping to find word of where he’s been taken. I’ve heard rumors he’s being taken to Fhirdiad, but…”

“Your rumors are wrong,” Felix interrupted, crossing his arms. “That may have been the plan, but Cornelia’s people weren’t counting on the Gautier forces coming south this fast. We’ve got them pinned down. Our spies report that Jeralt Eisner was last spotted being taken into the Charon estate, where Cornelia’s people have made their base. Unless they’ve managed to sneak him through the northern line, he’s probably still there.”

Dimitri felt time stop for a moment. Byleth’s father was still here. Close enough for them to rescue within a day—possibly a matter of hours.

And if she succeeded, what became of their bargain? Would he have to make for Fhirdiad alone? 

Felix looked at Byleth and narrowed his eyes. “I hope I won’t regret telling you that. You look like you might be planning something stupid, like a rescue.”

Byleth raised her chin defiantly. “I’m not planning anything I couldn’t carry off.”

Felix huffed out a laugh; it might have been mistaken for a scoff, but Dimitri recognized the amused crinkle at the corner of his old friend’s eyes. “Heh. You’re as cocky as your old man”

“Not quite, but I’ll accept the compliment.” The now-familiar faint smile curved Byleth’s lips. 

“As much as I hate to hold this over you, Eisner, Fraldarius coin is still paying Jeralt’s Mercenaries for their blades,” Felix said bluntly. “And I can’t spare your people, not with the battle that’s ahead. So either you pay back the pile of gold I gave your father, or you’re on your own.”

Dimitri felt a surge of annoyance with Felix that he knew was not fair. His old friend was commanding an army, trying to preserve Faerghus from the threat that Cornelia and her people posed. Felix needed every last sword he could secure. But it still rankled to hear him deny Byleth help she hadn’t even asked for.

But Byleth simply nodded. “I expected as much.” She squared her shoulders and looked Felix in the eye. “I’m going to rescue my father, Lord Fraldarius. But I won’t ask you for backup, and I won’t make my move until the battle begins and Cornelia’s people are distracted. Acceptable?”

“Acceptable.” Felix inclined his head. “I’ll grant you access to what intelligence we have. In the meantime, you can put up your horses with ours for the night and find a bed in our tents. We’ll engage the witch’s armies at first light.”

The conversation ended soon after that. Byleth accepted Felix’s offer to take her to his spymaster; Dimitri was left alone to see to the horses. He took one set of reins in each hand and walked them over, feeling a strange heaviness in his chest.

He had been panicked that Felix would recognize him. He knew it was ridiculous to be disappointed. And yet… and yet, he felt it all the same. 

He tried to banish those feelings by focusing on the task at hand. It had been years since Dimitri took care of a mortal mount; the horses in Fae appeared and vanished at Rhea’s command. Dimitri hoped that there would be grooms to take the animals from him—there had always been someone to help him with his horse, back when he’d been Prince of Faerghus—but the men and women in the stables were frantically busy, running back and forth, all occupied with some job or another.

So Dimitri watched what they did and did his best to imitate it. He removed the saddles and blankets, offered the animals oats, checked the trough of water in the stable that would be theirs for the night. He was contemplating whether he ought to attempt to check their feet when he heard someone clearing their voice behind him.

“Alex, was it?”

Felix.

Dimitri spun around as his stomach froze to ice. “L-lord Fraldarius,” he managed. After an awkward pause, he realized that someone of his supposed station would bow—and so, of course, he bowed far too low in his haste to cover for his mistake. 

If Felix minded the discourtesy, he did not show it. “I have a question for you, Alex.” 

He stepped into the stall, glancing around as he did so. He seemed to be looking to see if anyone was listening, but only silence followed his statement. Then, without warning, Felix seized Dimitri by the front of the shirt and shoved him up against the stall’s wooden wall. The flimsy construction rattled and threatened to tilt over, but Felix didn’t seem to care. His narrow features were tight with fury; two red spots of color were blooming on his cheekbones.

“What kind of idiot,” Felix snarled, “uses his own middle name as an alias?”

Dimitri felt his heart drop into his feet. He parted his lips to reply, but no sound came out. 

“You thought I wouldn’t recognize you? That a lousy eyepatch would be enough to make me forget the man my brother died for?” Felix’s upper lip curled in disdain; his fist tightened in Dimitri’s clothes. “This is your throne we’re trying to defend. Your throne Cornelia’s trying to steal out from under us. You could have ended all of this months ago. Years ago! You’re alive, and you’ve done nothing to stop this? Where the hell have you been ?”

Felix was keeping a tight leash on his anger. His voice never rose above a low murmur. But Dimitri could feel his friend shaking with the force of his rage, and could not blame him.

“I… you would not believe where I’ve been,” Dimitri began.

“Try me,” Felix snarled. “You owe me that. You owe all of us that.”

For a moment, Dimitri felt certain that he could not do as Felix asked. The story of where he’d been, how he had survived, was too strange—hardheaded, practical Felix would dismiss it out of hand. But it was the truth, and it was all that he had to offer Felix. 

And so he began in the woods in Duscur, on the day he should have died.

As he spoke, Felix’s hand slowly loosened in his shirt; Felix drew back slowly, studying Dimitri’s face in silence, taking in the tale. Dimitri could sense no reaction from his friend—not disbelief, not skepticism, not scorn. But nor did he sense understanding or sympathy. 

He suspected, based on what Felix had said, that what his old friend was looking for was not merely an explanation of where he had been for the past decade. The rebels’ fight would go far more easily if Duke Rodrigue and his allies could put forward a claimant to the throne. Felix wanted to know if Dimitri could serve such a purpose.

Perhaps that was why Dimitri omitted one small detail of his story. He made no mention of the ten years and ten days; he simply said that he owed the White Lady his service, and left it at that. There were too many unknowns to face in the coming days. And even if he somehow brought Byleth to Faerie and was released from his bargain, he was no longer fit to be a King. He had spent too long in Faerie, too long focused on nothing but his revenge. Best if Felix accepted now that Dimitri Blaiddyd would never sit on his father’s throne.

“... and, that is where things stand,” Dimitri finished, letting out a breath. “I have only a handful of days to pay my debt to the dead before the White Lady requires my return. I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to kill Cornelia before my time is up.”

“And after that?” Felix asked sharply, crossing his arms and glaring up at Dimitri. “Once the witch is dead. You plan to just… go back to that place?”

Dimitri turned his palms up in a helpless sort of shrug. “I would not call it a plan, precisely. But the terms of my agreement with the White Lady were clear. My life is hers.”

Felix shook his head. Then shook it again, more vigorously. “Pathetic,” he spat, stabbing a finger at Dimitri’s chest. “Faerghus falls to ruin all around us, and that’s all you can muster? ‘My life is hers?’ You will simply walk back to this—this Faerie-realm , knowing what you leave behind? And you won’t even try to find another way?”

“With Cornelia dead…” Dimitri began.

“With Cornelia dead, the Western lords will take up her cause.” Felix scowled. “They’ll squabble amongst themselves over who to put forward as their new claimant, but someone will rise to the top eventually. And then the war will go on.” His jaw tensed and his expression grew dark. “We’ll win, of course. But not without cost. Not without a hundred more villages turned to rubble, and thousands more of our people—your people—turned into refugees.”

He drew a shuddering breath, and with a start, Dimitri realized that Felix was close to tears. “We hoped, you know. When no one found your body, we hoped. I think my father still hopes. So do Sylvain and Ingrid.” His jaw clenched. “I never did. Do you know why? Because I thought that if you lived, you would never abandon your duty.” 

He snorted, though his heart didn’t seem to be in it. “You were always going on and on about your responsibilities as Prince. Apparently you didn’t mean it.”

Dimitri cast his eye down at his boots. “I am sorry, Felix.” He meant it with every fiber of his being, and still, he knew how pitiful an offering those words were.

“ Bah ,” Felix snarled. “Take your sorry somewhere it might matter. If you won’t fight for Faerghus? I want you out of my sight.”

Dimitri did not raise his head, and so he did not watch Felix walk away. He merely heard his old friend’s feet shift in the dirt, heard him take the first steps away.

And then, he paused. “The woman. Eisner. Does she know who you really are? Or did you lie to her, too?”

“I…” Dimitri swallowed. “I did not tell her, no.”

“Good. I liked her. I’d hate to think she’d work with you if she knew what a miserable waste you were.”

And with that, Felix was gone.

Byleth listened to the Fraldarius agents explain what they’d found, the rumors they’d heard, the evidence they’d gathered. All of it pointed to the same conclusion: Jeralt had not been taken to Fhirdiad. He was here in Charon—a captive of Cornelia’s army, true, but so much closer than she had believed.

Tomorrow. I can rescue him tomorrow.

That was the thought that rang through Byleth’s head as she settled onto her cot for the night, one of two in a narrow barracks tent that the Fraldarius quartermaster had offered her and Dimitri. She knew she would sleep poorly, if at all; their situation had changed so quickly, and her mind was practically on fire with the knowledge that her father would soon be safe. But she knew she had to try to rest—she would have to be at her best when the sun rose the next morning.

She had only just unlaced her boots when Dimitri lifted the tent flap and moved inside.

Byleth suddenly became very aware of just how close the two cots were to one another. They did not touch; they would not technically be sharing a bed. But they were close enough that she could reach out and touch his shoulder if she needed to wake him, and somehow, that thought put her off-balance.

Only then did she notice Dimitri’s expression. His eye was red and his face was pale; he looked as if his mind were a thousand miles away. Byleth felt her brows draw down in puzzlement. Has he heard more about what’s happening in Faerghus?

“Dimitri? What is it?”

He ran a hand over his face. “I—bah. I hardly know where to begin.” His voice was low and unsteady. “Byleth, I… there is something I believe I must tell you.”

Byleth waited expectantly, trying to be the very picture of patience. But Dimitri sank down onto his cot and rested his head in his hands, seemingly unable to continue.

And so Byleth continued for him. “Is it that you’re the rightful Prince of Faerghus?”

His head snapped up and he stared at her. “How did you…?”

Byleth shrugged. “It… made sense. The timeline. You being from Faerghus. An injured prince seemed like just the sort of person my grandmother would take an interest in.”

Dimitri flinched. “I see,” was all he said. Then, “And it does not trouble you? That I could end this war if I declared myself, and choose not to?”

That honestly hadn’t occurred to Byleth. She had been too caught up in seeing Dimitri as one of her grandmother’s people; she had not truly worked out the implications of his royal birth. She paused to turn the idea over in her head before responding. “ Could you choose to? I—I assumed you didn’t really have an option, I suppose. I assumed you’d given my grandmother your pledge of service in exchange for your life.”

Dimitri’s expression twisted into something dark. His remaining eye was fixed on his hands, which were clenched so tight that his knuckles had turned white. Byleth felt her stomach twist involuntarily—but after a moment, she realized that the darkness had nothing to do with her. Her companion’s face was filled with self-loathing. 

“If that had been the bargain, I would have turned it down,” he said after a moment. His voice was low, his shoulders hunched, and he did not look at Byleth as he spoke. “I knew even on that day that I did not deserve to live when so many others were slain. The White Lady offered me something far more valuable. In exchange for ten years and ten days in her service, she promised me revenge against the woman who murdered my family. She promised me the power to kill Cornelia.”

Byleth sat back and blinked. “I… wait. I don’t understand, Dimitri. If that was your bargain, why go after her now? Why not wait for your service to be ended?”

“Because if I fail in my current task, the White Lady will consider the bargain forfeit.” Dimitri took a deep, shuddering breath. “Your grandmother was quite clear. I must succeed in all she asks of me in order to earn her aid. If I do not, I am pledged to her realm and her service for as long as sees fit to use me. And I have only a handful of days left to complete my final task.”

Byleth felt the world shift around her as the pieces fell into place. She curled her fingers around the edge of her cot, clutching herself to keep her balance. “Me,” she said, her voice shaking against that single syllable. “You have to take me to her, or she gets to keep you in Faerie.”

“Just so.” Dimitri’s shoulders hunched; he seemed to curl in on himself as he spoke.

A rush of horrible dilemmas assaulted Byleth all at once. Faerghus was a Kingdom without a rightful ruler; the one claimant, Cornelia, seemed determined to pave her path to the throne with suffering and death. The Fraldarius alliance was clearly anticipating a long and brutal civil war. Bring back the long-lost Crown Prince, however, and loyalties would almost certainly shift.

But if Byleth did not go back to Faerie, Dimitri would have to remain in her grandmother’s realm—and there would be no way forward for Faerghus except for war.

As Byleth tried to find something to say next, Dimitri cast his eye up. He must have seen something of what she was thinking on her face, because he shook his head.

“If you are thinking of trading your freedom so I can return to my throne, do not,” he said roughly. “Prince Dimitri Blaiddyd died in Duscur. I am little more than his shadow, his ghost. Even if you had gone willingly to your grandmother, I would have sought to disappear after Cornelia was slain, not take my father’s place. I have spent so many years away from my country, my people. I am unfit to be King.”

“Even if you could save them from war?” Byleth pressed.

He lifted his head and met her gaze full-on, his eye intense and focused. “Do you truly wish to pay the price you propose?” he challenged. “To go to whatever fate your grandmother intends for you? To ignore the warnings your parents gave you?”

“I—no.” Byleth shook her head, confused and overwhelmed. “Of course I don’t. But I—Goddess, Dimitri. This town. The people we saw on the way over here. How can I say my life is worth more than theirs?” She swallowed as tears pricked the back of her eyes. “Maybe—perhaps my parents misunderstood.”

Dimitri let out a heavy sight. “Lady Sitri knows her mother well. I doubt that is the case.” He shook his head, a kind of dark hopelessness settling across his features. “There is, I’m afraid, no easy solution. Save for one: kill Cornelia before my time is up. Faerghus will still be without a King, but at least it will not have her for a Queen.”

Byleth tried to find a reply to that. Tried to find some way out of their knotted dilemma. She could find none. If she went to Faerie, she would face an unknown fate—one that her parents felt they had good reason to fear. But if she did not, Dimitri’s future would be forfeit, and Faerghus would pay the price.

The silence stretched on and on, growing thick and awkward between them. Finally, Dimitri shifted his frame to lay down on his cot; he turned to his side and pulled his cloak over himself, settling in as if to sleep.

And so Byleth followed his example, kicking her boots to the ground, lying down against the cot. She turned her back to Dimitri’s, faced the canvas walls of their borrowed tent. But though they were not touching, her awareness of him burned in her skin; she had the oddest sense that she could feel the heat from his body against her back, though she knew it was nonsense.

“I’ll still go with you.” The words were quiet, but they carried in the silence. “To kill Cornelia. If we rescue my father tomorrow morning. I know we thought we were both going to Fhirdiad, and now it turns out Jeralt’s not there, but… we have a deal, and I’ll honor it.”

“That is more than generous. I will… take it under advisement.” He sighed. “But it is late. We should rest if we are to go at first light.”

Byleth could find no reply save for a vague hm of agreement. They were both weary; further talk would only tire them further, and was unlikely to bring them clarity.

But even as she forced herself to close her eyes, she knew that sleep would not come easily.

Chapter Text

They woke at nearly the same moment the next morning, stirred by the sound of the army around them moving into formation. Byleth eagerly strapped her familiar iron sword to her right hip. With considerably more reluctance, she strapped the sword Dimitri had brought from her grandmother between her shoulder blades.

As the two armies moved toward each other, preparing for the clash of blades that would begin when the sun rose, Dimitri and Byleth took advantage of the darkness. Quietly, silently, they crept around the armies, crossing enemy lines, bringing the Charon manor in sight. Close to the estate, they found a place to hide on the edge of a woods, and Byleth clenched her hand around her sword’s hilt, reassuring herself that should her grandmother take this opportunity to make a move, she had iron close at hand. 

If Dimitri noticed this caution, he said nothing. His eye was fixed on the estate, watching for signs of guards, for clues as to what might await them. This was her goal, not his, but he seemed utterly focused on it, and Byleth could not help but be grateful.

As the sounds of battle rose in the distance, Byleth looked over at Dimitri and nodded. It’s time, she mouthed. 

He nodded in reply, needing no further explanation. 

The Fraldarius intelligence officers had recommended that they approach the Charon mansion through the decorative gardens. The place had once been an elaborate confection of hedge mazes and carefully pruned trees, but the current Count did not share his ancestors’ enthusiasm for gardening; it was now overgrown and snarled, with plenty of places to hide an incoming spy. Byleth and Dimitri dashed from tree to tree, from hedge to hedge, concealing themselves in the shadows and looking all around before making their next move. Aside from one distracted guard, who was muttering to himself about being left behind, they met no resistance.

The Charon manor came next. Under normal circumstances, Byleth would have marveled at this place, all carved oak and heavy carpets and delicate furniture that she knew cost more than most of her weapons. But today she cared only about getting through it, about finding the door to the cellar where Jeralt was being kept. The mansion was better-guarded than the grounds, with regular patrols pacing the main floor. But Cornelia’s forces had not left their best people behind. The guards’ armor clanged, their voices echoed through the hallways, and Byleth and Dimitri were able to evade them with ease. 

Down the stairs they went.

The shift from the opulent comfort of the first floor to the cold ugliness of the cellar was swift and jarring. A rush of wet, icy air wrapped around Byleth as she pulled the door open; beside her, she saw Dimitri shudder when the damp touched his skin. But it did not slow them down. Dimitri seized a torch from the wall, and they began their descent, stepping carefully to avoid slipping on the rough stones of the stairs.

The first room of the cellar was food storage. They picked their way past bags of potatoes and turnips, doing their best to avoid knocking anything over, focusing entirely on the door at the other end. The second door led to furniture in storage, dozens of eerie shapes concealed underneath dusty cloths.

Byleth held her breath as they opened the next door. She tried to temper her hope, tried to tell herself that it might take more time to find Jeralt, that she could not expect it to be so easy…

But then she pushed open the door and saw a man in chains, slumped against the wall, far too still.

Byleth felt her breath freeze in her chest as she studied him. She couldn’t assume… it might be someone else…

But no. She would know those broad shoulders and that distinctive thin braid anywhere. 

She ran forward, tears stinging her eyes, her fingers already reaching for a pulse. But before she could touch him, Jeralt drew the sharp breath of someone startled from sleep, and his hand darted out, catching her around the wrist. Byleth hissed in pain—her father was strong, and in his half-wakened state he’d assumed she was an enemy—but she did not cry out.

“It’s me ,” she whispered. “It’s all right, Dad. It’s me.”

Jeralt’s eyes slowly focused on Byleth’s face. “K-kid?” he whispered. “Oh, kid. No. No. No.”

It was only then that Byleth realized her father had not been alone in this room. 

The air behind her began to shimmer, as if it had been an invisible curtain—and through that invisible curtain stepped a white-skinned man, leaning on a cane, his mouth curving in a satisfied smirk. At first Byleth took him for an elderly monk, but as his face came into focus in the darkness, she realized that there was something inhuman about him; his bulbous forehead was too tall, his skin too pale, and his right eye was entirely black.

“What did I tell you, Kronya?” the man said, chuckling. 

“I hate it when you’re right, Solon.” The second voice was female, a sour soprano filled with disdain. Even before she emerged into view, Byleth knew what she would see—white skin, a black teardrop on her cheek, and hair red like paint.

Kronya looked between Byleth and Dimitri and rolled her eyes, visibly annoyed. “Ugh! Why do you mortals have to be so sentimental, coming for this pathetic old man? It’s so tiresome.” Then her eyes lit with a dark, terrifying anticipation. “But I suppose it means I’ll have some extra people to play with.”

A slow shhhing echoed in the chamber as she drew a long, curved knife from her belt.

Byleth stepped forward, placing herself between Jeralt and their enemies, taking slow breaths to calm herself as she drew her sword. Next to her, Dimitri raised his lance, settling into a ready stance, his form tense and alert as he looked from Kronya to Solon and back again. Byleth would have trusted herself and Dimitri against any two human enemies… but she’d heard Leonie’s description of her encounter with these two. This battle would not be easy.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked, trying to seem calm, indifferent. “The one with the red earring.”

“He’s busy,” Kronya said carelessly. “ He got to go to the battle.” She pouted. “I had to stay behind with the prisoner. I’m missing all those lovely screams, you know. You’ll pay for that, little girl.”

“Hold, Kronya,” Solon snapped, his face darkening. “Remember, the girl is the prize. The White Lady will give much to see her safely returned.”

Byleth’s heart skipped a beat. Who were these people? Did they work for her grandmother after all?

“Save your butchery for the boy,” Solon continued, tossing a contemptuous glance at Dimitri. “He is worthless to us.”

“Oh, but he’s not.”

The air waved and shimmered once more as a third figure appeared—a woman, voluptuous and lovely, with flowing strawberry-blonde hair and a sharp, triangular smile on her face. Next to her, Byleth heard Dimitri growl low in his throat.

“I’m afraid this one’s mine, Kronya,” the woman crooned. Her green eyes stroked Dimitri’s face with a possessive look that sent shivers down Byleth’s spine. “I’d know those Blaiddyd features anywhere. How good to see you again, my little Princeling. Goodness me, I could have sworn I killed you. Have you been hiding from me all this time?”

Dimitri did not know how to respond. He was not sure he could respond. All he could feel was the rush of hot blood in his ears, the force of his rage threatening to choke him.

Cornelia was here. 

Half unconsciously, he charged forward, swinging his lance to end the witch’s life. But he had to pull back when Cornelia raised a hand and summoned a fireball to her palm.

And suddenly Dimitri was fifteen again, standing in the woods of Duscur, watching everyone he loved die around him. 

“Ah-ah-ah, princeling,” she scolded, as he froze and tears began to cloud his vision. “Do you wish to see me use this on your friend over there?” Her smile widened when she saw his panic. “I see you remember what I can do. Good boy.”

“You must be Cornelia.” Byleth’s voice was strong and clear. Beneath her apparent calm, Dimitri could hear a vibrating thread of anger, and the sound of it brought some relief to Dimitri, made his heart stop skipping beats, reminded him that he was not alone in this room. 

“I’m glad to meet you,” Byleth continued. “I’m sorry it will be a short acquaintance.”

“Kid,” Jeralt whispered behind her. “Kid, don’t…”

But Cornelia’s laughter drowned out the warning. “Oh, but you are a delight. No wonder my benefactors have been so interested in you,” she purred. “But I sense something from you. Hmmmm. What is it? Ah yes, trouble.”

She turned to Solon and waved her hand towards Byleth. “Go on. Do what you must.”

What happened next took a matter of seconds. But to Dimitri, it felt like years.

With an inhuman speed that belied his elderly appearance, Solon struck out at Kronya with his left hand, piercing her chest with fingers as sharp as claws. Kronya howled in shock and tried to back away, but Solon held tight, lifting her from her feet, preventing any escape.

As Kronya screamed and writhed, her blood flowed up Solon’s left arm. He reached out with his right hand and pointed at Byleth. “Do not despair, girl,” he said with a wolfish grin. “The White Lady will retrieve you, I’m sure. Once we tell her where you are.” 

As a dark, crackling sphere gathered at Solon’s fingertip, Byleth dropped her iron sword to the ground and reached for the hilt of the White Lady’s blade. 

But she had not made the choice in time. A burst of dark, foul magic engulfed her, and she was gone.

Byleth was encased in darkness, cocooned in it. It wrapped itself around her like a shroud, threatened to suffocate her. She thought she screamed, but no matter how hoarse her throat felt, no sound reached her ears.

And then, suddenly, the suffocating feeling was gone. Byleth felt something solid underneath her feet—a stone floor, gray as fog. But there were no walls to go with it. She turned her head left and right, taking in her surroundings, but saw nothing but that floor extending for miles and miles into a black void.

She could not have begun to guess where she was, where Solon had sent her. But all that mattered was that she’d had her father’s hand in hers, and she had not saved him. Tears began to form in her eyes. Too late. She’d been too late. If she’d had her grandmother’s sword in her hands even ten seconds earlier…

“Oh. Oh my. What could have brought you here?”

Byleth spun around towards the sound of the voice, shock and alarm dissipating her tears. “Who’s there?”

“I do not have to explain myself to you!” the voice snapped. It was a soft voice, high, almost girlish. “You are the one who simply appeared here while I was sleeping. It is most rude to interrupt a moment of repose. Very rude indeed.”

Slowly, as Byleth stared towards the voice, something came into view, as if it had been far away but was drawing closer. It was a tall throne, made of oak and blooming vines, sitting high atop a staircase. And it was occupied by a woman who was rubbing her eyes, clearly just woken from a nap.

The woman on the throne was small and slender, with long pointed ears and dark green hair that fell in unruly locks over her shoulders and down her back nearly to her knees. Thread-thin vines with tiny white blossoms were woven through it, and the little flowers seemed to glitter like diamonds even in the black emptiness of this place. The woman’s gown was an elaborate collection of dark purple silks accented in pink, and she wore a golden chestplate and a crown decorated with more dainty white flowers.

She’s Nabatean , Byleth thought.

She should have been terrified. But her mother had told her about the White Lady so many times, had described her flowing light-green hair and her white gowns and her crown of lilies. She had also described the Faerie realm, its beauty and terror and ever-shifting nature. Byleth knew, somehow, that whatever being this was, it was not her grandmother. And whatever this place was, it was not Faerie.

The woman yawned. “Come to me. I wish to have a look at you.”

Cautiously, Byleth stepped forward. As she did, the woman’s eyes swept her up and down, assessing her with open curiosity. “A mortal! Or, nearly one. How odd! You must have a name, I suppose.”

“Byleth. Byleth Eisner.” 

The woman wrinkled her nose. “I will never accustom myself to the sound of mortal names, I suppose. I am Sothis.” She said this last part as if her name were a great gift that she bestowed on Byleth.

Byleth chanced a question. “Where am I?”

“A foolish query,” Sothis sniffed. She stood and began to descend the stairs, shaking back her long mane of hair with a toss of her head. “If I knew where you were, I would know where I was. And I do not.”

“So you’re trapped here, too.” Byleth felt bleak hopelessness rise in her chest.

“Hmmm. Trapped. Yes, I suppose that is accurate! How tiresome.” Sothis sighed dramatically, pouting and tapping her foot. “It is so difficult to go anywhere without a body.”

Byleth blinked. “I—what?”

“Such senseless sounds you make!” scolded Sothis. “My meaning was quite clear. I am trapped here. It’s because I lack a body. Come, see.” She extended her hand, palm out, watching Byleth impatiently.

Slowly, Byleth raised her own hand in response, mirroring Sothis’s actions. As their palms met, she felt a pulse of magic that electrified her entire body, and she gasped as the power trickled through her, warming her from fingertips to toes. But her hand met no physical resistance; her palm passed through Sothis’s as if she had tried to press it against empty air. Startled, Byleth stepped back, unsure of whether the contact was safe.

“Well now! That is quite interesting.” Sothis tilted her head up and considered Byleth. “It seems you have some affinity for my power. I wonder… Hmmm.” She tapped a finger against her lips.

“Wonder what?” Though Byleth knew better than to assume, or hope, she felt her heart begin to beat wildly in her chest, crashing against her ribs. 

“Do not rush me, churl!” Sothis snapped, tossing her head and glaring at Byleth. “Give me a moment to arrange my thoughts. I was going to say, I wonder if my power might help you escape this place.”

“Please.” Byleth felt her tongue nearly trip over the word. “Please, if you can. My father, my friend… they’ve been captured.” She felt tears sting her eyes. “I need to get back, or those people will kill them.”

They might be dead already , a treacherous voice inside her whispered.

“How dreadfully rude.” Sothis frowned. “Well then. I suppose I ought to help you. It has been amusing enough to have some company… but really, there is no reason for you to remain. Go on. Draw your sword.”

Byleth reached instinctively for the iron sword, realizing only too late that she had dropped it on the cellar floor. She felt fear choke her when she realized Sothis had meant her grandmother’s blade—but she swallowed that fear and drew the sword into her right hand, because there was truly no other choice.

“Take my hand,” Sothis ordered, extending her right hand towards Byleth’s left. “Or as near as you can manage it. Draw on my power. Use it to cut your way back to your father and this… friend.” The way she said the word friend almost made it sound as if she suspected Byleth had meant something else.

“Thank you,” Byleth said as she reached out. “I—I owe you so much, and I don’t even know who…”

“I have told you all you need know,” Sothis sniffed. “Now quickly. Before I change my mind.”

With a deep breath, Byleth lay her palm against the place where Sothis’s hand should have been.

If the previous touch had brought a trickle of magic to her, this contact brought a rush, a river, a flood. She felt her hair stir in an invisible breeze as power poured into her, and in her hand, the White Lady’s blade began to glow like fire.

Byleth took a deep breath and swung the sword.

“No!”

Dimitri and Jeralt cried out the word in unison. Jeralt leapt to his feet, straining against his chains, his face a mask of fury as he tried to lunge at Solon. Dimitri leveled his lance at the mage, forcing himself to breathe despite the rage that threatened to choke him.

“Bring her back,” he snarled.

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s quite impossible.” Solon smirked, twisting his fingers through a remaining fog of dark magic. “It’s a one-way journey, I fear. But do not worry. Once the White Lady gives us what we want, returns to us the realm that should be ours, we will tell her where to find that worthless scrap of half-human.”

And finally, Dimitri understood. “You’re Agarthan.”

“He’s Agarthan,” Jeralt confirmed, his voice an angry growl. He was still pulling against the chains, his neck taunt with the force, his eyes blazing with anger. “I remember him from when I served with the Knights of Seiros. Thought I killed him. Apparently it didn’t stick. Sometimes they put themselves back together like that.”

“And… her as well?” Dimitri cast his eye over at Cornelia, though everything in him revolted against the idea of having her in his sight.

“Oh no, I’m quite human. Or was, once.” Cornelia’s mouth curved in smug satisfaction. “They offered me such an interesting bargain, you see. Apparently they were tired of letting the Nabateans have all the fun of making deals with mortals. All they asked of me was that I create the chaos they crave. I’ve done a fine job, wouldn’t you say?”

Dimitri’s fist clenched around his lance so tightly he wondered if his fingers might snap with the force of it. “You are a monster. They have no choice; it is their nature. But you…”

“Perhaps you should hold your tongue, princeling,” Cornelia said sweetly. “I have not yet decided what to do with you, after all. I may grant you the mercy of killing you here in these cellars. Or, I may decide to bring you to Fhirdiad and break your mind before you die.” Her smile widened. “Either way, we don’t need the old man. Solon, would you like to do the honors?”

Solon looked over at Jeralt, his hideous mouth twisting in a smirk. “It will be my sincere pleasure.”

Dimitri lifted his weapon and gathered his strength, prepared to charge. He would die here, he realized. But he would die on his feet, swinging his lance for Cornelia’s wretched heart.

But before Solon could cast a spell, the place where Byleth had been began to shimmer and wave, like the air above a roaring campfire. Magic pricked against Dimitri’s skin, raising the hair on his arms.

Solon pulled his hand back in shock. “What is this?”

Without warning, the shimmer turned into a brilliant, blinding slash of light. Dimitri had to shield his eyes against the white-gold glare as the slash lengthened and expanded.

And through the light stepped Byleth Eisner, alive and whole, with the White Lady’s sword blazing bright in her hand.

Solon cried out and tried to cast a spell—but this time it was Byleth who was too fast. The sword glowed the orange of liquid fire as she struck out, its blades slashing Solon’s throat with vicious efficiency. The Agarthan raised a gnarled hand to the wound, his eyes widening with horror as blood began to pour from his neck.

And Dimitri knew this was his chance. He spun and struck, putting his entire weight behind a strike at Cornelia. 

He expected her to be ready for him, to burn him as she’d burned his loved ones at Duscur—but she had been too transfixed by Byleth’s reappearance to prepare herself.

The lance struck true, and Dimitri felt it shatter her ribs and pierce her heart.

For a moment they simply stared at each other over the lance. Cornelia’s eyes were wide with shock, but she did not yet seem to be in pain, and Dimitri wondered if this would not be enough, if the Agarthans’ gifts had made her immune to such injuries. 

But then she coughed, and blood flowed over her chin, and the light in her eyes began to fade. “You,” she gasped. “You worthless… wretched…”

Those were Cornelia Arnim’s last words. She slumped over Dimitri’s lance, blood soaking her dress, her legs giving out as she collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Dimitri jerked his weapon free and watched her fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, dead at his feet.

He stared at her for a long moment—for one heartbeat, then two, then a third. He watched the pool of blood spread beneath her, trying not to think of the blood that day at Duscur. He had dreamed of this moment for years, and he had expected to feel joy or satisfaction when it arrived. 

Perhaps those would come later. For now, all he could feel was relief. He still lived, and so did Jeralt. 

And so did Byleth Eisner, who stood over Solon’s body with her glowing sword in her hand.

Only then did Dimitri realize that Byleth’s hair was not the same color it had been before. The distinctive blue-black was gone, replaced with pale green. And through the tangle of her new hair, he could see delicately pointed ears.

Chapter Text

“Kid!”

“Dad!” Byleth dropped her grandmother’s sword to the ground and took two fast steps, throwing her arms around her father. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”

Jeralt tried to return the embrace, but the chains stopped him; their clanging echoed against the damp walls. “Nah. I’m just sore from sitting on the floor. And hungry. What the hell are you doing here?” he scolded. “I told Leonie to tell you to stay away!”

“She did,” Byleth admitted, laughing. “I didn’t listen.”

“Yeah, I should have expected that,” he said ruefully as Byleth pulled back from their hug. 

His face blanched white as he looked at her. Byleth twisted her head around, looking for something behind her. When she saw that the room was empty—save for Dimitri, who was still standing over Cornelia’s body, his face unreadable—she felt her brow furrow in confusion. “What? What is it?”

“I. Uh.” Jeralt winced. “That’s… a new look, kid. Your hair.”

Byleth reached her hand back for a lock of her hair, pulling it across her eyes. It felt no different between her fingers, but when her eyes focused on it, she felt terror run through her like a lightning bolt. 

The familiar blue-black she’d had all her life was… gone. It had been replaced by a light green so vibrant that it nearly glowed even in the darkness of the cellar.

On instinct, she reached back for her ears and found delicate points. They were not as long and sharp as Sothis’s; she thought she could probably still pass for human, as Sitri had for so many years. But there was no denying that they were different then they had been before. Less human. More Nabatean. Her heart beat faster, and faster, and faster as her fingers explored the new shape.

“Byleth.”

The voice was Dimitri’s, and it was startlingly gentle. When she turned towards him, his handsome face was filled with a mixture of worry and compassion. “We should leave this place. I do not know who else might be here, who else the Agarthans might have sent. But… we should free your father and leave.”

The shape of a plan calmed Byleth. Yes. They could cope with… whatever this was later. For now, escape.

“The keys, Dad,” she said, looking around the cellar, trying to ignore the spreading pools of blood that were forming beneath Cornelia and Solon. “Did you see where…?”

Jeralt jerked his chin to his right. “On a hook over there.”

He was trying to behave as if all were normal, as if he had no questions about how the daughter he’d tried to protect from Faerie had acquired green hair and pointed ears. But Byleth could hear the vibration of stress and worry underneath his words, could see the tightness around his mouth and eyes even in the dim light. She wanted to soothe that worry, wanted to tell him that her new appearance meant nothing, but… she had no idea if that was true.

Later. Later. Escape now. Deal with this later.

Hurriedly, she strode over to the wall Jeralt had indicated, reaching for the gray-black ring of keys hanging there. But the moment she lay her hand against them, a searing pain shot through her, as if she’d grabbed a hot coal from a fire. She leapt back with a cry, cradling her right hand in her left, staring down to examine the damage. Though she could have sworn she felt a burn, though she could still feel the aftershocks of the pain pulsing up her arm, the skin was unmarked and unchanged. The sight brought her no comfort.

“Iron,” she said softly, as realization dawned. “It’s the iron. I—I can’t touch it.” She looked between her father and Dimitri, so off-balance and perplexed that she genuinely did not know what to do next. She felt frantic, terrified, confused, as if she might fly into a thousand different directions at any moment.

In two swift strides, Dimitri crossed the room to her, resting a hand on her shoulder. To Byleth’s surprise, the touch eased some of the tension in her chest, helped bring her back to herself. “Here,” he said, reaching for the keys. “Let me.”

Dimitri unlocked Jeralt’s manacles swiftly, introducing himself with almost courtly courtesy as he did. Meanwhile Byleth forced herself to pick up the White Lady’s sword; it was the only weapon she had that she could touch, now. Her old iron sword was still lying on the ground, and cautiously, she used her boot to nudge it towards her father. She braced herself for pain, but it did not come. Apparently, only a bare-skin touch would cause her agony.

Jeralt lifted the weapon with a nod. “Thanks, kid. Let’s get out of here.”

They left the Charon estate as swiftly as they had entered it. Byleth had to resist the urge to touch every iron object they passed, to test her desperate hope that the pain she’d felt when she’d try to handle the keys was a mistake made by a tired mind. But the priority was getting back to safety—getting her father as far away from the people who’d been holding him as they could.

Once again, they used the woods for cover, but by unspoken agreement, their little group did not venture far into them, and Byleth stayed within an arm’s reach of Jeralt and his iron sword at all times.

By the time they reached the edge of the Fraldarius camp, Cornelia’s forces were on the run. Chatter in the camp made it clear that the commander had quit the field early in the battle, and that the remaining soldiers had lacked both the discipline and conviction to continue the fight. Byleth assumed that this was good news, but she saw Jeralt shake his head, his jaw tight.

“Thales escaped. That’s not good,” he explained when she gave him a questioning look. “He’s a nasty bastard. One of the worst of the ones I fought.”

Dimitri’s face was equally grave. “I have fought him as well. I do not like to think of him free in the mortal realm.” His mouth twisted thoughtfully. “Though, perhaps, without Cornelia…?”

Jeralt shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up, Blaiddyd.” Byleth’s father had, somehow, reached the conclusion that “Blaiddyd” was the proper form of address for a lost prince who had been serving in Faerie for a decade. “They enjoyed working through Cornelia, but now they’ve gotten a taste of what they can do in the mortal world. And iron doesn’t seem to affect them the way it affects the Nabateans. You need silver to contain them, and that’s harder to come by. I’d bet my last sword that Thales isn’t going home just yet.”

His face was as uneasy as Byleth had ever seen it, and she swallowed hard against the rising unease in her stomach.

They held further conversation until they were in the relative privacy of the tent Dimitri and Byleth had shared the night before. It had felt small with just Byleth and Dimitri in here; now, with the three of them, it felt so crowded that Byleth nearly couldn’t breathe if she thought about it too much.

She also had to tuck her hands underneath her thighs to stop them from feeling the sharpened outlines of her ears.

“You can say it,” she blurted out, when the silence had gone too long. “I look Nabatean.”

Next to her, Jeralt didn’t say he agreed. But he didn’t deny it either. He leaned forward and rested his forearms against his thighs; Byleth winced when she saw the reddened, scabbed lines left behind by the manacles.

“I’ll see a healer in a bit,” he assured her when he saw the expression. “But first things first. What happened, kid? Where did that bastard send you?”

Slowly, haltingly, Byleth told the story. She tried to leave nothing out, tried to share every detail she could remember. But nothing she said seemed to spark recognition in either her father or Dimitri. Instead, the two of them kept exchanging baffled glances.

When she’d finished, Jeralt let out a long sigh. Then, unexpectedly, he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, and did not flinch when the tips of his fingers met the new point on her ear. 

“That doesn’t sound like any place I saw in Faerie. Or anyone I met there. But whoever this Sothis was, you came back to us because of her,” he said, his deep voice uncharacteristically soft. “So I’m inclined to be grateful. Even though this is weird as hell.”

Byleth let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. “Thanks, Dad. I think,” she said wryly.

On the cot opposite hers, Dimitri cleared his throat. “I… Sothis’s throne. You say it was carved from wood, and covered in vines?”

Byleth nodded. “And flowers. Small white ones.”

“I believe I have seen something similar in Faerie.” Dimitri drew a breath. “I only saw it once. But… it was kept in the lowest floor of the Monastery, and the White Lady all but forbade questions about it. I only heard that it was once the seat of someone the Nabateans called the Queen.”

Baffled, Byleth shook her head back and forth, as if the motion would shake the pieces of this puzzle into place. “So Sothis is tied to the White Lady, somehow? Maybe?” She frowned. “Could Sothis be the Queen? Maybe she’s some sort of enemy that the White Lady imprisoned in that place?”

“It’s possible,” Jeralt said, his face thoughtful. “It’s as good a guess as any.” He blew out a breath. “Any other insights, Blaiddyd?”

The Prince shook his head. “I am sorry. I wish I could offer more help.”

His expression was melancholy, and suddenly, Byleth felt a rush of shame. She had been so focused on her own troubles—she had not even asked about Cornelia.

“Was that really her?” she asked. “Cornelia. The woman who killed your family?"

He nodded, but did not meet her eyes as he did. “It was. My parents have been avenged. As has Felix's brother.”

His tone was remote and detached, and far less satisfied than Byleth had expected. “Oh. That’s—that’s good? Right?” she asked tentatively, trying to read the expression on his face.

“I… yes.” Dimitri leaned his elbows on his knees and drew a long breath. He shook his head, slowly, as if it might help him put his thoughts in order. 

“I selfishly expected to feel more,” he admitted after a pause. “Happiness, perhaps. Or at least relief. But what she has done, the horrors she wrought, cannot be undone by her death. I will still carry the memory of what she did, and it will still pain me, even knowing that it was my hand that ended her life.” He chuckled, without humor. “I suppose I will have quite some years to come to terms with that fact.”

Byleth blinked. “What do you mean?”

There was a long pause, heavy with meaning. “I mean that my task is complete,” he said finally, and brusquely, as if he did not want to discuss it with her. “I will return to Faerie on the morrow. Or perhaps even tonight.”

He rose from the cot. “I should allow the two of you your reunion. Forgive me for intruding.”

And without a further word, he stepped out of the tent.

Dimitri did not know where he was going. He tried to formulate a plan, but his scattered mind could only focus on one thing. 

His task was complete; Cornelia was slain. And he no longer had any reason to remain in the mortal world.

The thought filled him with a sorrow and despair that he had not thought possible. He had assumed he would be at peace with his return if only Cornelia lay dead. But… he had seen the state of Faerghus, the suffering of the people there. He had seen Felix again, had heard his friend condemn him for not trying to take his throne. The reminders of the life he’d once lived, of the role that he should have held, stabbed invisible knives into his heart. 

Could I bring this war to a close if I stayed?

But… no. That was not his choice to make. Because the only way he could remain in the mortal world was if Byleth went to Faerie. And he had no right to…

“Dimitri!”

Dimitri looked over his shoulder; with some surprise, he realized he had put a considerable distance between himself and the tent, had nearly reached the edge of the camp. And Byleth was running towards him, her green hair flowing behind her and her eyes bright as she approached.

He knew he should keep walking—that he should break into a run, that he could not listen to the offer he could feel she was about to make. But there was something about the sound of his name on her lips that forced him to stop and wait for her to reach his side.

“Byleth,” he said softly, unsteadily. “Did you need something?”

“You can’t go back,” she blurted, reaching for his arm, catching him just above the wrist. Though he could not truly feel the heat from her palm through his leather armor, the touch warmed him all the same.

“I fear I have little choice,” he said quietly. He found himself looking at her more intensely than usual, examining the newly-sharp ears and the bright green of her hair. The changes still felt new and strange… but what he saw most was the face of the woman who had stared down six bandits by herself, who had told him she would cut him down if he got in her way, who had promised to go with him to Fhirdiad even if her father was safe. “When my ten days are up, I will be called back. The White Lady’s grasp on those under her power is too strong for any mortal to resist.” 

“Then I need to go with you.” Her fingers tightened into his arm. “Dimitri… we can’t ignore the things we’ve seen in Faerghus, the suffering this war is causing. Killing Cornelia will help, but you’re the only one who can bring this to an end. If you take me to Faerie and get the boon she promised you—you can beat Thales and take your throne.”

She wore an expression on her face that Dimitri had never seen before; it took him a moment to recognize it as fear. But she drew a brave breath and pressed on. “This war has to be stopped, and you’re the only one who can stop it. I have to go with you. Whatever awaits me there, I can handle it.”

Almost as a reflex, Dimitri lifted his hand and rested it over hers. The contact was so slight, but so welcome, and he could not ignore the swell of emotion that filled him at the feel of her hand underneath his. There was a part of him that was screaming for him to accept her offer, to place the interests of Faerghus before all. But he could no more form the words than he could grow wings and fly. 

He was falling in love with Byleth Eisner, and he could not trade her life for a crown.

“No,” he said softly. “I do not know what fate awaits you in Faerie, but Lady Sitri knows her mother better than any other being. If she thinks it unsafe, it is unsafe.” He drew a shuddering breath. “And I could not live with the knowledge that you sacrificed your freedom for mine. Byleth, please—do not ask that of me.”

She parted her lips, and seemed about to argue—but her eyes met his and she fell silent.

They stared at each other like this for a long time, for the passing of several heartbeats, just looking at each other. It reminded Dimitri of the moment when they had met, when they had stared at each other across the blade of an iron sword, sizing each other up. But there was no hostility between them now—only warmth, and understanding, and a sort of sad desperation as they both tried to see a way out of the snare that bound them.

“How can I stay here, knowing that you’re trapped?” Byleth asked finally, as a bright tear formed at the corner of her eye. “Knowing that this war would be over if I’d gone with you?”

Dimitri lifted his hand from hers to brush the tear away. He did so almost without thinking, and only afterwards did he wonder if she welcomed such an intimacy—but she did not pull away, and he could not help but relish the feel of her skin against his thumb. “I made my bargain, and I accept my fate. As for the war—your father’s forces are bound to the Fraldarius army, and I have no doubt that you will win.”

At great cost, a voice within whispered. They will win, but at great cost.

Byleth’s jaw tensed as her mouth thinned unhappily. “I—wait. Your ten days aren’t up yet. You have a few more, don’t you?” There was a spark of hope burning in her eyes that nearly tore his heart in two. “Spend them here. My father knows Faerie well—maybe the three of us can figure something out. We can’t give up, Dimitri. There has to be a way.”

There was not. Dimitri knew it for a certainty. But he did not say so.

“Very well,” he agreed softly. “I will stay a while longer. Perhaps we will find a way.”

It was not quite a lie, but it was also not the truth, and it tasted bitter on his tongue. But the relief that spread across her face soothed his conscience somewhat. He knew her peace would be only temporary, but he wanted her to have it nonetheless.

There was a knowing look in Jeralt’s eyes when Byleth and Dimitri returned to the tent. Byleth felt herself blush faintly, and felt a bit irritated about it. It wasn’t as if she and Dimitri had done anything to blush over; all he’d done was brush a tear from her cheek. The fact that she could still feel the ghost of that touch was beside the point.

“Dimitri’s going to stay a few more days,” she told her father. “We’re going to try to find a way to keep him here, if we can.”

Jeralt’s eyes flashed with sorrow, and Byleth knew instantly that her father’s hopes for a solution were not high. But he did not voice his reservations. “All right. We’ll talk tomorrow. For now I need to go check in with my troops. And get this looked at.” He scowled at the raw, reddened lines left by the manacles. “See you tomorrow, kid?”

Byleth nodded as tears pricked the backs of her eyes; he sounded so blessedly normal, and she felt the relief of rescuing him rush through her all over again.

“Good. Get some sleep.” With a quick clap of his hand against her back, Jeralt left the tent.

Dimitri and Byleth were alone.

For a moment Byleth wanted to step close, to touch him again, to wrap her arms around him and close her eyes and hope they could find a way. Her heart beat faster at the thought; she had never wanted to hold someone else so badly. Just days ago she had thought he was an enemy, but at some point between meeting him on the road and rescuing her father at his side, he had become important to her. 

No. Important was too small a word. She knew, somehow, that this had been just how Sitri felt when she looked at Jeralt all those years ago, how she had felt every time she brought flowers to the Bladebreaker before a battle. And perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she thought she could see some of the same longing in Dimitri’s face as he met her gaze. 

But it was late, and they were tired, and the future was uncertain. And so, by unspoken agreement, they each settled into their cots and curled silently into their borrowed pillows. Byleth expected his nearness to torment her—but instead, it brought her a strange sort of peace. She wished she could move their cots together, could curl herself around him, could feel his heartbeat underneath her ear. But for now, it was enough to have him close, and she drifted into an exhausted sleep as she listened to him breathe.

She woke the next morning to silence.

Byleth’s eyes flew open in a panic when she realized she was alone in the tent. She tried to tell herself that Dimitri had just stepped out, that of course he was still somewhere in the camp, but ….

But deep in her bones, she knew, even before she saw the note lying against his pillow.

Byleth—

I wish there were a third path, a solution that would preserve both your freedom and mine. But Faerghus is no longer my kingdom to save, and I will not buy myself a throne at the price of your freedom.

You have been an ally and friend, and it has meant more than I can say.

Keep yourself safe for me.

D.

Dimitri allowed himself one last night in the mortal world. One last night to think through his dilemma, to see if there might be another way. But when dawn crept near, and he still could not see his way out of his bargain without sacrificing Byleth, he knew what he had to do.

Moving silently had never been Dimitri’s particular strength. Felix and Glenn had often teased him for being so loud during training. When the Knights of Seiros needed stealth, they called on Shamir or Cyril or Kyphon. And so he half expected to wake Byleth when he slipped from the tent, or when he returned to place a scrap of paper as a goodbye.

But she slumbered peacefully, with a hand tucked beneath her cheek and her green hair in tangles over her face. He allowed himself a last moment to look at her, to silently tell her the things he would never get to say to her waking ears.

And then he slipped from the tent and fled towards the woods.

When he reached a spot where the canopy of the trees created shadows almost dark as night, he knew he had come far enough. Though he felt fear at the prospect of returning with his task undone, there was no hesitation in his actions, no delay—only certainty about what he must do.

He fell to his knees on the ground, drew the silver knife from its sheath at his waist, and stabbed it into the ground.

Instantly, ribbons of light began flowing from the pommel of the dagger. Dimitri stood and stepped back, his heart racing, watching as the ribbons grew and intensified and spread outwards.

Slowly, they wove themselves into the shape of a door.

Dimitri allowed himself one moment. One moment to touch the bark of a tree, to run his fingers over its texture, to breathe the damp, green smell of the mortal world’s woods for what he knew was the last time.

And then, with his courage held close, he stepped through the door.

Chapter Text

Dimitri wondered if there would be anyone waiting for him in Faerie. The White Lady would know the moment he crossed the threshold of her realm, of course, and he half expected to find her standing in front of him, awaiting her granddaughter. He wondered if he should prepare something to say, if there were even words that would matter in the moment when the White Lady realized Byleth was not there.

But Faerie greeted him only with silence.

The door opened onto a spot on the outskirts of the Nabateans’ city, an empty place with a white-pink sky and ground that looked like grass under a faint dusting of snow. Dimitri glanced over his shoulder, wondering how long the doorway would remain—but it was already dissolving, already vanished behind him. 

He could see the Monastery in the distance. A sense of dread filled him as he looked up at its stark gray lines—but there would be no hiding from the White Lady in Faerie, and so the trip could not be delayed or denied. He took his first steps, and noticed that a blister that had been nagging at his heel no longer pained him.

“Dimitri. You have returned.”

Dimitri felt his breath freeze in his chest.

The White Lady was standing in his path, in a spot where seconds earlier there had been no one and nothing to see. Her long green hair flowed and floated in a breeze Dimitri could not feel; her crown of golden lilies shone nearly as brightly as the light that had created the door back to her realm. She looked at him with a fondness on her lovely face, as compassion and serenity and warmth emanated from her in waves.

Half on instinct, and half because her presence still overwhelmed him after all these years, Dimitri knelt and cast his gaze to the ground. “My Lady.”

“Welcome home, my Knight.” Though the words were courteous, and spoken kindly, Dimitri could feel a thread of danger in them. “May I ask why you have returned alone?”

Dimitri swallowed against a stab of fear. He briefly wondered if he should make excuses, if he should claim that Byleth Eisner had died or that he had been unable to find her… but he somehow knew that the White Lady would be able to sense a lie.

“Your granddaughter did not wish to come, my lady. I am sorry.”

He had barely finished the words when he felt the White Lady’s fingers tangle in his hair. With brutal precision, she grabbed the strands and yanked his head up, forcing him to look her in the eye. 

“Did not wish to come?” the Lady whispered menacingly, as her long green hair began tying itself into a braid behind her back and her soft gown began to remake itself into warrior’s garb. Behind her, the sky turned dark and troubled, swirling black clouds shot through with silver lightning, and there was a cold bite to the air. “What did you tell her, fool boy?”

“That you had invited her, and that her mother missed her,” Dimitri replied, trying not to wince, although her grip pained him. “But she wished to remain in the mortal world, and I…”

He did not get the opportunity to finish his sentence. The White Lady released his hair and struck him across the face with her palm. The slap sent agony coursing through Dimitri’s entire body, and he lost his balance and fell to the ground, gasping from the pain. 

“I gave you a task. Bring me my granddaughter. And that is all you said to her? That was the only effort you made? And you dare return to my realm with time left in your allotment, rather than remain and find a way to do what I asked? Stand up,” the White Lady snarled. “Look me in the eye, and tell me why you dared defy me. ”

Dimitri stood on shaking legs and forced himself to obey her, to force himself to look at the searing beauty of her face. The White Lady now wore into the garments she wore in battle, a short white gown with golden gauntlets and greaves. The sword and shield she usually carried were missing, however; her right hand was clutched around a golden whip. Where he had once felt gentleness and warmth, there was now white-hot fury. 

Dimitri had known she would be angry, and had believed himself prepared for it, but he felt terror threaten to choke him as he beheld her. Part of him wanted to beg for her mercy, to ask her to send him back to try again—but then he thought of Byleth, and the urge vanished.

“She did not wish to come,” he repeated. “And I was unwilling to try to force her.”

The White Lady waved her left hand. It was a small gesture, a dismissive twitch of her fingers, but the reaction from the Faerie realm was immediate. Thorned vines burst from the ground, gray and gnarled, as if they had been there for a hundred years or more. They seized Dimitri’s wrists, lashed around his neck in a painful grasp, pulling him down to his hands and knees, helpless before the Lady's rage. He felt the thorns pierce his skin and he bit back a cry, clenching his jaw tight. Calling out would not save him; even if the Nabateans or the other Knights could have stood against the White Lady, Dimitri knew well whose side they would choose.

“Disobedient child! You would have died broken in those woods had I not saved you,” the White Lady snarled, taking one step closer, and then another. Her steps echoed in the swirling black landscape, crunching and cracking as if she stepped on a field of bone. “And this is how you repay me. With failure. By leaving my only granddaughter in that stinking mortal world. Did you think you could return to my side after such defiance? That I would suffer you to live in my realm?”

Dimitri opened his mouth to reply, but the vines were tightening now, and he could not find enough breath to answer.

“I should cast you out amidst the filth, let you meet your fate with the Agarthans,” she hissed, her eyes glowing like burning embers, her lovely face a mask of rage. “You do not deserve the mercy of a death at my hand. I should…”

“Stop!”

Bound as he was, it was difficult for Dimitri to turn his head. But he did not need to. He knew the source of the voice—knew it with as much certainty as if he had spoken the words himself—and he felt elation and horror in equal measures.

Byleth Eisner had come to Faerie.

With Dimitri’s note in hand, Byleth ran from the tent before she entirely knew where she was going. Her first thought was that she needed to find Jeralt, that her father would know what to do—he had once been a Knight of Seiros, he knew the White Lady’s mind. But—no. If Dimitri returned to Faerie, he would be beyond their help. And so finding Dimitri in time would have to come first.

The woods. He would go to the woods. And so Byleth ran towards the edge of the camp, watching for signs of footprints or broken branches, hoping that Dimitri had left her a clue.

There was no trail to follow; Dimitri was too skilled for that. But from somewhere deep within the forest, Byleth felt what she could only describe as a pull. It felt as if she were the needle of a compass, as if she could not tear her attention away from one particular direction. And so she followed it, moving through the trees, taking far less care and being far less quiet than she would ordinarily have been. After far too many minutes, Byleth stepped into a tiny clearing, a ten-foot circle amidst trees.

And there, she watched the corner of Dimitri’s blue cloak vanish through a doorway made of light.

“Dimitri!” she screamed, racing forward, extending her hand, knowing that she was too far away to grab for him and trying all the same.

But if he heard her, there was no sign of it. The door vanished from her view, its light disappearing as quickly as if it had been a candle with the flame snuffed out. Byleth’s outstretched hand met nothing but empty air. 

Byleth stood in the clearing as the echo of her voice died around her, trying to do something—anything—besides stare at the spot where Dimitri had been. She’d been too slow, too late. Dimitri was gone. Gone back to Faerie with no plan to return. Gone to face the White Lady’s wrath alone.

Her gaze dropped to the ground—and there, she spotted something. A silver knife, its blade embedded in the dirt. She recognized the hilt of the knife; Dimitri had worn it in his belt. Had this been how he opened the door back to Faerie?

If the White Lady gave it to him, it’s probably not iron.

Curiously, she reached her hand out for it, laying her fingers on the pommel. As her fingertips met the shining metal, she felt something stir inside her—a pulse of energy, weaker than what she felt when she wielded the White Lady’s sword, but similar enough that she felt a sort of kinship with this knife. Cautiously, she reached for the power she felt within her, encouraging it to awaken, pushing it towards the knife. 

Ribbons of light began to bloom from the hilt.

Byleth caught her breath and held it, hoping—hoping desperately—that this would work. Maybe she was imagining things, or maybe the knife’s purpose was not what she thought… But no. The ribbons were clearly taking the shape of a door. She barely waited for it to finish building itself before dashing through it.

She moved so quickly, so eagerly, that she had only begun to consider where she was going when she crossed the threshold into Faerie. The shock of realizing what she had done—of having arrived in the one place where her parents had always warned her not to tread—caused her to stumble, and though she didn’t fall, she had to pause to catch herself.

And then she paused again, to look around in wonder.

The place that Byleth had entered was eerie and welcoming, lonely and loving, barren and beautiful, all at the same time. Above her was a swirling pink-white sky; beneath her feet was soft snow-white grass. As she looked down at the ground, little buds of green emerged around her feet, sprouting pink and yellow blossoms as if to welcome her. Far off in the distance, she could see forests and mountains, lakes and rivers, an ocean, a cliff—and one tall, spired stone building, proud and silver-gray, that she knew must be the Monastery.

It was then that Byleth realized she had forgotten her sword, and had entered this place weaponless.

The thought had barely occurred to her before she felt an unexpected weight in her right hand. She looked down and, to her shock, a bright silver blade was forming right before her eyes, building itself out of nothing, responding to her unspoken wish. Power—the same kind of power that had activated the dagger—coursed through her, warmed her, flowed as easily as water. Startled, she dropped the newly-formed hilt of her sword; the weapon vanished into the air as if it had never been there.

She drew a breath and shook her head, trying to refocus. Dimitri. I need to find Dimitri. She turned her attention back to the Monastery—Sitri had said that was the White Lady’s home, maybe Dimitri had gone there? 

Between her and the Monastery, however, lay a swirling black sphere.

The sphere was… odd. It did not seem to fit with anything else around Byleth. She could feel power crackling from it, flying from it in white-hot sparks, as though the black disturbance were a fire about to spin out of control. She instinctively feared it, but she also could not tear her attention away from it, could not look anywhere else once she had seen it.

And as she grew closer, she realized there were two people within that black storm. A woman, tall and straight-backed, carrying a weapon in her hand—a whip. And a man, kneeling on the ground, bound there by his wrists and neck.

She knew immediately who both of them must be.

“Stop!”

It was a foolish thing to yell. She realized it the moment the word left her lips; she had no expectation that she would be listened to, much less that her command would be obeyed. But when she realized that it was Dimitri on his knees, his hands bound and his throat encircled, it was the only word that came to mind. She had to help him. She had to make this stop.

To Byleth's shock, the blackness abruptly stopped swirling. Its menacing energy stopped moving, began holding in place, trembling slightly, as if she had surprised it and it was deciding how to respond.

Emboldened, Byleth raised her voice again. “It’s me. It’s me you want,” she yelled, as tears stung her eyes and a lump rose in her throat. “Let him go. Please. Let him go.”

The blackness suddenly vanished, winking out of existence with a speed that made Byleth wonder if she had truly seen it. With the swirling storm gone, she could see the two figures clearly. Dimitri in his familiar blue cloak, hurt and humbled, bound but still alive.

Standing before him was the most beautiful woman Byleth had ever seen.

The White Lady—for who else could this be but Byleth’s grandmother?—was every inch the warrior as she towered over Dimitri. A short white cape hung from her shoulders; a golden whip glowed in her left hand; golden armor encased her chest and arms and legs; a golden crown of lilies formed a helmet around her head. The White Lady’s eyes burned with righteous fury, and Byleth found herself squinting against the woman’s sheer radiance.

The woman turned her burning gaze onto Byleth, and Byleth had to force herself not to look away. She knew what she expected next. Anger. Condemnation. A lash of that golden whip. Perhaps an evil cackle from a being whose plan was finally being realized after twenty-three years. 

But instead, the White Lady dropped her whip onto the ground, where it vanished instantly, as if it had never been. She raised one lovely hand to her mouth, pressing her white fingers against the pink of her lips.

“Oh. Oh,” the White Lady breathed as the braid behind her head loosened, freeing her hair to fall around her shoulders. “Can it be? My darling. My dearest one.” 

The White Lady began moving towards Byleth—slowly, as if she feared Byleth might vanish or run away. But Byleth could not have moved if she wanted to; it was as if she were rooted to the spot. She stood transfixed as the White Lady approached her. Her grandmother’s clothes changed with every step, melting from a warrior’s garb into a soft white gown whose train left flowers in its wake as she stepped. When she had crossed the distance between them, she took Byleth’s face between her hands with unimaginable gentleness and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“My granddaughter,” she whispered. “You found your way to me, after all.”

The kiss felt like a cooling rain in a drought, like a warm cup of tea in the bitterest cold. It felt as if something Byleth had been missing all her life were being given to her, and she nearly flung herself into her grandmother’s arms, nearly wept with relief at finding her.

A gasp of breath from Dimitri brought her back to reality.

Byleth stiffened and pulled away from her grandmother, feeling her anger rise—anger both with her grandmother and with herself for being so quickly taken in. “Stop it. Whatever you’re doing to him, stop it right now,” she ordered sharply. “I wouldn’t be here if Dimitri hadn’t told me you wanted me. So he’s done what you asked. Let him go. ”

The White Lady’s lovely mouth rounded in a shocked and injured o. “I—I see,” she said softly. “I thought he had failed me, I am afraid—that he had left you behind. But if you value this mortal’s life, I will spare it.”

The vine around Dimitri’s neck vanished. The lost Prince took a gasping, shuddering breath, drawing in frantic gulps of air. Byleth pushed her way past the White Lady and rushed to his side, falling to her knees, placing a hand against his cheek. His eyepatch had fallen off sometime during the confrontation with her grandmother, and the sight of the white-pink scar tissue in his right eye socket twisted her heart.

He has suffered enough. No more. Not on my account.

“Byleth,” he whispered, his tongue moistening cracked lips. “You—you can’t be here. It’s not safe…” And yet, she could see the way his remaining eye lit as he looked at her, could feel the way her mouth curved in a smile as she looked back at him.

“It’s not safe for you either, apparently,” she said ruefully, shaking her head, brushing his hair away from his face. “We agreed…”

“I know.” He chuckled, then coughed. “I’m sorry.”

His eye left hers then—just for a moment, but she could tell from the way his face sobered that the White Lady was approaching.

“Is that what you told her, my knight? That it was not safe for her here?” There was menace in the White Lady’s sweet voice. “Is that how you repaid my generosity, with lies about…”

Byleth did not want to hear what was going to happen at the end of those sentences. “He didn’t tell me anything,” she interrupted, standing and facing her grandmother, planting herself between the White Lady and Dimitri. “It was my father who told me never to come here.” Her mother too, but Sitri had to live in Faerie now; it seemed unwise to implicate her.

“Jeralt said you had some plan for me. Something you wouldn’t tell him or my mother,” Byleth continued, desperation making her bold. She looked into her grandmother’s lovely face, forced herself to stand straight, to not cringe away from the searing light in the White Lady’s eyes. “Do you deny it?”

The White Lady’s lips parted; her eyes filled with sorrow. “Oh, my dear one,” she sighed, as diamond-bright tears began to run down her cheeks. “How misled you have been. For of course I had a plan for you! But it was nothing ill. Nothing worth this long absence from your true home.”

“Then why keep it a secret?” Byleth demanded. “Why not tell my parents when they asked?”

“It was not for them to know,” the White Lady said, shaking her head. “But if only they had trusted me!” Her eyes met Byleth’s, and they were filled with injury and heartache. “Will you listen now, my dear one? Will you hear what I have to say about my realm, and your place in it?”

Byleth nodded as her heart began racing. “Go ahead,” she said, hoping her voice sounded steadier than she felt. “What was your grand plan? What am I to you?”

“You are the vessel, my dearest one,” the White Lady whispered. She reached out her hand, tucked Byleth’s hair behind her ear, lingering her fingers lovingly over the newly-sharpened point. “Yours is the body that will restore my mother to this realm, and give Faerie back its rightful Queen.”

Chapter Text

“What do you mean?” Byleth demanded, even as unease roiled in her stomach and every muscle in her body begged her to flee. “Your—your mother? The Queen? What do I have to do with her?”

She wished that Dimitri could stand at her side. She wanted desperately to reach for his hand, to find support and comfort in having him near. But his wrists were still bound to the ground behind her, and so all she could hear from him was a sharp intake of breath at the mention of the Queen.

“Everything, my dear one,” the White Lady whispered, cupping Byleth’s cheek in her hand.. “For you are her last hope, and mine.”

An ice-cold chill ran down Byleth’s spine.

“We lost her long ago—so long that few remember it, save my Lords and Lady and myself. So long ago that when she lived, we considered the Agarthans to be neighbors and friends.” The White Lady’s gaze darkened, and her hair began to blow behind her, as if stirred by an invisible wind. “She was murdered, you see. Slain by that vile Epimenides. He paid for that treachery with his life—but my mother was wounded beyond recovery. And so I preserved her in a Void, in a place between life and death. I built my Monastery atop her grave, protecting her throne, awaiting a way to bring her back. I scarcely knew what I was waiting for.”

Her eyes focused on Byleth, and they lit with pure hope, and the sight made Byleth’s heart clench in fear. “And then you were conceived, my granddaughter. Half mortal, half Nabatean. A being who should not have existed. A miracle. I knew the moment Sitri told me she was with child that you could restore my mother to me.”

“Restore her… how?” Byleth was not sure she wanted the answer to that question, but she needed to hear it all the same.

“I will send you to the Void where I preserved her life.” The White Lady’s voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as if there could not possibly be anything upsetting about what she was saying. “When you return to us, she will have been reborn in your body, and she will rule over this realm again just as she always should have.”

“And what happens to Byleth?” The question came from Dimitri, and even before she looked back at him, Byleth knew that he was angry; his voice had lowered to a growl, and he was glaring at Rhea with suspicion in his eyes. “When this Queen is reborn, what happens to Byleth’s memories, her skills—to everything that makes her ?”

The White Lady sighed sorrowfully. She did not look at Dimitri, did not address him directly. But she did answer his question. “This should have been done when you were a babe, of course,” she told Byleth, shaking her head regretfully, stroking her fingers down Byleth’s cheek. “It is possible that my mother will allow your memories to remain and carry them with her. Perhaps a glimpse at your life in the mortal world will benefit her in some way.”

“ No. ” Dimitri all but snarled the word, straining against his bonds. To Byleth’s shock, the vines tore from the ground, unable to hold against his strength. He stood, his jaw clenched and his face pale. “You cannot do this. Lady Sitri would never forgive…”

“ Silence. ” The White Lady did look at Dimitri then, and her eyes flashed black, shot through with golden lightning. “Hold your wretched tongue, and do not speak of what you cannot comprehend. My daughter knows me well. She knows that I do nothing unless it is for the protection of our people. She will understand—not just understand, she will rejoice when she sees our Queen restored to us. She will. ”

But there was a harshness in the White Lady’s tone that belied uncertainty, and Byleth wondered if her grandmother was trying to convince Dimitri, or herself.

She wondered if she should try to fight, or try to flee. Maybe her affinity with Faerie would allow her to open a door back to the mortal world the way her mother had so long ago; she had made a sword from nothing, and clearly had power in this place. But she could not imagine that the White Lady would be unprepared for such an attempt. They were in her grandmother’s realm, and her mother had said the White Lady’s power was near-absolute in this place. And even if she succeeded in taking Dimitri back to the mortal world, his pledge to Faerie would draw him back within days. She had to find a way to free him for good, to convince the White Lady to honor her bargain.

Slowly, an idea began to take shape in her head. But first, she had to confirm a suspicion.

“Grandmother? What is the Queen’s name?”

The White Lady looked over with wide, startled eyes, the anger fading from her gaze as quickly as it had appeared. “Sothis, my dear one. Her name is Sothis.”

Aha. I thought so.

During their strange conversation, Sothis had expressed no interest in Byleth’s form, no desire to return with Byleth in any way. She had merely lent her power, and set Byleth free. Perhaps she could be convinced to do so again. The circumstances would be different this time, Byleth knew. She would be entering the Void from Faerie, not the mortal realm; she would be sent there with the White Lady’s power, not the Agarthans’. Sothis was ancient, and powerful, and a second meeting with her might well go differently. But… this was the only chance Byleth had, the only chance for Dimitri’s freedom. She had to take it.

Byleth nodded, trying to breathe deep, trying to calm her racing heart. “I—I will offer you a bargain.” Her voice shook as she said it. “I will go to the Void, as you wish. But if I do, you must honor your bargain with Dimitri. He did not fail you; I would not be here if not for him. I will do what you ask so long as he is free at the end of his service, and is given everything you promised him.”

“Byleth, no !”

The pain in Dimitri’s voice was too much to bear; Byleth bowed her head and swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

But in front of her, the White Lady beamed a heartbreakingly beautiful smile, bright with joy. “Done, my granddaughter. Done, and done gladly.”

And with a wave of her hand, the White Lady took them to Sothis’s throne.

The room beneath the monastery was just as Dimitri remembered it.

It was a tomblike space, cold and unwelcoming, with four walls of gray stone and a plain stone floor. There were no windows, and only one door; it should have been utterly dark.

The only reason it was not was the throne that sat in the middle.

The throne did not look like it belonged in this eerie, empty space. It was vibrant and beautiful, constructed from intertwined branches and vines, with small white flowers blooming all over it. The throne sat atop a small hill; more branches and vines wove a set of stairs in front of it, and the little hill was covered all over with clover and flowers and ivy. It shone a soft light into the room, illuminating the darkness, and Dimitri was once again struck by how lonely and out of place it felt in this room.

As if she could sense his thoughts, the White Lady spoke. “This place was once the most vibrant and beautiful of our forests. I built the Monastery atop it to preserve it, to protect it should the Agarthans cross our borders again. But without my mother, it has changed.” A diamond-bright tear ran down her cheek. “It should not be this way. It never should have been.”

In spite of himself, Dimitri found himself feeling pity for the White Lady. But not enough to make him forget what she was about to do. Byleth was staring at the throne, her face white, her hands clenched in fists, and though her expression was brave, Dimitri felt his heart tear within him.

“Let her go, my Lady,” he begged. “Please. I will do anything you ask, serve a thousand lifetimes at your side. I will walk into the deepest parts of the Agarthans’ lands and die there fighting them. But your granddaughter deserves to live. Please. ”

The words might as well have fallen on stone ears, for all the heed the White Lady gave them.

The White Lady waved her hand again, and Byleth’s familiar battle leathers vanished. Dimitri caught his breath as he took in her new appearance. The White Lady had given Byleth a soft white gown with full sleeves and a long, flowing skirt; it left her shoulders bare, exposing a knotted old scar underneath her collarbone that Dimitri had not known was there. A narrow golden chestplate was tied in place with golden ropes that wrapped around her shoulders and waist, and on her brow, she wore a golden circlet decorated with small white flowers.

Though he hated the finery, hated what it represented, Dimitri could not help but stare; she was unfathomably lovely. And kind. And brave.

And she was about to give up her life for his. No. Please, no.

“You look beautiful, my dear,” the White Lady said softly, as Byleth looked down in confusion at the new gown. “Now then. There is no sense in delays. Sit atop the throne, and I will take care of the rest.”

Byleth looked up at her—and then her eyes slid over to Dimitri’s, and stayed there.

“May I have a moment, please?” she asked softly.

The White Lady’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Very well,” she said, reluctantly. “But do not take long, and do not attempt to break our bargain. You are my blood, but I will not permit defiance. Not here. Not in this place.”

Byleth nodded. After a pause, the White Lady inclined her head in permission, then turned her back on them, giving them some small semblance of privacy. 

Byleth turned to Dimitri, and he felt his breath freeze in his chest. She was looking at him with her heart in her eyes, and he knew he was looking back at her just the same way. Like someone looking at a person they loved for the last time.

He closed his eye as a tear leaked from it. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Byleth… My life is not worth yours. Why?”

Her hand cupped his cheek, her fingers warm and strong. “Dimitri. Look at me.”

He forced his eye open, forced himself to look down at her. Tears were bright in her eyes as well. “Trust me. Please,” she said softly. “And whatever happens… your life is yours, Dimitri. Whether you choose to reclaim your throne, or fight the Agarthans, or go find a patch of land somewhere to farm… your life will be yours. And that’s worth it to me.”

He could not have said which of them moved first, whether he began by bending his head forward or whether it was Byleth who first rose on her toes. But it hardly mattered, because they were both moving to grant the same unspoken wish. Dimitri felt her mouth under his, warm and soft, and he closed his remaining eye as their lips met in a kiss. Her arms twined around his neck to help her close the difference between their heights; he brought his right hand behind the small of her back, helping her keep her balance. Almost of its own accord, his left hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head.

She kissed him gently, hopefully, as if this was merely their first kiss and not also their last. He tried to kiss her back the same way, tried to show her how it felt to have her in his arms, even if his heart was breaking all the while.

And then their lips parted, and with one last brush of her fingers against his cheek, she stepped back. “Trust me,” she repeated.

On bare feet, holding the skirts of her dress in her fists, Byleth climbed the stairs and sat on the throne. The White Lady smiled, tears of joy running down her cheeks. She raised her hands and began to draw her magic close. A bright golden sphere grew between her hands, swirling with power, radiating light to every corner of Sothis’s tomb.

The sphere raced forward, arcing across the room towards Byleth. Dimitri watched as it struck her, the golden light blooming into ribbons all around her, wrapping her in their bonds, growing so bright that all he could see was pure white.

When the light faded, Byleth was gone.

The White Lady's magic felt different from Solon's—warmer, brighter. But it was no less terrifying to feel it wrap around her, to feel it pull her from one realm and to another. And in the end, the result was just the same as Solon's spell. The magic released Byleth onto the floor of Sothis's Void.

The Void was just as Byleth had left it, cold and endless, utterly empty save for the now-familiar throne. And Byleth was there for less than a full heartbeat when she heard the voice.

“You again? I had only just helped you escape! How careless. ” Sothis was descending the stairs of her throne, her face cross. The vibrant green of her hair and the dainty white blossoms woven into it practically glowed against the dark backdrop of the Void. “Trapped by the same spell for a second time? Even a boulder has more sense!”

Even though this wasn’t her fault, exactly, Byleth winced apologetically. “I’m sorry to disturb you?” she tried.

“Oh, I suppose it’s fine.” Sothis sighed and sat on the stairs, kicking her feet out as if she were a child, staring at her toes. “It’s not as if there’s anything else to do in this place, other than sleep. And I tire of sleep. Did you save them? The friends you mentioned the last time you were here.”

“I did.” Byleth paused. “Thank you. I could not have done it without your help.”

“Oh, but I do enjoy gratitude.” Sothis beamed at her. “Who sent you here this time?”

Byleth wondered, briefly, if she should lie. Perhaps if she just said that the Agarthans had captured her again, Sothis would release her back to Faerie with no further discussion. But she had a sense that Sothis would know if she did not tell the truth. “Your daughter. The White Lady.”

Sothis’s eyes widened in shock. For a moment Byleth thought that Sothis did not know what she was talking about. But then recognition dawned on her face, and her mouth rounded in a stunned o.

“Seiros,” she breathed. “I remember now. I have not remembered anything for quite some time! How extraordinary. But... I remember my daughter." Her expression softened, became almost dreamy. "The others called her the White Lady. She was always such a pretty babe. I used to rock her on my throne, let her play with my flowers, wove them into her hair.” Her eyebrows drew together and she cocked her head to the side. “But why? Why would my Seiros imprison you here?”

Byleth swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought much about whether Sothis would want to see her daughter again; this plan was suddenly seeming far less promising. But now that Sothis knew Seiros was involved, there was no other option than to tell her the truth. “She sent me here because she wants you to use my body to return to Faerie.”

Sothis blinked at her. Then blinked again. Then she let out a sharp, offended gasp.

“ Your body! What a ghastly notion!” she sniffed, drawing her chin up proudly. “She thinks I would hollow you out and wear your corpse? The girl has taken leave of her senses.” She scowled and shook her head. “Is that why I am here? Trapped in a Void while she looked for a half-mortal body to wear? Really, this is not to be borne.” She narrowed her eyes and glared at Byleth. “I do hope you’re not going to try to persuade me. It’s not a bad form, as mortal bodies go, but I cannot imagine living in it.”

“I won’t try to convince you,” Byleth promised. Relief flooded her chest—along with a mild sense of injury at Sothis’s obvious disgust. “But—can you help me get back? So I can tell Seiros I made you the offer and you said no.”

“Of course I can,” Sothis snapped. “I’ve done it before, have I not? But… hmmm.” She tapped a finger against her lips. “Yes. This time, there is something I need from you in exchange.”

Byleth felt her stomach clench. “I—I don’t have anything in here,” she protested feebly.

Sothis scowled. “I know that! I can see you, can’t I? Listen to what I ask before telling me you cannot do it. Or is that beyond one such as you?”

She glared at Byleth; Byleth held her tongue, trying to show she could be quiet. Sothis nodded, satisfied. “There, that’s better. I will free you from here—but you must take me with you. I cannot remain in this place any longer. Take me with you, so that I can speak to my daughter one last time.”

Byleth felt her brow furrow. “Take you with me? But you still won’t have a body.”

Sothis sighed heavily. “I will try to explain it again, for your slow wits,” she said acidly. “I will ride along inside your body. We will be together in there, you and I. You will allow me the use of your voice to speak with my daughter. And then… I will depart.” She sighed a sigh of pure longing. “My Seiros meant well, I believe, when she sent me here. I think... I believe I was wounded, and she could not bear to lose me. But I am weary of this place."

Byleth bit her lip. “How—how do I know you’ll give me my body back?”

“You do not, of course.” Sothis rolled her eyes impatiently. “But I do not see that you have any other options. Do you?”

“I… suppose I don’t,” Byleth admitted.

“Then let us stop this ridiculous stalling and get on with it.” Sothis stood from the steps and resumed her descent. She raised one slender arm, holding out her delicate hand towards Byleth, her palm facing outwards.

“Hold out your hand and stay still,” she instructed.

Byleth did as she was asked. Sothis had raised her left hand, and so Byleth lifted her right, leaving the palm facing out. As she approached, Sothis began to glow with gold-white light; the tiny white flowers in her hair sparkled like dew in bright sun, casting rainbows all around her, and Byleth had to close her eyes against her brilliance.

She felt a surge of power as Sothis’s hand met hers.

And then, she felt nothing.

Chapter Text

It was silent in Sothis’s tomb.

The White Lady had not moved since banishing Byleth. Nor had she looked back at Dimitri. She stood straight and tall before the stairs, her lovely face tilted upward at the throne and her eyes alight with desperate hope. If she felt any reservation, any remorse, for sending Byleth to her death, she did not show it.

And, though he knew well how much he owed to this woman, Dimitri hated her for it.

“You have no idea what you just lost,” he growled, his voice echoing from the walls. 

He did not expect a reply. The White Lady had treated him as an irrelevance ever since Byleth had stepped through the door to Faerie. But to his surprise, she turned her head, glancing at him over her shoulder.

“I have lost everything, Dimitri Blaiddyd,” she whispered after a pause. “My mother was not the only person murdered on that day. I had siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews. All slain by the Agarthans. Is it so much to ask to see my mother again, after all that was taken from me?” She shook her head. “I would think you, of all people, would understand what I do.”

Remorse stabbed through Dimitri—for the White Lady's reasoning did sound familiar. Had he not considered dragging Byleth to Faerie, forcing her to trade her life for his revenge?

“I do understand your loss, and your desperation," he admitted, his voice tight with unshed tears. "But if you knew your granddaughter, you would not have done this. She was the bravest person I’ve ever met, and one of the kindest. And you sent her to die.”

“This is not a death. It is a rebirth.” But the White Lady turned her face away from him as she said it.

Dimitri felt his fists clench, felt his jaw tighten. Byleth had traded her life for his; he could not throw it away. But in this moment he wanted nothing more than to fling himself at the White Lady in a rage.

Before he could say anything else, a figure appeared in the gloom.

It was a green-haired woman in a white gown, and Dimitri’s first thought was that it was Byleth, returned from the Void. But she was missing the golden jewelry that the White Lady had given Byleth, and with a start, Dimitri realized that he was looking not at Byleth but at Lady Sitri.

“My darling!” The White Lady’s voice was welcoming, but Dimitri could see her frame grow tense. “What brings you…”

“Enough, mother,” snapped Lady Sitri, placing her fists on her hips and glaring at the White Lady. “I felt my daughter enter this realm. And before I could find her, she was gone. Why are you here? Where is Byleth?”

Dimitri had never seen the White Lady at a loss for words, much less seen guilt on that ancient face. But he saw it now as the ruler of Faerie looked at her daughter, her lips parted and agony in her expression. 

Then more figures began to appear in the room. Lord Cichol and Lady Cethleann. Lord Macuil and Lord Indech, both uncomfortable and awkward in their human guises. All of them were looking at the White Lady with horror and injury in their eyes.

“Seiros. What have you done?” Lord Cichol demanded, his voice vibrating with anger.

“Calm yourself, Cichol. I have done what is necessary to protect this realm,” the White Lady said coldly, drawing herself up to her full height. “You will see for yourself when…”

She did not get to finish her sentence when a blinding light erupted from the center of the tomb.

Dimitri spun and gasped as a bright slash of golden light opened atop the throne—and winked out of existence, leaving a green-haired woman behind.

Slowly, the woman rose from the throne and began descending the stairs, and Dimitri felt his heart fall into his stomach. The form and face were the same, but the dainty way this woman walked on her toes was nothing like Byleth’s decisive stride—and all around her hung a cloud of light in glittering rainbow colors. From across the room, he saw Sitri’s face crumble as she reached the same awful realization.

They were looking at Sothis. Byleth was gone.  

“How dreadful,” Sothis said, her eyes searching the room as she descended the stairs. When her feet met the stone floor, clover and flowers began to bloom from it; she seemed unaware of the effect. “I believe I remember this place… but I do not think this is how I left it. No, it is not. Is this all that is left of my woods?”

The White Lady fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mother!”

Sothis’s eyes found her daughter. For a moment she simply stared, silent and still, as flowers and grass bloomed around her feet and spread across the stone floor. She beamed so brightly that Dimitri had to look away from the expression; it was not Byleth’s smile, and it hurt to see it on her face. “My Seiros.” 

And then Sothis put her hands on her hips and scowled down at her daughter. “Tell me right now. What were you thinking?”

The White Lady blinked, catching her breath, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I—I do not understand, Mother.” Her voice shook a bit. “I know, of course, that what I have done in your absence could not hope to match what you would have done for our people. But I—I have tried…”

“Oh, I’m not talking about any of that,” Sothis said impatiently, crossing her arms and tapping her foot. “I’m talking about this business of trapping me in some sort of vast endless darkness. I don’t remember much about my life before that place, but I’m quite certain I never would have taught you to be so stupid.”

The White Lady’s jaw dropped open in shock. “I—but what else could I do, Mother?” She opened her hands helplessly. “Let you die? Hold no hope for your return?”

Sothis tilted her head to the right. “Yes!” she snapped. “Obviously! Have you no sense? That is exactly what you should have done!”

The White Lady scrambled to her feet, her face a mask of horror. “Mother, you do not mean that! Death is not meant for one such as you. You—without you, we cannot…”

“Death is meant for all of us, my Seiros,” Sothis said, waving a dismissive hand. Then she frowned. “Hmph. Now that I have returned to this place, some unpleasant details are coming back to me. That little brat Epimenides!” She scowled. “But, insulting as it was, it was my fate, and you should have let me meet it. And you certainly should not have sent me a half-mortal vessel to replace my true body. What an appalling thought!”

“I am sorry I displeased you, Mother.” The White Lady did not truly sound sorry; her jaw was tight and her voice flat. She drew a deep breath through her nose. “But now that you have returned, our people have their Queen back. And finally, you will be able to…”

Sothis raised a hand. It was a small gesture, but immediately, the White Lady fell silent, awaiting her mother’s words. “I am not staying, my Seiros.”

The White Lady gasped. “Mother, please.” Tears began running down her cheeks once more. “I have spent thousands of years…”

“I have spent thousands of years sleeping in an empty room with naught but my own thoughts to keep me company,” Sothis interrupted sharply. “I was there so long that my memories fled from me, so long that I knew nothing save my own name, and I believe I was close to losing that as well. Some deaths are fate, my daughter, and I am weary of running from mine.”

The White Lady was unmoved; her face was stony, resolved. “But Mother—”

“You always were stubborn.” The words were soft, fond. “But even you cannot change my mind on this, dear one. And there are those here who long for my vessel’s return as keenly as you longed for mine.” Sothis’s eyes slid to Sitri—and then, to Dimitri’s shock, over to him. “Do you truly wish to soothe your own grief by causing theirs?”

The White Lady and Sothis stared at one another, their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills unfolding between them as everyone else looked on. And then suddenly, Seiros’s face crumpled. Weeping, the White Lady sank to her knees with her face in her hands, her lovely hair pooling all around her, falling across her face like a shroud. 

Sothis stepped forward and stroked a hand over her daughter’s head, kissing her brow.

“Goodbye, my daughter,” she said softly. “I, too, wish my fate had been otherwise. But it was not, and I must meet it.” A faint smile curved her mouth as brighter and brighter light began to pour from her eyes, as tiny sparks in a rainbow of colors flowed upwards from Byleth’s form. “Perhaps I will see your siblings again. I would like that.”

And suddenly the sparks were gone, and Byleth’s body was collapsing to the ground.

Dimitri leapt forward, but Sitri was faster. She winked out of existence and reappeared beside her daughter, catching her beneath the shoulders, lowering her gently. There was a desperate hope in Sitri’s eyes as she stroked Byleth’s hair; she cast aside the golden crown almost angrily as she looked into her daughter’s face.

Dimitri held his breath—and watched as Byleth’s lashes fluttered open.

The darkness lifted from Byleth slowly. She felt as if she had been asleep for days, weeks; she felt as if she could sleep longer.

But then she realized whose face was hovering above hers, and she forced her eyes open. “Mom!”

“Byleth!” Sitri pulled her into a tight embrace; Byleth buried her face in her mother’s neck, feeling eight years old again. 

“I told you never to come here,” Sitri said sternly, clutching her close.

“I know. I’m sorry, Mom. But I had to. Dimitri …” She looked up and glanced around, panic starting to bubble in her stomach. “Where’s Dimitri?”

And then Dimitri was kneeling next to her, offering his hand, sliding his fingers into hers. “I’m here,” he said, tears running down his cheeks. “Byleth. I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I told you to trust me,” Byleth reminded him, tightening her fingers in his. For a moment the two of them stared at each other, smiling slightly, unable to do anything but bask in almost giddy relief.

Then Sitri cleared her throat, and Byleth looked back over at her mother sheepishly. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, blushing slightly.

“You will face no judgment from me.” Sitri chuckled fondly as she looked between the two of them. “Faerghus men are difficult to resist.”

It was then that Byleth realized there were more people in the room. Four elegant, green-haired Nabateans were clustered around the White Lady, who was on her knees, sobbing into her hands. The only woman was patting the White Lady's shoulder soothingly; the three men were looking at one another with worry and unhappiness on their faces.

Byleth had been prepared to say something cutting to the White Lady, to gloat over her triumph. She had spent years fearing her grandmother, and it turned out she’d had good cause; Seiros’s success would have meant her end. But as she looked over at the weeping ruler of Faerie, she found that she felt not hatred, but pity.

Slowly, she stood, allowing her mother and Dimitri to help her to her feet. Half-unconsciously she reached for the remnants of Sothis’s power, using them to turn Serios’s white gown back to her old familiar leathers and grey cloak. She looked down at the White Lady, taking a deep breath.

“I am sorry,” she said. Then she paused. “Not because your plan didn’t work. I’m glad to have my body back. But… I know what it’s like to lose your mother and to want to see her again.”

Sitri’s hand tightened around hers. So did Dimitri’s.

The White Lady seemed only dimly aware of her granddaughter through her tears; she seemed nearly broken, sitting there on the cold stone floor in this lonely tomb. "That is kind. I suppose,” she said dully, shaking her head in misery. She still did not look up at Byleth.

Byleth cleared her throat. “I know you didn’t get what you wanted. But I did what you asked. Will you honor your word, grandmother? Will you free Dimitri when his service has ended?”

The White Lady let out a humorless chuckle. “My bargains bind me, child. I could not break my word even if I wished to.” She waved a hand, as if to dismiss Byleth. “Take your mortal and leave me to my grief.”

“Is that truly all you have to say, Mother?” Sitri’s voice shook with barely contained anger. “Is that all you can bother to tell my daughter after you nearly took her life?”

“It was not meant to be this way, Sitri,” the White Lady said, as another tear leaked down her cheek. “I had thought you would understand.”

Sitri’s eyes grew wide; she clenched a fist at her side. It was the most overt display of anger Byleth had ever seen from her gentle mother, and though it was more than justified, Byleth also did not want Sitri to do anything she would regret.

“Mom,” she said softly. “Can we leave this place? Please?”

Sitri turned her face towards Byleth, the anger fading almost instantly. “Yes. Of course, sweetheart.” She reached out a hand for Byleth’s—and extended her other hand towards Dimitri, who took it cautiously in his, handling the slender fingers as though they were made of glass. Sitri smiled at him with a hint of indulgence on her face, and Byleth had the oddest sense that her mother was welcoming Dimitri into the family.

And with a soft breath of magic, the dull gray stone vanished from around them, and the three of them were outside under the white-pink sky of Faerie, standing outside a small cottage that could only be Sitri’s home. It was not identical to the house where Byleth had grown up, but it was close, and painfully familiar, and the sight of it made tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

“You should both stay here for now,” Sitri said warmly, squeezing both of their hands. “Give me a moment. I will add some rooms.”

With a slight, fond smile, she vanished inside.

And Byleth was left alone with Dimitri, one of her hands tucked into his. He was still looking at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there, and for a moment all she could do was stare at him, wondering if this was real, if they were really both free.

“We—we should probably talk about the kiss,” she blurted. “It was a strange moment, I know. And you thought it was goodbye, so maybe you don’t really feel that way about…”

That was as far as she got before Dimitri pulled her into his arms and bent his head to kiss her again. Her heart overflowing, Byleth rose on her toes and slid her arms around his neck, holding him close, pouring everything she had into kissing him back.

The day Dimitri was to return to the mortal world, there was a celebration in Faerie unlike any he had seen before. The Bladebreaker had returned to Faerie to live by his wife’s side, and every Nabatean joined together to welcome him back.

Every Nabatean, save one. 

Not long after Sitri brought Byleth and Dimitri out of Sothis’s tomb, the Lords and Lady of the realm had taken the White Lady to the upper floors of the monastery. When they emerged, they made an announcement that shocked Dimitri to his core. The White Lady would step down from her role and go into seclusion at the edges of her realm, with only her most loyal Knight Catherine for company.

“It will only be for a time, to help her in her grief,” Lord Cichol had assured the Nabateans when the announcement was made. “I will rule in her stead until she feels ready to return.” Privately, however, Sitri told Dimitri and Byleth that trust had been broken, and despite the White Lady’s great power, despite their love for her, the Lords and Lady did not know if they could welcome her back as their leader. 

Although Dimitri could not forgive what Seiros had attempted, he felt no joy at the prospect of her so alone, so separated from the people she had fought to protect. He took some comfort in the knowledge that Cethleann promised to visit her in her exile. He took even greater comfort in Jeralt’s return; the older man might be mortal, but he was a seasoned warrior in the fight against the Agarthans, and with Seiros no longer leading the Knights into battle, they would need every sword they could get.

No relief or joy could equal Sitri’s, however. She and Jeralt had not left each others’ sides since Byleth had brought her father back to Faerie. Right now they were dancing in the Monastery’s courtyard, twirling together amidst a storm of falling white petals, laughing with joy as they held each other. Jeralt had a white flower tucked behind his ear; Sitri had brought him one every day since his return.

And at Dimitri’s side, their daughter was watching them with a smile on her face and melancholy in her green eyes.

“You could stay, you know.” The words felt like knives in Dimitri’s throat, but he had to say them. “I—I fear I cannot remain, knowing that Faerghus suffers. But I would understand if you…”

Byleth reached for his hand and squeezed it. “I’ll visit them, of course,” she told him. “But no. I don’t want to stay here.”

“Will the iron make you ill?” Dimitri felt his brows draw together in worry. “Lady Sitri was eventually forced to return. Will you…?”

Byleth shook her head. “My mother says what she experienced when she was around iron was very different from what I felt. It didn’t seem to bother me to be near it, only to touch it. So… I’ll have to be careful about what I pick up, I suppose.” Her face fell a bit. “Dimitri—I can’t imagine a mercenary’s daughter is the kind of woman a Prince is supposed to be with, no matter how much Nabatean blood she has. If you don’t want…”

This time it was Dimitri’s turn to squeeze her hand. “No,” he said firmly. “Whatever comes for me, I want you at my side. So long as you’ll have me, that is.”

As Byleth smiled up at him, her fingers twined through his, Dimitri felt an odd sensation overwhelm him. It felt like an invisible ripple was pulsing through him, pulling something away, releasing him from chains that had been too light to feel. He had not known to expect such a feeling, but he knew right away what it meant.

His ten years and ten days were up, and he was free.

“Our realm owes you a debt, Dimitri Blaiddyd.”

Dimitri turned his head to see Lord Cichol standing there, tall and proud in deep blue velvet robes, with a thin golden crown across his temples. In his right hand, he held a lance with a curved, wing-like blade as white as Byleth’s sword.

“You have served us well and faithfully, and you are owed what was promised.” Lord Cichol’s face turned grave. “I am sorry it was nearly withheld from you. Seiros should not have asked of you what she did.” He looked at Byleth. “Nor should she have attempted to steal your body from you.”

Dimitri could not disagree—but, oddly, he felt the urge to defend the White Lady. “I hope you will not judge her too harshly, Lord Cichol. I am angry about what she attempted, but… I can understand her desperation after so much loss.”

“You are generous, Dimitri Blaiddyd. A good quality in a King, I believe.” With a graceful incline of his head, Lord Cichol held out the lance. “This weapon is yours. Use it to put our enemies to flight, and to win back your Kingdom.”

The moment Dimitri closed his fingers around the lance, Lord Cichol vanished back into the happy crowd of Nabateans, blending in amidst the sea of green and seafoam hair. But Sitri and Jeralt saw the blade in Dimitri’s hands and began moving towards them, clearly understanding what the weapon meant.

“Congratulations, Prince Dimitri,” Sitri said softly. “Your service has ended.”

“I somehow thought there would be more to it,” Dimitri confessed, looking at his new lance.

Jeralt clapped his hand on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Nah, that’s pretty much it. It’s just over, and you’re free to do what you want.” His eyes narrowed. “So long as you watch out for my kid, that is.”

Dimitri squeezed Byleth’s hand once more. “Always, sir,” he promised.

“And I’ll watch out for him too,” Byleth said pointedly, rolling her eyes at her father.

“I knew that part, kid.” Gruffly, Jeralt leaned in to press a kiss to his daughter’s forehead. “We’ll see you soon?”

“Of course,” Byleth promised, as Sitri held out her arms and she stepped into them. “Just don’t forget my silver knife.”

Sitri was crying when the embrace ended, but she smiled through her tears and held out her hand, palm up. A dagger appeared in it—the very same sort of dagger Dimitri had used to open the door to Faerie, and that Byleth had used to bring her father back.

“You may find, in time, that you can return to us without this,” Sitri said. “I never could manage that. But some of Sothis’s power still resides within you, I believe.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Use that power well.”

Dimitri felt Byleth’s fingers twine through his, saw her draw a deep breath as she tucked the knife into her belt. “We don’t need to go right away, you know,” he told her.

“I know,” she assured him. “But I want to. I want to check on Leonie.” Her lips curved in a smile. “And then let’s find your friend Felix. I think he’ll want to know that Faerghus’s rightful King has returned.”

Faerghus’s rightful King. The words sent a shiver of nerves through Dimitri—but there was a strange certainty that accompanied it. As terrifying as the task seemed, he knew it was the right choice.

And he knew he could do it, with Byleth at his side.

“Very well,” he said softly. “Will you do the honors?”

As Jeralt and Sitri watched, Byleth raised her hand, extended it outwards with the palm flat. And suddenly there was a door resting against her fingertips, its outline glowing golden-white.

Hand in hand, Dimitri and Byleth stepped through it.

Chapter Text

Ten years later

“One more story, Papa. Please!”

“Alexandre Jeralt Blaiddyd. You have already had two stories,” Byleth said sternly from the doorway, looking between her husband and her eldest son with a slightly reproving expression. 

Alex turned his wide blue eyes up to Dimitri—who, he knew from experience, was the softer touch of the two. “Just one more story, Papa. I can’t sleep without my favorite story. Please.”

Dimitri laughed softly. “Oh, very well. But this is the last one,” he said sternly, as Byleth cleared her throat. “And … you know it didn’t happen this way, right?”

“Oh, I know,” Alex said, nestling into his pillows and pulling his favorite stuffed lion close as Dimitri lifted the book of fairy tales from the bedside table. “But I like the pictures. Mama looks so pretty in them.”

“She does, at that.” With a soft chuckle, Dimitri cleared his throat and began.

Once, there was a handsome Prince beloved by his Kingdom and family alike, and destined to sit on his father’s throne.

But his Kingdom had a wicked advisor, a woman who desired the throne for herself. She pledged herself to the service of a dark people called the Agarthans to obtain her goal, and used their magic to slay the King and Queen on a journey away from the palace, deep in the woods and far from any help. The Prince was wounded as well, and though he tried valiantly to defend his family, he was injured beyond healing and knew that he would soon die.

But as he lay on the ground in the woods, fighting for his last breaths, the White Lady, ruler of Faerie, appeared before him. She had long battled the wicked Agarthans, and wept to see the suffering their ally had wrought in the mortal world. She offered the Prince a bargain: She would save his life if he would pledge himself to her service and help her fight her old enemy. 

The Prince agreed. He served her boldly and bravely, distinguishing himself in battles against the Agarthans who threatened the Lady’s lands and peoples. 

And so it was the Prince whom the White Lady chose to complete a difficult task: To journey back to his homeland and defend it from the Agarthans, who had returned there to prey on mortals. The Prince took on the task gladly, for the loss of his own parents still pained him, and he wished to save others the same suffering if he could. 

It was a perilous quest, for the Agarthans had sown the seeds of a brutal war, and the Prince would have to cross dangerous territory to seek out his foes. But on his first day in the mortal world, the Prince met a brave warrior. She carried a sword and stood alone in defense of her town as it was threatened by bandits. The Prince offered his aid, and the warrior fought by his side with such skill and courage that he asked her to come with him to help end this war.

The warrior agreed—for the Agarthans had taken her father prisoner.

The Prince and the warrior journeyed together through the war's treacherous battlefields, fighting their way to the prison where the warrior's father was being held. It was not long before the Prince knew he was in love with this courageous woman, and his heart ached knowing that he could not remain in the mortal world by her side.

When they reached the place where the Agarthans had imprisoned the warrior's father, they learned that the jailor holding the keys to her father’s cell was none other than the wicked advisor who had murdered the Prince's parents. The treacherous advisor summoned dark powers to her side, used fire and magic to try to capture them both. But together, the Prince and the warrior fought bravely, and in the end they prevailed. They rescued the warrior’s father, and together they slew the Agarthans who had been aiding the advisor in her dark quest.

With his task complete, the Prince was honor-bound to return to Faerie. With one last goodbye for the warrior, he journeyed deep into the woods to return to Faerie. But the warrior followed him, for she had grown to love him too, and when he vanished into the air, she wept bitter tears at his leaving.

As her tears fell, they opened a doorway into Faerie.

Bravely, the warrior stepped through it, and found the White Lady waiting with the Prince at her side. She fell to her knees and told the White Lady that she loved this man, and she begged for his release, even at the cost of her own life in exchange. Moved by the warrior’s courageous heart, the White Lady released the Prince from her service. Hand in hand, the Prince and the warrior walked from the Faerie realm to the mortal world.

With the warrior by his side, the Prince retook his lost Kingdom. He made her his Queen, and their coronation was celebrated for seven days and nights by a Kingdom at peace, overjoyed to have its lost Prince returned to them.

And they lived happily ever after.

Dimitri looked up as he read the last lines; he knew them by heart, now. Just as he’d expected, Alex was now fast asleep.

“That particular retelling omits quite a lot, don’t you think?” Byleth asked softly, crossing the room and looking at them both with warm fondness in her eyes. 

Dimitri tucked the covers over his son and kissed his forehead. “Perhaps,” he whispered, setting the book on Alex’s bedside table. He turned to his wife with a warm smile on his face, extending his hands towards her. “But it gets the most important parts right. I particularly like the last line.”

“So do I.” Byleth stepped into his arms and rose on her toes to kiss him. “So do I.”