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Felix wakes up disoriented and far, far too warm. No, that’s not right. Not just warm. It’s hot. So hot that his skin feels like it’s burning. The cool surface beneath his cheek is the only relief from the all-encompassing heat. It’s hard and unyielding. Stone, probably.

Why is he lying on stone? Did he fall asleep in the street? Is this heat just the midday Enbarr sun?

Impossible.

He tries to move — every inch of his body screams in agony. What happened to him? Where is he?

He can’t remember anything.

The world swims when he tries to open his eyes, so he squeezes them shut hard enough to see stars. Bad decision. He tries, instead, to focus on his other senses. The first thing he notices is how quiet it is. Eerily quiet. Except for the aggravating ringing in his ear, he can’t detect any other noises. No bugs. No wind rustling the trees. No people clattering about the camp. Nothing.

The second thing he notices is how hard it is to breathe. The air is heavy, and it burns going down his throat. He tries to take a deep breath and chokes on it. His head is pounding by the time he manages to stop coughing. He takes shallow, fast breaths to avoid another fit. Something heavy lies across his back, smothering him. It’s uncomfortable, but at least it gives him a goal — he has to get it off. He has to breathe.

His arms barely seem like they’re his. They shake and won’t cooperate. It takes an alarming amount of time to get them under him, and he shoves down the panic he can feel rising in his chest.

No time for that, Felix. Focus on the task.

He pushes. His arms buckle, and he collapses back to the ground. The weight drops back to the ground with him, landing hard on his back. White blooms behind his eyelids from the pain.

He drags his hands back under his shoulders. It hurts. Every part of his body hurts. He grits his teeth and tries again. It’s agony. He almost blacks out from the pain but manages to push himself onto his knees. There’s a moment when he fears the weight will push him back down, but thankfully, it slides off instead. He pulls his shaking knees under his body and sits back.

He risks opening his eyes again and keeps them open despite the splitting headache it causes. Tears sting his eyes as he looks around. He can’t see anything. At first, he thinks it’s dark. Slowly, he realizes the heavy darkness around him is smoke. Thick, oppressive, black smoke. Smoke like this means fire — live, active, consuming fire— Felix has seen enough fires to know he’s dead if he stays here.

He'd stand and run if he could, but every shallow inhale still brings rippling pain. But he can’t stay here. He has to move. So, he crawls.

Left hand. Left knee. Right hand. Right knee.

He’s doing it. He’s escaping.

Left hand. Left knee. Right –

His right hand lands on something hard. It slides out from under him, and he topples back to the ground. Felix slams his eyes shut and grits his teeth to hold in the scream at the impact. His ribs are broken, at the very least. Probably a lot more.

He squints his eyes to see what he slipped on. It’s a sword. His sword? It looks like his sword. The leather around the scabbard seems familiar. But why is it here? Did he drop it?

It takes two tries for Felix to wrap his fingers around the hilt and twice that for him to drag himself to his feet again with the help of his blade. He fights down the bile rising in his throat and forces himself forward. Felix almost falls again when his foot catches, only a lifetime of training allows him to keep his feet. He glances down and stares incomprehensibly.

Bodies surround him—dozens of them. A mix of the familiar teal of his battalion and the black of the Imperial mages cover the floor around him. None of them move.

A memory teases him. That’s right. The battle in Enbarr. The final push against Edelgard’s forces. He vaguely recalls Byleth commanding him to take his battalion and clear out some mages wreaking havoc on their troops with ranged attacks. But what happened after that? He can’t remember. He has no time to remember.

He forces himself to look around. There must be an exit. If he can find it and get to clearer air — No. He will find it. He will survive. He has a promise to keep.

Every staggering step feels like a battle, but Felix drags himself forward, leaning heavily on his sword. Muffled noises break through the ringing in his ears, the distant clang of weapons and much closer cracks and pops as the unseen fire rages around him.

The room is scorching, heat billowing through the air. He refuses to die here. Felix forces himself to move faster, stepping carefully over bodies until the smoke and pain force him back to his knees. The impact doesn’t even register. He drops his sword. It’s no good to him right now. He can get another one off an Imperial soldier. But only if he can escape.

He inches forward, pulling himself over one of his soldiers. There’s nothing he can do for them anymore. He can only save himself.

Keep moving.

The smoke thickens by the second, choking him as the fire rages hotter.

Keep moving.

His vision swims, and he collapses onto his belly.

Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving.

But he can’t. Darkness claws at him, dragging him down. Felix fights. Of course, he fights. But this isn’t an opponent he can outwit. His speed and agility are useless here. So, he fights. He fights.

And loses.

Sylvain leans against his lance, relief weakening his knees as Dimitri emerges from the throne room, the professor following right behind him. Dimitri surveys the desperate, hopeful faces looking back at him — before he thrusts Edelgard’s axe skyward, and the tension snaps.

Soldiers fall to their knees all around Sylvain. Some weep. Some scream their victory into the armor of their comrades. Some bow to their king, who ended five years of conflict. Some sink to the ground, sitting silently on their knees as others rejoice around them. Sylvain’s cheeks feel like they’ll split in half as members of his battalion slap him on the back and scream their relief to each other.

An exuberant cry is the only warning Sylvain gets before he drops his lance to catch a sobbing Annette. She shakes in his arms, bawling into his chest. “It’s over, Sylvain. It’s finally over.”

And it is.

After months of living in the squalor of war camps, eating the same tasteless field rations every morning and night, and spending every afternoon training to survive another month —to save a friend, they can finally hang up their weapons and look to the future.

Well, Felix probably won’t retire his sword, Sylvain thinks. He’ll probably find Felix on the training grounds as early as tomorrow morning, and he’ll probably insist Sylvain keep his skills sharp as well. But that’s a problem Sylvain is looking forward to finding creative ways to solve.

The desire to find Felix, to hold him in his arms, hits Sylvain with a sudden, heart-stopping intensity. Sylvain keeps rubbing Annette’s heaving back in short, comforting strokes as he searches for familiar dark locks and teal armor. He’s scanned about half the hall before his gaze lands on Mercedes.

Her hair and clothes are unruffled, and her expression is serene as she greets him with a gentle kiss on his cheek. Sylvain smiles at her gratefully as she extracts a still sobbing Annette from his arms and waves him off with a soft, “Go find him.” He pauses just long enough to return Mercedes’s kiss and press one to Annette’s temple before he hurries off.

He passes Ingrid, her forehead pressed against her Pegasus as she strokes her mane and whispers into her ears. Soon afterward, he finds Ashe helping Flayn bandage a man’s bloodied leg. Dedue spares him a nod from his vantage point standing over them, a silent, gauntleted sentinel, and Sylvain nods back.

He’s nearly completed an entire circuit of the room when he crosses Dimitri emerging from the staircase leading up to the balcony. He looks shell-shocked and a bit like he’s seconds away from collapsing onto the floor if it wasn’t for the professor’s steady presence at his side.

Seeing the rest of the Blue Lions whole and largely uninjured buoys Sylvain, but there’s a heaviness in his heart — he knows that it will stay until he sees Felix safe. The tension in his shoulders deflates as he glimpses black and teal across the courtyard. He exhales with a sigh and lets his eyes slip closed.

Felix.

As he jogs across the room, Sylvain’s fingers slip under his armor to caress a familiar object. The metal is warm from being nestled against his skin. It gleams in the diffused sunlight when he extracts it from his clothes; tiny jewels inset into a band of gold. It’s probably more ostentatious than anything Felix would choose from himself, but Sylvain could hardly propose to a Duke with simple iron or silver. Besides, Sylvain likes the idea that everybody who sees it will know that he can provide for Felix and that Felix loves him enough to wear Sylvain’s ring proudly.

Sylvain had tried to give the ring to Felix before their army marched into Enbarr.

Sylvain’s squire, the quiet son of a minor Faerghus Count, secured the final clasp on his gauntlets just as Felix pushed open the flap to his tent.

His squire scrambled from their presence at Felix’s curt, “Get out,” and before the tent flap could close behind him, Felix was already undoing all the boy’s work.

Not wanting to dissuade him, Sylvain suppressed a smile as Felix’s nimble fingers danced across his armor, checking tightness while looking for chinks and defects. There weren’t any for him to find because Sylvain takes his maintenance seriously, but Sylvain loves Felix’s fingers, loves the feel of his hard-won callouses catching on the fabric of his clothes as they trace his muscles.

“You do know the position of my squire is already filled,” Sylvain teased, his hands coming up to rest on Felix’s hips. Felix was dressed for battle, his swords secured to his back and his hair tied into the high ponytail he preferred for fighting. The only missing element was his gloves, and Sylvain lifted one of his hands to catch Felix’s and twine their bare fingers together.

Felix acknowledged his quip with a grunt before swatting his hand away and returning to his task. This exchange was a ritual they performed before every battle. Without fail, Felix will check the fit of Sylvain’s armor while enduring his good-natured teasing. Without fail, Sylvain will bring Felix sword oil, even though Felix is more likely to profess his undying love for Edeglard than forget to take care of his blade. It’s soothing, their ritual. Small gestures to affirm their affection for each other. A moment for just them amid the chaos of preparing for war.

Felix adjusted the final clasp on Sylvain’s greaves before nodding in satisfaction. Sylvain took that as his cue, reeling Felix in for a kiss that he pretended to be reluctant to return. It didn’t take long for Felix to give up the pretense of indifference and melt into the kiss. They spent a few minutes ignoring the sounds of the army preparing outside the thin walls of Sylvain’s tent and getting lost in the feeling of each other before Sylvain pulled away.

Sylvain hated being responsible, but somebody would come looking for them if they didn’t join the others soon. Probably Ingrid, who was aggressively unsympathetic to their desire for privacy. Sylvain gave into the urge to rub their noses together, which earned him a scowl, but Felix didn’t pull away, so it was mostly for show.

Unsurprisingly, it was Felix who eventually broke their lingering embrace. “Don’t die.”

Sylvain sighed. “Ah, Felix, you sure know how to make a man feel loved.”

A little wrinkle appeared between Felix’s brows as if he couldn’t decide whether Sylvain was making fun of him. Sylvain smoothed it away with a quick kiss. “Not planning on dying today, sweetheart,” he reassured, already missing the familiar scent of sword oil and leather that clung to Felix. “I made a promise, after all.”

Felix’s eyes softened, but any response he wanted to make was interrupted by the bright tone of a bell. That was the signal for the army to mobilize. Felix turned to leave, but Sylvain grabbed his arm.

“Wait, I have something for you.”

Sylvain walked to the desk in the corner of his tent and retrieved a small box. Felix’s breath caught as Sylvain opened it, revealing the ring he had commissioned from a jeweler in Derdriu. “I know we haven’t discussed what happens after we win the war, but I had this made for you after —" Sylvain trailed off, unsure how he wanted to end the sentence. After Dimitri regained his sanity? After realizing they might have a chance of surviving this war?

He's saved from having to stumble through the least suave proposal in history by Felix gently closing his hand back around the box, shutting the ring inside. “Ask me after we win,” he said, then turned on his heel and strode out of the tent.

Sylvain had watched him go before tucking the ring into his armor and stepping out into the morning to join his assembled battalion.

But now, the war is over. They did what seemed impossible only a year ago. They won. And now the ring in Sylvain’s hand seems to burn with his desperation to see it in its rightful place on Felix’s finger.

Sylvain sprints the last few steps between them and clasps Felix on the shoulder. “Felix! I can’t believe you didn’t come to me as soon as the fighting ended-”

The man turns around, and the rest of Sylvain’s words catch in his throat. It’s not Felix. Besides long black hair and shorter stature, he bears little resemblance to Felix.

Sylvain jerks his hand from the man’s shoulder. “My mistake,” he says with a forced laugh. “I thought you were somebody else.”

“No problem, Lord Gautier,” the soldier says. Despite his best efforts, Sylvain’s disappointment must be evident because he quickly adds, “I saw Lord Fraldarius and his battalion heading towards the East Wing. I’m sure he’ll come back when it’s clear.”

Sylvain nods woodenly. “Of course, of course,” he agrees and resolutely ignores the sinking feeling settling in his stomach. He forces a smile on his face as he turns away. So, this man wasn’t Felix. It’s a funny mistake, honestly. Felix will scowl at him when Sylvain admits he confused him with a commoner. One carrying an axe, no less. Just because the fighting has ended here, near the throne room, doesn’t mean it’s stopped in the more remote areas of the Imperial palace. There’s no reason to worry yet; Felix has an uncanny knack for finding the last opponent. He’ll be here when he can. Sylvain simply needs to be patient.

Deep in his thoughts, Sylvain almost runs into the person standing directly in front of him. An apology is halfway out of his mouth when he registers the familiar mint-green hair. “Professor?” he tries, then corrects himself at the slight downturn of lips that greeting inspires. “Byleth.”

“Sylvain.” His name is accompanied by a gloved hand cupping his shoulder and a heavy gaze. Sylvain has gotten better at reading Byleth’s micro-expressions throughout the war and is reasonably sure he sees relief.

Sylvain presses his hand over Byleth’s. “We won,” he offers unnecessarily. He endures Byleth’s approving gaze for a few moments longer before the nagging thoughts grow too insistent. “Have you seen Felix?”

Byleth’s lips thin marginally, and he shakes his head. For Byleth, that’s almost an animated gesture of alarm, and Sylvain freezes. If Byleth, who has a mysterious knack for keeping tabs on all of them even during the chaos of battle, doesn’t know where Felix is –

No. Sylvain shakes the thought loose before its tendrils can take hold of his heart. Felix is one of the best swordsmen of their generation. He’s fast, creative, and obstinate, almost to a fault, which makes him nearly unbeatable in combat. His battalion, composed of the best fighters in Fraldarius, is also with him, not to mention that he promised Sylvain he’d survive.

“I sent him to clear the mages in the East Wing,” Byleth says, frowning. “He should be back by now.” Byleth turns, and Sylvain notices the remaining Blue Lions have gathered around them. The excitement and relief on their faces dim as Byleth asks, “When’s the last time anybody saw Felix?”

It quickly becomes apparent that the last time anyone saw him was halfway through the battle. Fresh tears are gathering in Annette’s eyes, no longer joyful, and Sylvain looks away. There’s no reason for tears. Felix is just caught up dealing with something. He’ll be here any minute. Ingrid suggests, in her customary calm voice, that they look for him. Her eyes betray her worry, and Sylvain has to turn away from her as well.

It's fine. Felix is fine. Everything is fine.

Sylvain sets off without a word, the Blue Lions trailing after him in a silent procession.

For a war of this magnitude, the victory feast Dimitri managed to cobble together is paltry. But perhaps, given the economic toll of the conflict, it was the best anybody could do. They had raided the Imperial force’s supplies, finding plenty of fresh meats, vegetables, and even a few dozen casks of good wine. Dimitri had ordered everything shared among the soldiers, so despite their not-insignificant losses and the amount of work still left to do, morale is high.

The war is won, after all.

Sylvain sits apart during the revelry— watching people celebrate through a fog. He’s on his fifth — sixth? —seventh? cup of wine. He should feel terrible. He hasn’t slept in two days and can’t remember the last time he’d had anything other than wine. But mostly, he feels numb. Detached — watching all these people be happy.

He’s not a wallflower, especially not with a drink in his hand. Usually, he’s eager to wind his way through the gathered throng, flashing winks at beautiful people and clapping shoulders in camaraderie. Alcohol can make some people melancholy and others angry or guileless. For Sylvain, however, a good drink always makes him more charming — the light buzzing beneath his skin making every conversation with a stranger seem more profound and intimate. The wine tonight is probably a good vintage, easy on the palate, and smooth as it goes down his throat.

Not that Sylvain cares anymore. Wine won’t bring him joy tonight. Nothing will bring him joy ever again.

The East Wing of the Imperial palace had been decimated by a fire that couldn’t have been natural. Nothing could survive a fire that burned hot enough to melt stone. Nobody in that section of the palace could have survived. That knowledge hadn’t stopped Sylvain from digging through the rubble for days.

The Blue Lions had all helped at first, working silently next to him to sift through melted stone and debris. But one by one, they had given up. One by one, they had turned away from the destruction, turned away from Felix.

Sylvain had ignored their attempts to pull him away as well. They had found Rhea in a room hidden beneath the floor of the Minister of the Imperial Household’s quarters. Surely there were other hidden spaces throughout the palace. Buildings this old always had at least a handful. Felix would have found one when he found himself cornered by the fire. And now he’s alive, trapped underground by debris, waiting for Sylvain to find him.

But instead of looking for him, instead of saving him, Sylvain is at a party watching his so-called friends celebrate. He hates them. He scares himself with how much he hates them. How can they parade around as if everything is fine when Felix is—

“Sylvain.”

It’s Ingrid. Of course, it’s Ingrid. She’s the only one who has dared to approach him in the last few days. She’d been the one to drag him from his search and supervise him like a child as he bathed and changed into clean clothes. She’d also tried to get him to eat, but he’d refused. Sylvain might have been weary enough to let himself be bullied into coming tonight, but he won’t pretend that he’s grateful. He doesn’t bother turning towards her.

“Fuck off, Ingrid.”

A sigh is the only acknowledgment she makes of his rudeness. “Don’t do this.”

Sylvain scoffs. She’s so patronizing. Who is Ingrid to tell him what to do? She might have grown up with them, might have been engaged to Felix’s brother, but she doesn’t love Felix. Not like Sylvain does. He doesn’t want her here. “I said, leave me alone, Ingrid.”

“Sylvain—" Ingrid reaches a hand towards his shoulder but retracts it at the glare Sylvain levels at her. Unfortunately, unlike her hand, she stays. “It’s not healthy for you to drink by yourself. I know you’re upset, but I don’t think you should—"

“Upset?” Sylvain cuts her off. He doesn’t recognize his voice. It quivers when he talks. “You think I’m upset?”

Ingrid must hear danger in his tone because she raises her hands between them to ward off his anger. “Sylvain—"

Sylvain sucks in a sharp breath. He’s not some wild animal to be placated with consoling gestures. Suddenly, all the rage and anger that’s been simmering beneath his skin for the last few days finds an outlet. He looks at Ingrid, at her stricken face, and all he wants is for her to hurt even a fraction of the amount he hurts.

“Upset?” He roars at her and feels a tiny jolt of satisfaction when she flinches. “Upset? Upset is when the soup runs out before you get to eat. Upset is when your bedroll gets lost, and you spend a night sleeping on the ground.” Sylvain’s voice gets louder with every word until he’s screaming at the top of his lungs. “Upset is not when the person you love most in the entire world goes missing, and nobody else fucking cares.”

His voice echoes in the suddenly silent room, but Sylvain can barely hear it over his rapid breathing. He raises his glass to gulp the rest of the wine, but no liquid comes out. He stares at the empty glass in disbelief, his hands shaking so hard that any wine would have spilled out. He’ll just have to get a refill.

“How can you say that?” Ingrid says, wrenching the empty glass from his hand. “Do you honestly think that you’re the only one hurting? The only one who cares that Felix died? You’re not—"

Sylvain rounds on her. “He’s not dead!” He tries to snatch his glass back but only manages to knock it from Ingrid’s hand. The glass shatters on the floor, tiny pieces littering the ground like shrapnel. He stares down at it.

He can feel hundreds of eyes on him. He can feel the palpable pity of the people in the room. Poor Sylvain Gautier. Can’t accept reality. It makes his skin crawl and his stomach turn. The room feels small, too small. He needs another drink. He needs to leave. He needs—

“Sylvain.” Ingrid’s voice is so gentle, and he hates it. Why is she still here?

“He’s not,” he chokes out. “He’s not dead, Ingrid.” He can’t look at her, can’t bear to see her disbelief, so he stares at the broken glass on the floor. “I would have felt it if he died. But I didn’t. He’s out there, suffering, and he needs me. I should be trying to find him. Not standing here at some stupid party.” He risks a glance into her eyes, begging her to understand. They’re wet. “Please, Ingrid. Please, you have to believe me.”

She doesn’t. He can see it in her eyes. She doesn’t believe him.

“Sylvain.” Byleth’s voice draws Sylvain’s attention from Ingrid. They’ve all gathered around him, all the Blue Lions. Silent tears run down Ashe and Flayn’s cheeks while Annette sobs audibly. Dedue looks like a statue, and Dimitri shifts from foot to foot, his gaze stuck to the floor. Mercedes’s hands are clasped so tightly together that her knuckles are white. Sylvain meets Byleth’s gaze. There’s compassion in his eyes. Sylvain sees understanding, guilt, and answering grief but no hope.

“I know he’s still alive,” he tries again, wills them to believe. If anything, they look sadder.

“Perhaps,” Dimitri says quietly, and Sylvain looks at him in desperate relief. If Dimitri believes in Felix’s survival, he can organize a search party. With the help of the knights, Sylvain will find Felix faster. But Sylvain’s hopes are dashed when Dimitri continues. “Perhaps he used the opportunity to leave. Felix always talked about how much he hated being a Duke. He might have abandoned his title to become a mercenary.”

Dimitri looks earnest, and seven heads nod in hopeful agreement.

“Yeah,” Annette agrees with a hiccup. She wipes her sleeve beneath her eyes before continuing. “Maybe he’ll return after all the boring paperwork is done.”

Ashe lets out a shaky laugh. “Or maybe he has an important mission to accomplish and can only return after it’s done.”

Sylvain can tell they don’t believe what they’re saying. They’re placating him, indulging in fantasies to make him feel better. Grief and rage have been Sylvain’s constant companions for days, so it takes him a moment to register the new emotion. It’s disappointment. A crushing, suffocating disappointment.

“Fuck all of you,” he says with a tight laugh. He wants to be anywhere but here. He wants to be with anybody but them.

He doesn’t spare them a backward glance as he turns and stalks from the room.

The night in Enbarr is hot, sticky, and uncomfortable. He walks past shattered windows, crumbling buildings, and people huddled in the muddy streets. A rat darts out in front of him, and Sylvain aims a kick at it. He misses.

Sylvain approaches a group of three men huddled around a small fire in a narrow alleyway. He snorts and rolls his eyes. Adrestians. How pathetic. Nobody from Faerghus would need a fire on a night as warm as this one. He spares them another glance as he comes alongside, and his eyes flick to the orange glow of the flames.

Suddenly his mind is elsewhere. Green flames billow from the doors and windows. He’s being held back. You can’t go in there, my Lord. Not until the flames burn themselves out. Must be fueled by reason magic— No natural flames burn this bright— Nothing can extinguish them— Nothing inside is alive— Nothing inside could survive— No, my Lord, we don’t know if Lord Fraldarius was inside.

Bile rises in Sylvain’s throat, and he staggers past the men just in time to gag and then puke out the liquid in his stomach. He wipes his mouth and forces himself upright. He counts to ten, taking deep breaths before he can continue forward.

Get a grip, Sylvain. Felix is alive.

He stumbles around the city for the better part of an hour before his boot catches on a missing section of the road and sends him careening into a crumbling wall. His head bounces off the stone, and he stays where he landed, cheek pressed against the wall. The stone feels cool against his face for a moment until the heat from his body warms that, too, and then it’s as uncomfortable as the muggy night air.

He hates this city.

“Care for a drink?” an almost familiar female voice asks from beside him. He considers ignoring her, but something about her voice suggests she doesn’t care if he accepts. Sylvain finds her disinterest refreshing. He’s tired of people’s concern.

“Why not,” he says and rolls onto his back. Sylvain accepts the large glass bottle the woman extends his way. He fumbles it in his haste to get it to his lips but manages to catch it before it falls. He swallows and almost chokes. It’s strong. Nothing like the light, fruity wine they’re serving at the victory party. No, this liquor burns as it goes down, chasing away some of the numbness in his body.

He relishes it.

Sylvain takes a few greedy pulls before tearing his mouth away to suck in desperate breaths. He glances at the woman next to him. “Where did you even get this?”

He’s not expecting an answer, but she surprises him. “From the theater.” She gestures across the street with her bottle. Sylvain shifts to look at the building. There isn’t much light, but what he can make out looks more like a ruin than a theater. “I used to attend the operas there, back when people spent a night out instead of fighting a war. The stage didn’t survive the conflict, but the alcohol storage room was underground. I liberated some.”

Now that he’s looking, Sylvain can see the vague outline of what might once have been tiered seating and a grand stage. In a different lifetime, he might have been sad that even a place of art couldn’t survive the war. Tonight, he merely takes another drag from the bottle.

They sit together, drinking in companionable silence until the bottle in Sylvain’s hand is significantly lighter, and his thoughts are blessedly fuzzy. “Any more where this came from?” he asks his taciturn drinking buddy.

In the dimness, he can barely make out a slight rise and fall of her shoulders. “Go see for yourself.”

Sylvain considers her suggestion and weighs the effort of standing against his desire for another drink. Another drink wins. He pushes himself to his feet and takes a step. Or tries, anyway. The street swerves underneath him, and he lands on his butt with a heavy exhale.

The woman snickers at him. Sylvain considers saying something nasty to her, but she did share her alcohol with him. She didn’t have to do that for a stranger, and she’d been a mostly silent companion, so he restrains himself.

“What’s this?” the woman mocks, “The legendary Sylvain Gautier can’t hold his liquor?” She sighs dramatically. “I guess the rumor mill vastly overestimates your talents.”

Sylvain’s body gets cold despite the surrounding heat. He thought they were equals. Two miserable strangers sharing a drink who would never see each other again afterward. But this woman knows who he is. He scoots away from her. “Who are you?” he slurs.

“I thought you remembered every beautiful woman,” the woman says. The mocking tenor of her voice tickles something in Sylvain’s memory, but he’s too drunk and too tired to place it. “I guess I didn’t make much of an impression on you. That’s okay. I’ll give you a hint.”

Before Sylvain can respond, she launches into a song. Her voice sounds eerie against the backdrop of the ruined city, notes soaring high and swooping low. The song is familiar. He’s heard it sung before on a trip with his father to Enbarr. It’s the opening of a famous opera, the moment the young diva first introduces herself to the audience. Sylvain freezes. “Dorothea.”

Not two months prior, Dorothea had shown up at their encampment with nothing but her horse and a small bag of belongings over her shoulder. Her apparent desertion of the Imperial army was met with distrust and open hostility, even after the intel she shared turned battles in their favor. She had sold out her former friends without remorse and asked one thing in return: to be left behind when they marched on Enbarr.

It had been an easy request for Dimitri to grant. After all, there wasn’t a single soldier among their forces comfortable with Dorothea at their back, Sylvain included. Last he had heard, Dimitri had ordered her confined to camp under constant guard. Obviously, with Enbarr under the control of Faerghus and Edelgard dead, nobody had bothered keeping her there.

Dorothea lets the last note fade into the night before she sighs and leans back against the wall. A single person applauds from down the road. Sylvain doesn’t join them.

“Well, I suppose I’m glad that at least my voice made an impression,” Dorothea says.

Sylvain bristles at the implication that he should have recognized her in the dark. He’s barely looked at her in the last six years, and they hadn’t been close at the Academy. He knew Dorothea primarily through Felix, who had practiced dancing and reason magic with her.

“Tell me, Sylvain, why are you sitting here drinking with an outcast like me? I have it on good authority that there’s a victory party tonight. Nobody would invite a turncoat like me, but you? You should be the center of attention. The valiant Lord Gautier. Hero.”

As if summoned by her words, memories from the party fill Sylvain’s mind. The pity following him around the room, the fake levity, the way everybody agreed that Felix was—

“Drop it.” Sylvain forces the words through his teeth. He projects every ounce of his fury into his voice, but Dorothea is undaunted.

“Don’t be rude, Sylvain, it’s just a question. I generously shared my booze with you. Answering is the least you can do to say thanks.”

Sylvain suddenly remembers why they never got along at Garreg Mach. Dorothea’s smiles had been just as fake as his, her words just as calculated. She’d been there to find a crested noble to support her, and Sylvain knew to stay away from her type. Dorothea’s smart. She knows he wants her to stop talking. She just doesn’t care. Every word out of her mouth makes the ache building behind Sylvian’s temples throb.

“I said, drop it.”

The tinkling sound of her laughter makes Sylvain’s blood boil.

“My, my, you’re testy tonight. And here I thought you were supposed to be a gentleman. I just want to know why you aren’t at the party. Your type loves a party. Now, your cranky shadow, on the other hand, he’d rather be dead than attend a party.”

“Felix isn’t dead,” he grits through his teeth, the pleasant buzz of the alcohol giving way to building rage. If he stays here, he will hit her, ally or not. As suddenly as it came, the anger fades, and he feels fragile, just a hollowed-out shell. If he stays here, he’ll break. And he won’t break in front of her.

He pushes himself to his feet and turns to leave.

“No, he’s not,” Dorothea agrees. “Not yet, anyway.”

Sylvain spins around so fast his vision blurs. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

“I mean, he’s not dead yet. Now sit down before you fall over.”

His heart is hammering. Does she know something he doesn’t? She’d spent years in the Imperial army. She probably knew the palace better than anybody else alive. But he has no reason to believe her. Sylvain should walk away. He should walk away and never look back, but he can’t. She’s the first person who hasn’t given Felix up for dead. Hope claws its way into Sylvain’s heart.

Sylvain walks over and drops to the ground right in front of her. “What do you know?” he asks, uncaring about the desperation lacing every word.

Dorothea turns to face him. Even in the dark, Sylvain struggles to reconcile the woman before him with the Dorothea he remembers from school. Her hair is still long, still brown. But instead of artfully arranged waves, it hangs in matted clumps. She’s much thinner, too, with sallow skin and dark bags under her eyes. The most striking difference, however, is her eyes.

The Dorothea he remembers could charm a favor from someone with just a look. She had admirers writing poetry to the expressiveness and beauty of her gaze. Even Felix described them as ‘all right,’ which for Felix was practically gushing. Sylvain had sulked about that for nearly a week before Felix admitted that Sylvain’s eyes were ‘very all right,’ and he’d been appeased. Now, Dorothea’s eyes are haunted and lifeless. They remind Sylvain of Dimitri’s when they found him, barely alive, at Garreg Mach. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Felix has a major crest, right? Of Fraldarius?” Dorothea answers his question with one of her own.

Her quick change of the subject puts Sylvain off balance. “What? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question, Sylvain.”

“Fine,” he says. “Yes, Felix has a major crest of Fraldarius. Now answer mine.”

Dorothea glances away, back to the ruins of the Opera House where Sylvain now knows she performed countless times. Sylvain leans back against the wall, grateful for the excuse not to look at her.

“Those mages. The ones dressed in black. They experiment on people with crests. And a major crest? That’s not an opportunity they’d pass on.”

Sylvain’s headache is back, pounding at his temples as he tries to understand what she’s saying. Mages? Experiments on crest bearers? Nothing makes sense. “Don’t fuck with me, Dorothea,” Sylvain warns. He means to sound threatening, but his voice comes out unsteady instead. “The room where Felix was last seen—" Sylvain has to swallow twice before continuing. “I’ve never seen fire burn that hot. Even if those mages were inside, they couldn’t have survived the blaze.” He says it clinically, ignoring any other implications.

“They started that fire,” Dorothea says. “They know how to escape it. And they’d have taken anybody of interest with them.”

Sylvain drags his hands through his hair, tangling his finger in the strands. He pulls hard, focusing on the physical pain instead of the pain in his chest. “I don’t understand,” he says. “If you’re lying—” He can’t finish that statement.

“I wouldn’t lie. Not about this.” Dorothea moves in front of him, so Sylvain is forced to look her in the eye. “Felix is alive.” Sylvain’s heart slams against his chest. “Felix is alive, and if you want to find him, we need to hunt the Agarthans.”

As she talks, Sylvain realizes he’d been wrong about her eyes. There’s nothing dead about them, only a cold, merciless fury. Whomever these mages are, these Agarthans, Dorothea hates them. Nobody could hold that kind of grudge toward a group of strangers. This feels personal. Dorothea knows more about what happened in that room than anybody else, and she doesn’t believe Felix is dead. Sylvain clings to that knowledge.

“What are we waiting for?” he asks as he stands.

Dorothea pushes him back down before he can get more than a few inches from the ground. Sylvain struggles against her hands, but the stress of the last few days has caught up to him, and Dorothea overpowers him easily. How can she offer him hope and expect him just to sit there?

“There’s nothing either of us can do in this state,” Dorothea says over his protests. “Sleep off the drink, Sylvain, and find me in the morning.”

Sylvain wants to argue, but Dorothea is on her feet before he can. She brushes off her skirts, probably more out of habit than any desire to look presentable, and walks away without a backward glance.

Sylvain flops onto his back and shuts his eyes.

Not dead.

Her words echo through his head. Sylvain repeats them like a mantra, as if they’ll lose their truth if he stops hearing them.

Not dead.

Sylvain wants them to be true so much that his chest feels tight. He should return to camp, but the exhaustion makes that prospect impossible. Her words are the lullaby that finally pulls him into sleep.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

Chapter Text

Sylvain stifles a groan as he’s rudely awakened by a kick to the shin. He squints open his eyes, ready to turn his most pleading expression towards Felix in the interest of a few more minutes in bed, perhaps more, only to slam them shut again at the sight of an unfamiliar, rather bedraggled-looking drunkard stumbling away. It takes a moment to register the uneven cobbles of the street beneath his back and the partially destroyed buildings of an unfamiliar Adrestian district that surround him.

It's kind, that moment of confusion—a brief reprieve from the knowledge that comes after it. A brief break from the avalanche of emotion that follows as he remembers why Felix couldn’t have been the one shaking him awake. Why there will never be another morning of wheedling another minute, or thirty, in bed together.

Sylvain presses his fists against his eyelids until stars bloom behind them. He’ll stay here and become just another bedraggled person made homeless by the conflict. He’ll lay here under the remorseless heat of the Enbarr sun until he’s been baked into the filth of the city. Nobody will bother looking for him. He made sure of that last night with his rage and grief.

He’s pathetic. Friendless. Alone.

A bird’s song cuts through his darkening thoughts, and he spends a moment angry at its cheerful tone. How dare it sing when Felix is dead and nothing worth singing about exists anymore? His anger morphs into annoyance as the soft chirps string together, forming a melody he knows but can’t recall how. It’s not one of Annette’s little diddies that Felix would never admit to humming or a marching beat sung to pass the long hours moving the army from one location to another. Against his will, Sylvain hums a few measures, trying to place it. It has a welcoming feel, hopeful, introductory—

Sylvain shoots upright, nauseous from both the alcohol he consumed last night and the realization that he’d almost forgotten Dorothea’s words.

Not dead. Felix is not dead.

Not dead and in need of Sylvain’s help. He’s seized with the desperate desire to find Dorothea, to shake her until the answers she kept from him last night tumble from her lips.

He staggers to his feet, sways, and catches himself on a nearby wall. He swallows a few times before he feels steady enough to step away, then he musters his resolve and plods back to camp as quickly as his aching, hungover body permits.

The entrance to the camp is still guarded despite the war being over, but any concerns Sylvain has about needing to negotiate his way through are quickly put to rest. The finery denoting his station that Ingrid bullied him into the night before proclaims his identity despite looking a bit rough from the night on the streets. Even his bedraggled state is hardly cause for a second look as other partygoers stumble back towards their tents. Sylvain even gets a respectful bow as he passes through uncontested.

Now that he’s made it back to camp, Sylvain realizes that he doesn’t know where Dorothea sleeps. She’s not a prisoner, per se, but she’s also not part of the army. She wouldn’t have been welcome to join any battalions, and she certainly didn’t get her own tent among the generals and nobility. He doubts she’d be working as a healer (she might have endeared herself to a few people if she had), but the medical tent is a hub for gossip and seems as good of a place as any to start.

He's not halfway to the tent when he hears his name called in a familiar tone. He briefly considers changing directions and pretending he hasn’t heard her, but he dismisses the idea as quickly as it comes. Mercedes is simultaneously the most patient person he’s ever met and the most stubborn. She’d follow him sedately around the camp until one of them gave up. Experience has taught Sylvain that it’s not a contest he could win on his best day. And given that today is certainly not his best day, he’d rather save them both the embarrassment. Besides, there isn’t much that happens in the camp that Mercedes isn’t somehow privy to, so she’s probably his best bet for finding Dorothea.

“Mercedes,” Sylvain greets, mustering up a smile that he hopes looks charming. “How is my favorite healer?”

Mercedes’s answering smile is indulgent. “Quite well, thank you,” she says as she closes the remaining distance between them. She gathers Sylvain’s hands in hers, squeezing gently as she asks, “And how are you, Sylvain?”

He studies her for a minute, looking for any sign of anger or pity in her expression, but he finds none. He should have known better. Mercedes, despite her stubbornness, has never had room in her heart for grudges. She addresses what needs addressing and cares for those who need caring without resentment, expectation, or judgment. Her thumbs stroke lines over his knuckles as she waits patiently, as always, for his answer.

The quip forming in his throat dies on his lips. He opens his mouth and then closes it again and swallows. He can’t find the words to assure her that he’s fine, can’t find the words to apologize. But Mercedes has never demanded more than he could give. She squeezes his hands tightly before letting go and slotting her arm into his elbow.

Surprised, Sylvain lets her guide him a few steps before pulling them up short. “I’m looking for Dorothea,” he says, trying to detangle his arm. Mercedes places an insistent hand on his bicep, and he finds himself unable to pull away. “Do you know where she’s staying?”

“Yes,” Mercedes says, and without offering any additional information, continues leading him in the same direction. She resists all his clever attempts to either escape or gain more information about Dorothea with comments about the pleasantness of the weather or an anecdote about a troublesome patient.

It doesn’t take long for Sylvain to realize that they’re headed toward the central hub of the camp, where all the Blue Lions and other generals have tents. When they pass by neat rows of teal, Sylvain keeps his head bowed and eyes carefully averted.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead.

He’s so absorbed in clinging to his mantra that it takes him a second to realize they’ve stopped at his tent. Had Dorothea grown impatient of waiting and come to see him? Sylvain doesn’t resist as Mercedes guides him inside.

His tent looks almost exactly as he remembers. His armor, neatly polished by his squire, stands proudly next to the open trunk containing the rest of his clothes. The trunk has been rummaged through, probably by Ingrid, in a bid to make him presentable for the party. He’s thankful that the view of his desk (and that little box he can’t think about) is blocked by a privacy screen usually used for bathing. A quick glance around it reveals a tub of still steaming water, but no Dorothea. He turns back to Mercedes, who stands firmly in front of the tent flap, and his fists clench.

“I need to find Dorothea.”

“Yes,” Mercedes agrees without pressing for more details. She also doesn’t make any motion to let Sylvain pass without pushing her out of the way, and they both know he’ll never do that. “We will find her. But first, a bath and some breakfast, I think.” She nods to cement the point, and when Sylvain fails to jump into the tub immediately, she arches an eyebrow.  “If you can’t manage to bathe yourself, I can always assist.”

Under the weight of her gaze, Sylvain feels six years old again. Either he gets into the tub of his own volition, or Mercedes’s insistent hands will move him there and then rub him down like a toddler throwing a tantrum or an invalid under her care. The desire to ignore the needs of his body and immediately run off to find Dorothea shrivels under the weight of her concern. He wilts. “At least turn around?”

She beams, able to read the defeat in his posture. “Very well,” she says and turns to find a clean set of clothes from his trunk.

In the end, it takes two refills and almost a half bar of soap before the water remains clear, and Sylvain feels fully clean for the first time in— well, he can’t really remember. A week at least. He’s clad in the simple clothes Mercedes had selected, riding trousers and a button-down shirt with a sturdy pair of mud-free boots. His previous outfit is gone, probably whisked away by his squire to be cleaned.

Sylvain doesn’t resist as Mercedes presses him back into a chair and produces his shaving kit. She works silently, removing the scraggy beard growth from his chin, cheeks, and upper lip, her hands gentle but sure.

When at last she’s finished, she guides him to a small table laden with all manner of breakfast foods. There’s a heaping pile of pancakes and a plate of fluffy eggs next to a stack of sausages. There’s fresh, ripe-looking fruit and a steaming teapot with two matching teacups decorated with filigreed flowers that look out of place against the austere atmosphere of the tent. The army must have resupplied from the kitchens of the Imperial palace; they certainly hadn’t had a spread like this since they marched months ago.

Sylvain follows her obediently to the table and grabs the teapot to serve them before she can get any ideas about doing it herself. He lets the flow of her observations fill the silence in the room and, under her scrutiny, eats enough food for three people. Only once the food has been cleared away and it’s just them and the almost empty teacups does Mercedes finally ask, “Now, what’s this about needing to see Dorothea?”

Sylvain bristles as he realizes he doesn’t want to explain this to her or to any of the Blue Lions. It feels fragile, this hope that’s bloomed, like it might wither if he shows it to Mercedes, and she gazes upon it with disbelief. How can he explain a conversation he only remembers in bits and pieces that he can’t answer questions about and make anybody else believe? He barely believes. It needs to be kept safe, nurtured in his chest until he can take it out and make Dorothea breathe life into it again with her hatred and her fire.

He startles at the brush of fingertips on his palm. “It’s okay if you can’t tell me,” Mercedes says.

Sylvain forces himself to take a slow breath and study the woman across from him. Her gaze is unworried, steady. Suddenly, he realizes he hasn’t been giving her enough credit. Countless people confess their darkest secrets, their wildest dreams, or their most dishonorable thoughts to her steadfast keeping. She’ll keep his heart safe, too.

So he tells her, in stops and start and restarts, of arias and a ruined theater, of old classmates and grief, and finally of fire and Agarthans. And when he runs out of words, he still braces himself for her disbelief, “I know it sounds crazy—”

“Nonsense,” Mercedes interrupts, her eyes shining. She dabs away the wetness on his cheeks before pulling him to his feet and slipping her arm back through his. As they step outside the tent, the sunlight causes them both to pause and let their eyes adjust.

Without deciding to speak, Sylvain finds himself filling the moment of stillness. “Mercedes, about last night. I’m really sor—” He trails off as she tugs him forward.

“There’s no need for that. If I needed an apology every time somebody in pain raised their voice at me, I’d never have become a healer,” she says, and her tone warns Sylvain that further discussion would be futile. She’s stubborn, and Sylvain has always had a soft spot for stubbornness. Her voice is gentler when she adds, “And remember, I’ve treated both Dimitri and Felix when neither wanted to be treated.”

The lance of pain he feels at her words, white-hot and piercing, startles him with its sharpness, at the tears it brings to his eyes with its bite. He’s not ready for this, not yet, maybe not ever, but he realizes that he appreciates it all the same, appreciates that she, at least, can talk about Felix with levity and affection. Like he’s not a topic she has to tiptoe around for fear of upsetting his anger. Like she believes in Sylvain’s hope.

His laugh, when it bubbles past his lips, is choked and ugly, but it’s real. For the first time since he ran searching through passage after passage, looking for something he wasn’t going to find, it’s real.

Mercedes squeezes his arm tightly. “Dorothea has been staying with the additions we picked up in Derdriu,” she says, “it’s about a twenty-minute walk. Thirty if we take our time.”

Sylvain walks at a brisk pace, looking every inch like the son of a noble lord. He left his typical heavy armor in his tent, but entering the former Imperial Palace still felt like enough of a risk that he’d selected a lighter-weight set of leather protection and strapped the Lance of Ruin across his back. He’s cleanly shaved, and his hair is neatly combed and styled into his usual intentionally messy tousle. All of which to say, he looks put together, like the chosen son of the honored House Gautier. The woman he’s following a few paces behind, however, has made no such efforts.

Dorothea’s dress, likely the same one she wore the previous night, is ill-fitting and poorly cared for. It hangs off her shoulders, and the hem, dirty from days of being dragged through muddy streets, is tattered. Her hair hangs limp and matted, a far cry from the bouncy curls she used to brush to gleaming perfection every day at school.

War has changed all of them, but the changes in Dorothea unnerve him.

She walks with her head down, staring a few paces in front of her feet. People knock into her, some intentionally and some because she doesn’t look like the type of person they should make way for, but she reacts to neither one. She keeps walking towards the gates of the Imperial Palace, simply trusting, or not caring, that Sylvain is following.

Given the distance between them, it’s no surprise that the guards spot her first. There are two of them posted at every entrance to prevent looters from removing priceless historical treasures (if any survived) and to make sure no martyred Imperial soldier decided to make one final stand against their occupying force. The guards have never done more than bow and usher him inside, but they pay Dorothea no such courtesy.

“You again,” the shorter guard says to Dorothea, his lip curling back into a snarl. “I told you yesterday, and I’ll tell you again. No Imperial traitors allowed in the palace. So turn around and crawl back to wherever they keep scum like you.” He makes a shooing gesture with one hand while his other comes to rest on the hilt of his sword. His partner, who could rival Dedue in both height and muscle mass, moves to stand in front of the door, his axe gleaming in the sunlight.

If Sylvain had expected Dorothea to argue, he’d have quickly realized that the woman who walked proudly among her noble classmates, firm in her convictions that she had every right to be there, was gone. In her place stood this bedraggled creature who neither flinched at the threat directed at her person nor turned to seek his help. She just stood silently, gaze fixed on the floor, her dirty skirt blowing gently in the breeze.

A flash of light alerts Sylvain that the shorter guard is drawing his weapon, and he bounds up the stairs to stand at Dorothea’s side. “Gentlemen,” he says, slipping into the voice he uses to command battalions. “There seems to be a misunderstanding.” Sylvain puts on his showman’s smile and spreads his arms wide in a performative gesture. “I see no Imperial traitors here, so if you’ll step aside and let me and my guest through, we can all go about our days.”

The bulky guard startles at his presence before offering a quick bow and shuffling aside with a mumbled, “As you will, Lord Gautier,” but his companion, angrier and possessing the arrogance of youth, remains in place with his sword half drawn. Brow furrowed, he looks between Dorothea and Sylvain a few times before seeming to reach a decision. He puffs out his chest.

“Lord Gautier,” he bobs a nod before thrusting an accusing finger in Dorothea’s direction, spittle flying from his lips. “I don’t know what kind of spell this witch has cast on you, but her type are all snakes. I heard she was one of the mages responsible for making those mindless demonic beasts.” His voice shakes as much as his finger as he adds, “I lost both my brothers to those creatures. So, for your safety, sir, I can’t let her follow you in.”

A part of Sylvain empathizes with the young man, understands the visceral distrust of a former Imperial mage. The techniques they’d used against their army for the past five years ranged from obscene to outright horrific. Perhaps Dorothea herself had sent spells into Faerghus troops that flayed skin off bones and melted horses where they stood. Perhaps she hadn’t. He doesn’t much care either way.

At another time, Sylvain might have let the guard’s insubordination slide. He might have seen the pain in the young man’s eyes, heard it in his voice, and felt sympathy. Today, however, this upstart guard who speaks above his station stands between Sylvain and the information he needs to save Felix. The spark of his rage, banked under Mercedes’s careful attention, roars back to life.

“Is that right?” Sylvain asks, his voice quiet and cruel and learned from a childhood spent under the thumb of Miklan’s torment. “And who are you to question who our King pardons?” He pauses to let the question sink in before continuing more quietly, “Who are you to question me?”

The guard sputters, his hand shrinking back toward his chest. “No, Lord Gautier! I wasn’t questioning you.” He looks frantically towards his friend, who has wisely stepped away from Sylvain, before continuing. “I was simply making sure you understood the situation.” He doesn’t step aside.

“Yes, let’s clarify the situation,” Sylvain says, striding forward. The young guard shuffles back nervously at his approach. Good. “The situation is this: either you stand aside, or I’ll put my lance through your gut and enter over your corpse.”

Blood drains from the young man’s face as he realizes that this isn’t an idle threat, that Sylvain will follow through if he must. His friend grabs the back of his collar and hauls his frozen body out of their way, spouting platitudes as he does so. As soon as their path is clear, Dorothea steps forward and disappears into the palace. Sylvain follows without a backward glance.

They proceed as before, neither walking together nor entirely separate, Dorothea choosing their path through the winding corridors Sylvain had memorized in preparation for the final assault. She doesn’t linger at the sight of the blood that still stains the stone floors or acknowledge the people they pass, diligently setting the palace to rights. The melted ruins of the East Wing don’t draw her attention, but Sylvain can’t help but stare.

Sylvain! You can’t go in there… you won’t survive… there’s nothing we can do… the smoke’s too thick to see through… don’t know how many troops were inside… Stop, Sylvain! This is madness.

By the time he manages to drag his gaze away, bile burning his throat, Dorothea is nearly around the next corner. He swallows and shakes his head to clear the memory before hurrying to catch up. He keeps his face turned deliberately aside.

Not far past the East Wing, they enter the living quarters of the palace where the Imperial family and their trusted noble advisors had lived for hundreds of years. Located far away from the fighting, the sitting rooms they pass look ready to entertain visitors and seem entirely untouched by the conflict. Dorothea enters one of them and strides towards a large bookshelf, its shelves sagging under the weight of hundreds of leather-bound books.

A quiet click catches his attention, and he watches as the bookshelf slides about a foot to the left, just far enough to reveal a narrow entrance leading into the walls. He turns just in time to see the hem of Dorothea’s dress disappearing into the darkness. Sylvain steps towards the passageway but pauses at the threshold, the hair at the back of his neck standing straight. For the first time since the whirlwind of the night before, he feels apprehensive.

What does he know about Dorothea, really? He knows that when the war broke out, she sided with Edelgard like the rest of the Black Eagles and spent the better part of five years leading a battalion of mages at the pleasure of the Emperor. After Dimitri returned and the tides of war shifted in favor of Faerghus, she defected. He knows that she provided information that led to the death of her classmates, the capturing of Imperial territory, and eventually, the downfall of Edelgard herself.

What he doesn’t know, as the uncomfortable feeling in his gut reminds him, is why she did any of it. Or, for that matter, why she’s helping him now. What if that guard outside was right, and Dorothea is leading him to an underground torture chamber to be turned into a demonic beast and released against his allies?

Sylvain’s fingers find the ring dangling from a leather cord around his neck, and he rubs the grooved surface of the inset gems. The familiar feeling beneath his fingertips grounds him, and he forces his anxiety away with an exhale. If there’s even a chance that Dorothea can help find Felix, Sylvain would sacrifice anything, damn the greater good.

He steps through.

Rough stone walls drag at his shirt sleeves as Sylvain squeezes through the narrow passageway, which stays level for a few meters before plunging steeply down. The small amount of light from the entrance fades quickly as Sylvain descends a narrow staircase until he can’t see the walls to either side. When he quiets his breathing and listens, he can hear the sound of faint footsteps coming from further ahead, so Sylvain continues onward, his fingers pressed against the walls to either side.

After five minutes of descending deeper and deeper underground, the path suddenly levels out, and the walls disappear from beneath his fingertips. Sylvain stumbles forward, only to catch himself on the wall in front of him, which extends, as far as he can tell, equally far in both directions. He listens intently, but no footsteps guide his decision. He stands there, frozen, trying to discern which part of the palace he might be under.

“You know, the Imperial army was under the impression that you were some brilliant strategist.” Dorothea’s voice drifts over to him from the left. “We’d plan and replan to outmaneuver you.”

Sylvain stands there in the darkness, waiting for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks sharply, simultaneously relieved and annoyed at her sudden reappearance.

“It means, light a torch.”

Sylvain curses and stumbles back from the light that blooms in her palm, throwing his arm across his eyes at the sudden brightness. He wills his eyes to open, blinking rapidly as they adjust, and turns to face Dorothea. Half her face is illuminated by the small ball of fire she holds in her right hand. Suddenly, the corridor, which was cool only moments before, feels hot.

Hot… hotter than Ailell… hot enough to burn stone… hot enough to melt bones…

As quickly as it appeared, the flame is gone, leaving only darkness and the sound of Sylvain’s ragged breathing echoing throughout the narrow space. Light dances behind his eyelids as he presses his forehead against the cool stone. It takes a few minutes of purposely thinking about nothing for his heart rate to return to normal.

“We’re almost there,” Dorothea says when he’s recovered. “Try not to fall behind.”

Sylvain pushes himself from the wall and follows the rhythmic click of her steps.

Sylvain’s eyes water as he focuses on the coded text swimming on the page before him. It’s a relatively simple code to break once he figured out the pattern, but it’s tedious work. Thirty minutes and three pages of detailed notes later, he realizes he’s reading an expense account for some noble Lady’s trip to Dagda. Disgusted, he throws the book into an ever-growing pile of rejects and gives into the temptation to spend a minute trying to work out a muscle knot in his left shoulder.

If hours crouched over documents is what his future as Lord Gautier entails, he might have to adopt Felix’s habit of training twice a day. With a groan, Sylvain levers himself off the floor and turns to survey the surrounding shelves.

The room that Dorothea had led him to was von Vestra’s personal library, filled with books upon books of information that dated back as far as his family had served the Imperial line. Besides one small area that held a desk and a few chairs, the rest of the space was occupied by narrow rows of shelves. Unlike the library at Garreg Mach, which endeavored to give students a comfortable place to study, this room was the private domain of generations of Imperial spymasters. Certainly, it hadn’t been designed to be helpful in locating a particular piece of information, say the location of a mysterious group of mages, if one didn’t already know where to find it.

To make matters worse, Dorothea couldn’t describe exactly what they were looking for, just that she was sure it would be amongst these volumes, so they had picked at random from the newest-looking books and gone from there.

It quickly became apparent that the seemingly daunting task in front of them was a nightmarish endeavor because every line of every page of every book was written in code. Sylvain could feel the scornful presence of a sallow-faced von Vestra mocking their attempts at decoding his secrets from the grave. But if tedium were the only cost to finding information that could save Felix, Sylvain would endure. Endure and throw aside the rejected books with vindictive relish.

On his way to select another volume, he passes Ashe and Annette, their heads nearly pressed together as they huddle over a page with text so small it gives Sylvain a headache just thinking about reading it.

Unlike Dorothea, who could only decode volumes written in codes she had used before, Ashe had a natural knack for breaking code. Throughout the war, he had managed to decode nearly every piece of Imperial correspondence they had captured, and Sylvain had been immeasurably grateful when he had turned up two weeks ago and immediately set to transcribing books. Annette had shown up a day later, eager to seize Ashe’s notes and scour them for scraps of helpful information.

Dimitri could hardly afford to spare two more of his generals with the work required to secure the former Imperial capital, prepare the army to march home, and establish a new system of government. Still, every morning, they sat together at the desk, diligently working through page after page.

Their presence, Sylvain is grateful for, Ingrid’s, he is not.

Unlike Ashe and Annette, whose effusive efforts to be nice to him make Sylvain distinctly uncomfortable, Ingrid seems content alternating between making disparaging comments under her breath and glaring at Dorothea as if she could will her out of existence with the force of her disapproval. After over a week of her constant presence, Sylvain could recite her whole spiel from memory, starting with general distrust for Dorothea and ending with multiple variations on how foolish they’re being.

He tried to kick her out exactly once, and the less said about that, the better.

Sylvain has just found his next book –a thin volume bound in sturdy purple leather– when Ashe’s excited greeting of ‘Dedue’ draws his attention to the door. This, too, has become something of a ritual. For as many days as Ashe and Annette have joined them in the library, Dedue has appeared, always around noon and always bearing food. Today is no exception, Sylvain notes as he eyes the large pot of steaming soup in his hands.

Broad as he is, Dedue has to turn nearly sideways to slip through the doorway into the hidden library, and Ashe rushes to his side to relieve him of the stack of bowls he’s also managed to carry. He always brings enough for six people, although Dorothea has never joined them. Sylvain had tried to beg off, also exactly once, but Ingrid had put an end to that, too, so he joins the others in gathering around the small table, now clear of any delicate papers.

As Dedue ladles out each bowl of soup, Annette cuts the loaf of fresh bread. She sings a nonsense song about yeast beasties and crusts as she works. At first, he can’t quite pinpoint why something about the melody tugs at him, but when he remembers, it’s like taking a gauntlet to the gut.

Felix.

He had heard Felix humming this same melody on the eve of the final battle. All the Blue Lions had gathered to eat dinner together around the fire, and Sylvain sat so close to Felix that their shoulders pressed together whenever either of them moved. Sitting as close as they were, Sylvain could make out Felix humming under his breath. He teased Felix, trying to get him to sing for the group, which had only made Felix blush and shove Sylvain over with a brusque command to mind his own business, to the delight of the rest of the group.

Sylvain tears his eyes from the table and bites his lip to keep from snapping at Annette to be quiet. He’s focusing on his breathing, trying to steady it, trying to keep his mind safely in the present, when he catches sight of Dorothea. It’s not what she’s doing that draws his attention –she’s hunched over a book in the same spot she’s been in for weeks. No, what draws his attention is her demeanor. Unlike her usual disinterested attitude, she seems to be reading in rapture. Her eyes are wide, darting across the page as if she can’t take it in fast enough, and her mouth is parted in surprise. Fingertips gently trace the edges of the pages as she leans ever closer.

There’s nothing particularly interesting about the book that Sylvain can see; it’s bound in black leather and smaller than most of the other books. The book looks tattered and dirty, not out of age like some of the older volumes, but more like it wasn’t cared for. If it contained the information they’d been searching for about the Agarthans, Dorothea would have told them immediately, so it’s something else.

He opens his mouth to ask what she found, but before he can, Ashe calls his attention back to the meal. Sylvain turns away from Dorothea, but not before he catches her stuffing the little book into her skirts. As he tucks into his soup, he pushes the thought aside. They share a common goal, Dorothea and him, and nothing more. If she wants to take this book from von Vestra’s library, it’s no concern of Sylvain’s. He flips open the next book to work while he eats.

About an hour after Dedue has departed, empty dishes tucked under one arm and a stack of books Ashe had set aside to be taken to his tent under the other, Dorthea appears at his side. She thrusts a stack of unbound pages written in von Vestra’s narrow script into his hands. “I found it,” she says, voice triumphant.

The camp is mostly clear of soldiers, who, after devoting years to securing peace in a united Fodlan, find themselves free to return to their lives, a paycheck and the King’s heartfelt thanks in hand. The few that remain, either because they have nowhere to go or have unfinished business in Enbarr, wisely fling themselves from his path as Sylvain storms past them, a thundercloud of rage. Stones, abandoned cookware, and even a particularly offensive flower are sent flying by a series of firm kicks.

After weeks of fruitless searching, Sylvain had been elated at discovering von Vestra’s notes about the Agarthans. The fragile hope that had been his constant companion since Dorothea first whispered that name into the Enbarr night solidified. Felix was alive, and these Agarthans had him. It didn’t matter that von Vestra hadn’t discovered their precise location; he had a general area marked on a map. It was good enough for Sylvain.

For Dimitri and Byleth, however, it was not.

They had not, as Sylvain had expected, cried out in joy at this new information or promised to send a group of knights to help retrieve Felix from their enemy. No. Instead, they mistrusted von Vestra’s information and questioned Dorothea’s intentions, going as far as to suggest that it might be a trap. Sylvain tried everything he could think of to get them to change their minds. He wheedled. He begged. He screamed until his voice was ragged and hoarse. He overturned furniture. He cast important correspondence into the fire. He begged again.

Nothing swayed them.

When it became clear that they would not offer to help on his journey, Sylvain turned to leave. And when Dimitri dared order him to give up this fool’s errand for his own good, Sylvain snapped. He gathered up every one of Dimitri’s ghosts, his failures, and his fears. He took Glenn and Rodrigue, the people of Duscur, Edelgard, Lambert, their former classmates, and Felix, always Felix, and forged them into a weapon in the heat of his grief and rage. He brandished it with precision, casting it repeatedly into their persons, tearing into them until neither could look him in the eye. Only then had he thrown the ring marking him as a member of the gentry at Dimitri’s feet and stormed from the tent, stepping over the bloodied corpse of their friendship as he went.

Sylvain made a beeline for the stables. Enough waiting around, enough hoping for help. He'd read too much into Mercedes's kindness and misinterpreted Ashe and Annette's motives. Somewhere along the line, he'd convinced himself that he wasn't alone, that the Blue Lions would band together for one last rescue mission. That for Felix, they'd head out together as they'd always done.

Stupid. He was so stupid.

He found the small part of him that was disappointed and squashed it. So what if they refused to help him? He doesn’t need them, their help, their company, or their concern. All he needs to find Felix is von Vestra’s map, his mare, and his determination. Pity anybody who stands in his way. He repeats that to himself, strengthening his resolve until he arrives at the stables.  

He pauses at the doors, steadying himself before he goes inside. Beauty, his mare, has always been sensitive to his moods, so he leans against the door and counts backward from one hundred. At eighty, he hears a heated voice coming from inside. It’s Ingrid, her voice tight with anger.

“— exactly are you trying to accomplish getting his hopes up like this? Felix is dead. I know it, and you know it. There’s nothing to be found at the end of this ludicrous path you’re leading him on except grief and madness.”

Sylvain’s nails dig into the flesh of his hands as he presses himself more firmly against the door. He knows that Ingrid disapproves; it radiates from every look she gives them, but to hear her say those words with such surety— it hurts. He can make out a murmur of a response but can’t catch particular words.

“No?” Ingrid’s raised voice comes clearly through the wood. “Let me enlighten you then. Multiple sources confirm that they saw Felix and his battalion enter the East Wing. The fire that destroyed that wing burned hot enough to melt stone, hot enough to melt bones. No, don’t interrupt me. I’m not finished. Do you know what they found in the wreckage, Dorothea? Did Sylvain mention that?” She doesn’t pause for a response before continuing. “They found his hero’s relic, the one he carried into every battle, buried where the ceiling collapsed. Felix is dead, Dorothea. Dead. And the only mercy is that his father died before he had to bury a weapon in the place of another son.”

Stunned, Sylvain flinches back from the door, flinches back from the pain in Ingrid’s voice. Her words summon memories of ash clinging to his skin, of shoving aside rubble still hot enough to burn through his gloves, of wiping clean a shield emblazoned with the Crest of Fraldarius. He chokes down bile.

Not dead. Not dead. Not dead. Felix is not dead.

He repeats those words to himself until Ingrid’s shouting draws him back to the conversation in the stables.

“Listen? I have listened! I have listened to you sell a fairy tale to a grieving man. Felix and Sylvain are brothers to me, and I have already lost one—” Ingrid’s voice breaks. There’s a loud thump from inside the stable, followed by a long silence. When Ingrid speaks again, her voice is quieter, and Sylvain has to strain to hear her. “Just tell me what it is you want, Dorothea. Whatever it is, I’ll see it done, just leave Sylvain out of it. I won’t lose him to whatever it is you’re plotting.”

He can’t listen anymore.

Sylvain flings the doors open, startling the two women inside. Ingrid’s back is to him, but he can see Dorothea clearly. She’s forgone her usual dress in favor of trousers and a sturdy shirt suited for traveling. Stuffed travel packs, packed hours before, and two bedrolls lay on the floor around her, waiting to be loaded onto their horse for the journey. Her face might as well have been carved from stone for all the expression she wears on it.

Ingrid’s emotions, when she turns around, are much easier to read. Her eyes are puffy and red, and tear tracks glisten on her cheeks. “Sylvain,” she says, voice heartbroken and small. “Don’t do this. Come home with us, instead. We can do more research. We can figure something else out—”

He interrupts her by stepping into her space, his large hands coming up to cup her face. Her tears fall too fast for him to catch them all with his thumbs. He tries anyway. “I have to go, Ingrid.”

She closes her eyes and takes a shuddering breath.

“If there’s a chance he’s alive, no matter how small, I have to try.” And he does have to. Felix is waiting for him. Felix needs him. How could he do anything less?

From the way her frame trembles under his palms, he knows she understands his resolve. She nods, a tiny motion he feels more than sees, then pulls away from him. “I know,” she whispers, eyes still closed. “I know.” She turns away from them and walks to the stall where her Pegasus stands, burying her face and hands into the animal’s gleaming white mane.

Dorothea and Sylvain pack their supplies in silence, ignoring the sounds of Ingrid’s sobs. The desire to comfort her is overwhelming, but Sylvain pushes it back down. He can’t give her what she wants, so he gives her space for her grief instead.

Once their bags are packed, they lead their horses, laden with supplies, out of the stable. He turns to help Dorothea onto her horse, but she’s already mounted. With a comforting pat on Beauty’s flank, he levers himself up into the saddle. The familiarity of being mounted on a horse with the reins in his hands is soothing.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, stopping him before he can urge Beauty forward. He twists in the saddle to look back at her. “I’ll tell Dimitri to assign me to patrol where you’re going. Send a signal if you need anything, and I will come.” At his nod, she turns to Dorothea. “Bring him home safe,” she says, then without waiting for a response, heads back into camp.

Watching Ingrid walk away, he feels a stinging in his eyes and a tightening of his throat. He’s going to miss her, he realizes. He’s going to miss all of them. Over the last couple of months, he’s gotten used to having all of his friends around to train together, share a simple meal of field rations, or talk to. But there’s no use sitting here longing for something that can no longer be. Besides, there’s little joy in any of it if Felix isn’t here to share it with him.

A quick flick of the reins spurs Beauty forward, Dorothea’s mount easily matching the lazy pace. Once clear of the camp, they’ll ride hard towards the Great Bridge of Myrddin and then deep into former Alliance territory, but for now, Sylvain stays upright, swaying with every step. He turns to look at Dorothea as he asks the question that’s been festering in the back of his mind. “I can trust you to see this through, right?”

When she turns to face him, Sylvain sees the same fury in her eyes that he saw weeks ago on that dark street in Enbarr. “You can trust that I will spare no effort in finding the Agarthans,” she promises, looking for the first time like the formidable Gremory she is. “And when I find them, I will hold them accountable for what they took or die trying.”

They are not the words of support his friends would offer him, but he finds comfort in them all the same. Whatever her reasons, Dorothea will help him find Felix, and that’s all the promise he needs. He turns his eyes back to the road ahead.

Chapter Text

Green.

In Faerghus, where white dominated the landscape for many months, green was the color that heralded the lessening of winter’s grip in favor of spring’s new life. Green meant fresh food on the table and easier hunting. And although it wasn’t the color of his house, Felix had always liked green.

Now, he hates it.

He hates the pulsing green glow that provides the only light in this saints-forsaken cage. He hates the way the color paints his skin. He hates how he can see the color behind his eyelids when he squeezes them tightly shut, trying in vain to forget that he’s little better than a trapped rat.

The shackles that bind his wrists to the smooth metal wall behind him shift along the filthy floor as Felix shivers. The chains are thick and heavy. Too sturdy for even a potent application of his crest to break. Not that he’s been able to try. Every time he’s called on his crest, a strong shock from the shackles rendered him unconscious. He’d lost track of how many times he’d stubbornly tried to break free before finally stopping.

Felix isn’t giving up; he doesn’t know how to give up. But he does know – despite what others might say – when to change strategies. An opportunity will come, and Felix will be ready.  

Besides Felix, three others were in the cell when he woke up. His nearest neighbor was approximately his age and came from a small town in the western part of Blaiddyd territory. She wore the familiar uniform of a Faerghus soldier and insisted on calling Felix ‘Lord Fraldarius’ as if they weren’t chained to the wall like feral dogs. The other two occupants were Adrestians, a middle-aged woman from a minor noble house who filled every moment of silence with whimpering and whining, and a man whose size and temperament reminded Felix of Ashe.

His friendly demeanor had put Felix on immediate alert. Only a fool would let their guard down simply because they both wore chains, and not even Felix’s most vocal critics would name foolishness as his vice. At least the woman was a more convincing prisoner, sobbing for release every time the door slid open to dump what passed as food onto the floor.

As the Adrestians filled the cell with noise, Felix and the Fearghus soldier remained tight-lipped, refusing to betray any information to this pathetic ruse. If the Imperial army hadn’t surrendered, a fact Felix found unlikely given the momentum of the war, he would go to his grave protecting any whisper that might disadvantage his people.

Even when the mages first appeared and dragged the other man from the cell, Felix hadn’t believed all four were prisoners. Not the second, third, fourth, or fifth times either. But eventually, the man grew quiet and sullen, his eyes sunk back into his skull, and screams tore from his throat every time he closed his eyes. He was gone for what seemed like days at a time, returning to the cell as a shell of a person.

Eventually, he formed no words at all, and Felix wasn’t surprised when the mages never brought him back. Silence had settled over their prison cell, heavy with tension, and had grown thicker every day the door didn’t slide open.

Three heads whip towards the door as a small click announces its opening. A tall mage in thick black robes trimmed in gold enters the cell, face shrouded by a large hood. Four similarly dressed figures flank the first, each armed with a staff. They stop just inside the door as if surveying their options, and Felix draws his feet underneath him. It’s not the worst position he’s had to fight from, but without a weapon, he’ll need every advantage to surprise them. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Faerghus woman do the same.

Little good it does her, in the end.

One of the lackeys shocks her with his staff, sending her face-first into the dirt. They use the moment of confusion to release the thick cuffs that bind her to the wall. Felix sees her fight, sees her try to get a grip on one of their staffs before a firm kick from a stocky mage ruins that plan. She fights fiercely, but without the skills of somebody trained in hand-to-hand combat, the mages quickly subdue her and drag her towards the door.

At least she doesn’t go quietly, Felix observes. No soldier of Faerghus would.

Her defiant screams echo in the tiny, green prison until the door slides firmly shut behind them, and then the only sounds are the humming of the walls and the Adrestian woman’s sobs.

The first day of the Wyvern moon brings sunshine and more unbearable heat. It makes Sylvain nostalgic for home. In Gautier, the trees would be shedding their fall colors and the animals growing thick coats to fend off the beginnings of winter’s chill. The daylight hours would slowly shorten, and mornings would bring a thin layer of frost, making the grass crunch beneath each footfall. This far south, where the blanket of winter never falls, there’s no reprieve from the humidity.

Sylvain wipes away a drop of sweat that stings his eyes as the midday sun blazes down mockingly from overhead. His shirt clings to him, wet and uncomfortable, as he slumps in the saddle. Even Beauty, who endured the heat of Ailell without a whinny of protest, seems to wilt under its unrelenting gaze. At least the nights were warm enough that they didn’t need to waste time with a fire.

Why anybody chooses to live here baffles Sylvain.

Walking just ahead, Dorothea and her mare, an animal of decent breeding that had lost her previous owner during the battle for Enbarr, seem impervious to the weather. Perhaps after living here all her life, she doesn’t notice the heat anymore. Or perhaps the temperature is just another in a long list of things Dorothea doesn’t seem to care about.

She has no opinion on when they make camp for the night, which watch she takes, what they eat, or which supplies they need to restock at the next town. Conversations don’t interest her, nor the people they pass on the roads. Most days, they might as well be two strangers who happen to be heading in the same direction at the same time.

It’s an arrangement that suits Sylvain – and his volatile moods – just fine.

By mutual agreement, they avoid the noble houses. Fódlan might be unified, but Sylvain wouldn’t trust the food off an Adrestian noble’s plate, not even if he’d watched them eat from it. Besides, he wouldn’t put it past any of the Blue Lions to try to end his so-called ‘fool’s errand’ if they caught wind of his exact location. And since Sylvain is resolved to come home with Felix or not at all, they steer clear of Dimitri’s nobility.

They avoid towns because, according to Dorothea, Sylvain is too well-known and ostentatious. While Dorothea wears plain travel clothing that can be found in any market and rides an unremarkable mare, even Sylvain’s simplest attire is made of fine fabrics and finer finishings.

Dorothea had told him disdainfully that only somebody who had never thought about money would own travel clothing like his.

In his defense, even if he swapped his clothes for simple, handspun garments, nobody who sees Beauty would believe she’s an ordinary horse. With her distinct black coat, powerful muscles, and intelligent eyes, she’s the result of generations of Gautier war-horse breeding.

Between his horse, his flaming red hair, and his fine clothes, Sylvain acknowledges that he’s hardly in disguise. But leaving Beauty behind is out of the question, so when they need to resupply, Sylvain takes the horses around town and meets Dorothea – her saddlebags heavy with provisions bought with Sylvain’s coin – on the other side.

For the past two weeks, they had stuck to the lesser-known roads, avoiding major trading routes and large towns. They grazed the horses when the grass was plentiful and ate their meals of dried field rations while on the move. Each day, they had traveled as far as their horses could safely manage before camping for the night.

Sylvain always volunteers for the first watch, waking Dorothea when the moon is directly overhead. He tells himself it’s only because Dorothea falls asleep easier and deliberately doesn’t think about early mornings spent watching the sun rise with Felix at his side.

Dorothea draws her horse up short, forcing Sylvain’s attention back to the road. He looks at her questioningly, wondering why she halted their progress, and sees her squinting toward the horizon. Far enough down the road to be just barely visible against the blue sky is a cloud of dust. It’s too large to belong to a single rider or even a small group of riders, which means a large caravan is heading towards them.

Sticking to the lesser-known roads means encountering other travelers is infrequent, and when it does happen, the groups are always small. It could be nothing, but Sylvain feels a shiver of unease travel down his spine.

“Should we move off the road?” he asks, then looks around. The terrain surrounding them is flat and covered with short, stubby grasses. Good for grazing horses, but not for hiding them.

Dorothea glances around before reaching the same conclusion. “No, that’ll just draw more attention to us. They’re probably heading for the town we passed this morning. We could circle back and wait for them to stop for the night.”

Silence settles as they both consider their options. Beauty stands perfectly still while Dorothea’s mare shifts, impatient with the wait.

Going back would be the more cautious approach. Banditry was high after the war, and although Sylvain and Dorothea were both competent fighters, a sufficiently large group could overwhelm them with numbers. Going back also meant losing a whole day of travel, and there could be a more innocent explanation. Perhaps a bridge is down on a main road, causing a caravan to take a less direct path, or perhaps a group of knights or mercenaries are returning home to collect their pay.

Sylvain exhales forcefully, his eyes still glued to the dust cloud growing larger on the horizon. “Let’s keep going,” he says, pushing the uncertainty from his voice. “Von Vestra’s notes have their stronghold either in Hrym or Ordelia territory, and the river becomes uncrossable during the rainy season.”

Dorothea turns to look at him, her gaze lingering on the Lance of Ruin, covered in a wool horse blanket and strapped to his travel pack. “Keep your weapon handy,” she warns, unnecessarily, and nudges her horse forward.

A palpable tension settles over them as they ride, their attention fixed on the road ahead. As the group draws near, Sylvain counts three large wagons and at least a dozen more riders. They carry no banner of allegiance, and their weapons, if they have any, are out of sight. It’s probably a merchant caravan, judging from the amount of crates stuffed into each wagon and the finer clothing of the riders.

Sylvain and Dorothea pull their horses off the road to let the group ride past them, which they do without a greeting or word of thanks. Sylvain frowns. Being polite isn’t a requirement on the open road, but the lack of acknowledgment is strange.

Only the middle-aged woman riding in the last wagon turns to look at them as they pass. She looks out of place among the others, her dress more appropriate for a ball than the road. Her black hair hangs in ringlets around her face, drawing attention to the paleness of her skin and the artificial redness of her lips.

The hairs on the back of Sylvain’s neck stand up, and he averts his gaze as the caravan continues down the road. No merchant would dress like that while transporting goods. Perhaps she was a lesser-known Adrestian noble?

He turns to ask Dorothea what she thinks of the woman and the strange behavior of the group, but the words catch in his throat when he takes in her appearance. Her face is pale, and she’s shaking with the tension in her body. Alarm bells ring in Sylvain’s head.

“What is it?” he asks, “Did you recognize them?”

Dorothea clutches the reins tighter as she answers. “I recognized the woman. The one riding in the last wagon. She’s one of them.”

He doesn’t have to ask who ‘them’ is. It’s clear from the raggedness of Dorothea’s breathing and the hatred in her voice. Rage rises in Sylvain, hot and wild. He wants to rip the Lance of Ruin from its holster and charge after them. He wants to pin that woman to the ground with his boot and pry answers from her lips with his lance.

She’s one of the people who took Felix from him, and Sylvain wants her blood to stain the ground.

He takes a deep breath, his fingers finding the ring hanging beneath his shirt, and forces each of his muscles to relax. His rage doesn’t dissipate, but he forges it into something cooler, something more calculated, and thinks. What they need most is information. This woman likely knows where they’re keeping Felix. Killing her does nothing if they don’t get the location of the stronghold from her first.

He relays as much to Dorothea, who reluctantly agrees.

At Sylvain’s urging, they continue along the road – slow enough that they don’t put any unnecessary distance between them and their target – until the caravan is again reduced to a cloud of dust on the horizon. Then, they wheel their horses around and match their pace back towards town, a plan forming between them as they ride.

When they arrive in town, the shadows cast by the buildings are long, and light filters out from the windows of the nearby houses. The stableboy who greets them at the only stable in town looks annoyed at caring for two additional horses but changes his tune once he sees Sylvain’s fine clothing, anticipating a generous tip.

In addition to having one stable, the town only boasts one inn, and a glance through the dirty window confirms that their target is inside.

Sylvain extends his arm to Dorothea, who takes it with the grace of a queen, and they enter the building. The inn is small and dingy with mismatched décor and floors so sticky with spilled drinks that their shoes squelch as they walk. A traveling bard sings a bawdy song in a pleasant, if not slightly out of tune, voice.

He feels Dorothea shudder, and he squeezes her forearm warningly. She’s not here as Dorothea Arnault, the promising diva of the Middlefrank Opera House. Tonight, they’re simply a young couple stopping for the night before traveling further north in the morning.

They choose an empty table within earshot of the caravan group, and Sylvain pulls the chair back for Dorothea. As she sits, he traces his hand over her shoulder and caresses her cheek. She giggles at him, besotted and girlish, and for a moment, Sylvain is so shocked by her acting that he stands there frozen.

A slight narrowing of her eyes brings him back to his senses, and he signals the barmaid for dinner and the first round of drinks.

At first, he keeps his eyes on Dorothea like a young man in love, complimenting her loudly and sighing every time she graces him with her musical laugh. He can feel the Agarthan woman’s eyes on him from the table next to them, forcing him to suppress a shiver.

He wants to rip her eyes from their sockets. He wants her dead. Later, he promises himself. After they have the information leading them to Felix, there'll be plenty of time for violence.

Mollified, he returns his attention to the task and loudly orders another round.

This time, when the barmaid brings two tankards to their table, he winks at her and grins at the blush that colors her cheeks. She glances back at him twice on her way back to the bar, her blush darkening every time she notices his eyes still on her.

Dorothea clears her throat loudly, and he turns back to her with an innocent smile.

The next two hours pass in the same manner. Sylvain keeps his attention on Dorothea while she charms him with false anecdotes about her day. He gifts her with smiles and suggestive little touches until she stammers and averts her eyes. But as soon as her attention turns to ordering them more drinks or using the restroom, Sylvain lets his eyes wander.

The barmaid is his primary target, and he flirts with her shamelessly, but he also forces himself to glance toward the Agarthan woman sitting next to them. He gives her a wave and a wink when he catches her looking back and sees her cheeks flush. Easy prey.

When Dorothea returns, Sylvain lets her claim his attention, but he’s making it clear to the room: he’s willing to be entertained elsewhere.

After a particularly shameless bout of flirting with the barmaid, Dorothea elects to set the rest of their plan in motion. Her hands slam on the table loud enough to draw the attention of the nearby patrons. “I’m afraid I have a headache,” she says primly, rising fast enough that her chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be heading to our room to rest.”

Sylvain grunts his acknowledgment without taking his eyes off the barmaid’s ass, and Dorothea storms from the room. Instead of going after her, he lets himself relax on the stool. He lets an easy smile come to his face —inviting but dulled a bit with drink— and is debating how best to draw his target in when he hears a chair being dragged back into place at the table.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a gown of crimson and fights to keep the grimace from his face. This is the opportunity he’s been waiting for since Dorothea identified this woman, and Felix’s life depends on how he plays this.

At a soft throat clearing, he turns back to his companion, saying, “Back so soon? I thought you had a head—” Sylvain trails off, mouth ajar, as he takes in the woman across from him. She’s shorter than he expected – at least a head smaller than Dorothea – with narrow, birdlike features and eyes so dark they appear black against her ashen skin. The corset of her crimson dress is laced to display her generous breasts, and Sylvain lets himself stare for a moment before dragging his gaze back up to her face.

“Sorry,” he says insincerely. “I thought you were somebody else.”

“No apologies needed,” she says, brushing her hair behind her shoulder to offer an unobstructed view of her cleavage. It’s a completely unnecessary gesture, seeing as her corset barely keeps them contained, and Sylvain resists the nearly overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. “Unless you find my company a disappointment.”

“Never,” he promises and bares his teeth in what he hopes passes for an interested leer.

When she laughs in response to his rushed words, it sounds like the braying of a demonic beast, and Sylvain laughs along with her to cover the sound.

“So. What brings a beauty like you to my humble table?” he asks when her laughter finally fades.

“You looked lonely.” She leans closer, beady eyes crawling across his skin as she drinks in his appearance. “And familiar. Have we met before?”

Sylvain feels his heart stutter before it starts to pound in his chest. Could she have recognized him? Recognized Dorothea?

He forces his gaze to stay lidded, and his posture relaxed as he considers the possibility. Descriptions of him might have made it to the Agarthans, but having red hair and nice clothes doesn’t definitively identify him as Sylvain Gautier. And Dorothea had been adamant that without a crest of her own, she’d been beneath the gaze of the Agarthan mages. Besides, she’s unrecognizable from the Gremory general that this woman might have glimpsed.

No, he decides after a moment. She’s fishing for compliments, and he will deliver.

He keeps his tone sultry as he replies, “I doubt it. I never forget a pretty face, and certainly never one above a rack like yours.”

At the next table, her companions bristle, incensed at his casual objectivation, but they settle at a lazy gesture from the woman. Not companions, then. Her guards, perhaps, or underlings?

“How bold!” she exclaims, pressing her hand to her chest as if shocked, but Sylvain can read pleasure in the squinting of her eyes. “I’m pleased to hear that I made such a memorable impression. But what about your wife?” She lays her hand across Sylvain’s, her fingers tracing meaningfully over the ring on his fourth finger.

Felix’s ring.

Under the open sky, it had seemed a little thing to move the ring from the leather strap around his neck to his finger. A married man, however faithless, should wear his ring in the presence of his wife. But now, with this witch’s fingers touching Felix’s ring, it feels like a violation of his body and soul.

He wants to put his fist through her face. He wants to seize the knife hidden in his boot and carve each finger from her hand for daring to touch what is not hers. He wants to watch her bleed out on the floor of this backwater inn and leave her corpse cooling for the rats.

Sylvain forces down the tidal wave of rage. Later, he promises himself. Once Felix is safe, he will hunt down this woman and her companions. Later, he will have his revenge.

He shrugs and says, “We have nothing to worry about. My wife is used to my – drinking.”

The woman nods in understanding, and Sylvain spends the worst half hour of his life pretending to hang onto her words. He flirts with this snake, this viper dressed as a woman, keeping her attention – and her caravan’s – on him with his brazen confidence until, finally, he sees an arc of lightning outside the dingy window.

Dorothea has what they need.

He makes a pathetic excuse about waking up early and leaves the woman alone at the table.

She’s lucky he left her alive.

By the time Sylvain gets back to their rented room, Dorothea is curled on top of one of the beds, the little black book she stole weeks ago cradled in her hands. Sylvain had gotten curious enough to ask about it once, but Dorothea had remained mute on the subject, and he had let it go.

No other books or papers surround her, which he expected, so his voice comes out accusatory when he asks, “Well, did you find anything?”

Dorothea takes the time to close the book and stow it gently in her travel bags before she answers him. “Nothing that describes what types of experiment they’re conducting, but I’d hardly expect them to carry anything incriminating.”

Sylvain feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. Had they wasted an entire day of travel in exchange for nothing? He’s about to turn around, storm downstairs, and get the information in his way, but Dorothea’s words freeze him.

“But I did find out where their laboratory is.” She reaches into her trouser pocket and pulls out a folded paper. She smooths it with one hand and passes it to him. “I had to make a copy, so they didn’t notice it missing, but it’s an accurate replica.”

Sylvain looks down at a neatly drawn map. It shows the Great River and the surrounding mountains of what he recognizes as Ordelia territory. Dorothea had drawn a large ‘x’ in a small valley between two peaks near the eastern border.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “This is where they’re keeping him.”

It’s not a question, but Dorothea answers him anyway. “Yes.”

Sylvain’s knuckles turn white from how hard he’s gripping the map. He can’t believe they did it. He can’t believe he’s holding the first solid lead they’ve had since Felix went missing more than a month ago. They have a destination. Not just von Vestra’s best guess at the location of their stronghold but a real map that will lead him to Felix.

As for what they’ll find when they get there – Sylvain shakes his head to dislodge the thought. No point in worrying about that now. He won’t let anything stand between him and Felix.

His hands shake as he unbuckles his travel bag to dig out the map of Fódlan he’d used as a general. He lays it out on Dorothea’s bed and places the smaller map on top. Although the two aren’t drawn with the same scale, he has little trouble locating the stronghold on the larger, more detailed map. The village they’re currently in is too small to be labeled, but he can more or less place it.

Sylvain traces a path between the two. It looks so close on a piece of paper, but he knows better than to underestimate the Great River or the mountains to either side.

Dorothea taps her finger on the river. “There’s a smuggler’s crossing here we used to send spies into Alliance territory. We won’t be able to cross during the high water of the rainy season, but it should still be passable for a few more weeks.”

Leaning closer, Sylvain studies the spot she indicated. If they cut northeast across the plains, they could reach the river within a week, well before the rains of the Red Wolf moon. Getting through the mountains to the stronghold might take slightly longer, but it’s the most direct route.

“There aren’t a lot of villages along the way,” he observes.

Dorothea makes a sound of agreement. “We’ll need to wait until morning to leave. We can resupply in the market before heading towards the river.” She sounds as disappointed at the wait as Sylvain feels.

Now that they have a solid lead, he’s desperate to be moving. There’s no way he will sleep tonight, but he dutifully rolls up the map and flops down onto the other bed. Dorothea blows out the candle, and he hears her settling under the covers.

The mattress is lumpy beneath him, and the cheap wool blanket itches where it touches his skin, but he hardly notices the physical discomforts. He knows where Felix is. Yes, there’s still considerable ground to cover – not to mention whatever awaits them at the stronghold – but success feels inevitable.

Sylvain’s fingers find the ring he hasn’t had the heart to remove, and he turns it around in infinite circles. Soon, he promises himself. Soon, it’ll be where it belongs.

Over Dorothea’s deep breathing from the other bed, he hears a small metallic sound outside their door. Usually, he wouldn’t think anything of it. Old buildings often make noises as they settle, and the inn hosts more than a few other patrons, but something about it feels wrong. After relying on his instincts to keep him alive through countless battles, he’s not about to start ignoring them now.  

Silently, he sits upright in the bed, listening intently for the sound to come again. When it doesn’t, he’s sure somebody is at the door. A drunk patron would have continued stumbling along without a care for keeping quiet.

An image of the Agarthan woman comes into his mind, and he slips from the bed as quietly as he can manage and pads silently to where Dorothea sleeps. Keeping a hand over her mouth, he shakes her awake and gestures at the door once he has her attention. Dorothea seems to understand the danger instantly. She retrieves her weapons from under the bed before crawling back under the covers.

Luring their enemies deeper into the room before engaging them seems a decent strategy to Sylvain, so he mimics her, hiding the Lance of Ruin and two spare hunting knives under his sheets.

And then they wait.

Not five minutes later, Sylvain hears a series of metallic clicks, which he recognizes from many missions with Ashe. Somebody is trying to pick the lock. His eyes meet Dorothea’s from across the room, and for a second, it almost looks like she’s smiling.

Then the door creaks quietly open.

Sylvain lids his eyes but can just make out the shapes of multiple people entering their room in the moonlight. He can’t discern individual features, but he recognizes the Agarthan woman’s voice when she speaks.

“The redhead has a crest. I want him left alive. Kill the woman.”

Adrenalin surges through Sylvain, but he keeps his body still. They’re too far away. He needs them a little closer. Just another step closer—

One of the men reaches Sylvain’s bedside, and he pounces.

He puts one of his knives through the first man’s heart and slits the second’s throat with the other. Warm blood splatters across his face as he throws the body to the ground. The intruders are stunned for only a moment, but it’s enough for Sylvain to pull his lance. Close quarters aren’t suited to long weapons, but he doesn’t need finesse. He uses it like a battering ram, sending the point through a gut before driving the back end into another man’s solar plexus.

Through the tightly packed bodies, he catches sight of Dorothea facing off against the Agarthan woman. She fires a spell into the woman’s chest, sending her flying into a wall. Before the Agarthan can get to her feet, Dorothea is on her. She binds her with a spell Sylvain doesn’t recognize and draws a knife.

The woman laughs, a high-pitched, grating sound, and wheezes out, “You can’t kill me.” She doesn’t sound like somebody pleading for their life. She says it like a fact. Like she doesn’t believe Dorothea can.

Her certainty unnerves Sylvain, but Dorothea only leans closer.

Face nearly pressed to the Agarthan woman’s, Dorothea says, “I have dreamed of having one of you at my mercy for months. Do you really think I would come unprepared?” She brings the knife to the woman’s throat.

It’s unlike anything Sylvain’s ever seen. The blade is as long as his forearm and black as night. Green sigils glow along its edges, casting a sickly glow across both of their faces.

“Where did you get—” is all the woman manages before Dorothea slides the blade into her chest.

With the last of the mercenaries dead at his feet, Sylvain turns to watch the Agarthan woman die. It’s almost enough to turn his war-hardened stomach. Her mouth works soundlessly as green lines shoot across her skin from where the blade punctured. Following the lines, she seems to melt, her skin sloughing away from muscle and bone before they dissolve into nothing.

It takes less than a minute.

“What kind of knife is that?” Sylvain asks into the silence that follows.

Dorothea caresses the edge before wiping it clean on the woman’s dress and returning it to its sheath. For a minute, he thinks she’ll ignore his question, but she turns to him after stowing it safely in her pack.

“The kind that can kill Agarthans.”

Sylvain holds back a snappish retort. He wants to demand that she explain why this is the first he’s heard that their enemy cannot be killed with normal weapons. Or that she possessed a weapon designed for the sole purpose of their eradication. Dorothea had implied that this was her first encounter with an Agarthan. Perhaps she hadn’t known.

He swallows his accusations and settles for asking, “If that’s the only weapon that can kill these people, shouldn’t I have one as well?”

Dorothea lights a candle before she crouches down and starts dragging the nearest body to the center of the room. She riffles through his pockets, producing a small bag of coins and a knife, which she studies briefly before discarding.

“This is the only one I’ve found,” she says, turning her attention to the next body. “Hubert had it made as a prototype in case our allies—” she spits the word out like a foul curse “ever tried to betray us.”

Hefting two corpses into his arms, Sylvain follows her lead in stripping them of any valuables and dropping them in a pile. During the war, he had cleaned up after many a battle, and it felt wrong to leave this for a bunch of civilian innkeepers.

“If von Vestra made that thing, he probably kept detailed notes so he could do it again.”

Dorothea hums in agreement as she drops the second body next to the first. “I’m sure he did. We could take a detour back to Enbarr if you wanted to spend more time looking through his records—”

The glare he levels at her mocking tone makes her smile.

“Relax, Sylvain. If Hubert had thought this knife was the only way she could defend herself, it would have been in Edelgard’s possession. Since it wasn’t, I can only assume he believed the hero’s relics were equally efficient. You can poke the next Agarthan we find with your lance and see what happens.”

Her tone is overly sympathetic, and it takes him a moment to realize she’s making fun of him. This is the first spark he’s seen from her since the day they met on a dirty Enbarr street, and it takes a surprisingly strong force of will to keep the side of his lips from quirking upwards. Circumstances may have brought them together to seek a common enemy, but he’s not about to grow fond of Dorothea.

He adopts his most aristocratic voice to say, “I think I will.”

She laughs, and he finds himself smiling despite his intentions.

They finish the work silently, rolling the bodies up into the rug before dragging it – and its new cargo – down the stairs and to the outskirts of town. That done, they break into the Agarthan woman’s rented room and go through the various bags and papers.

As Dorothea said, they find nothing more about the Agarthans or their stronghold, but Sylvain gathers a nice collection of coins and other small valuables. He leaves them in a pile on their room’s little table with a note that says, ‘for the rug.’   

Dawn has broken by the time they’ve finished cleaning up, and they purchase a few weeks’ supply of dried fruits and meats. Sylvain tips the stableboy handsomely since – through no fault of his own – he won’t receive anything from the larger caravan group.

Before the village has even come awake, they’re back on the road toward Ordelia territory and Felix.    

The heat of the open plains of Gronder gives way to the cooler temperatures of the Hyrm mountains as they journey north. They move as quickly as the horses allow, urgency snapping at their heels as they ride hard and sleep little. Despite the rough travel conditions, lack of rest, and monotonous diet of dried things with stale water, the trip feels easier.

Dorothea seems to come alive as they pursue their lead; her eyes shine with determination, and she allows herself to be drawn into conversations when the terrain permits them to ride side-by-side.

She tells him stories of people he had only briefly known as anything other than cunning adversaries on the battlefield. Stories of Caspar’s tendency to get into fights and Linhardt’s sleepy competence. Stories of Bernadetta’s love for books and equally strong love for avoiding people are woven between tales of Petra’s humorous misunderstandings of Fódlan culture and Ferdinand’s obsession with the perfect cup of tea. Years of training in the theater have made her a master storyteller, and he enjoys her solo performances like a patron at the opera.

Deliberately, he doesn’t equate the characters in her stories to the generals the Blue Lions defeated on the battlefield. They seem to be in unspoken agreement since Dorothea says nothing about Edelgard, von Vestra, or war.  

Sylvain also finds himself in high spirits, buoyed by the certainty of their destination. He lets himself enjoy her company as long as the horses are moving forward and even tells her carefully chosen stories of his own.

It wasn’t friendship, but the adjustment to becoming amicable travel companions made the week-long journey to the Great River crossing pass swiftly, and Sylvain felt his hopes soaring with every passing hour.

He feels decidedly less optimistic now.

The supposedly slow-moving section of the river thunders around the bend before them, wide enough that Sylvain can only just make out the bank on the other side. He can’t see the bottom through the inky darkness of the water and the white churn of the raging current, and the banks to either side look treacherous to both humans and horses. Their steepness and muddy composition would make a slow, cautious entry impossible, and if their horses lost their footing on such a crossing, the merciless current would surely pull them under.

Sylvain shouts to be heard over the rushing water. “Are you sure this is the place?”

“Of course,” Dorothea shouts back. “Many Imperial spy routes crossed here before the Great Bridge fell under our control. See the tree over there? The one with the three large branches? If we head straight towards it, we can cross safely.”

Despite her confident words, it doesn’t escape Sylvain’s notice that she makes no move towards the river.

“After you then.” He gestures her forward with false magnanimity.

Dorothea glares at him but complies, leading her horse to the steep bank. The animal walks placidly to the edge, then refuses to budge another inch. It quickly becomes clear to Sylvain that although she could passably handle a horse on the easy conditions of the road, Dorothea is not a proficient rider.

As her horse stands frozen, she tries a series of pleading tones, which quickly turn into frustrated kicks and flicks of the reins when nothing convinces her horse to move.

Watching her struggle atop the horse reminds him of Felix and how he always seemed to bring out the worst in any animal he encountered. Even Beauty, who stood stoic on the battlefield as magic rushed past her head, nervously sidestepped when Felix approached with a brush or an apple. If it had been Felix atop that horse, they both would have stood completely still; the horse too afraid of the water to enter and Felix too stubborn to fight with an animal. The thought of Felix locking wills with the mare makes him smile.

He has enough self-preservation to ensure the smile is gone from his lips when Dorothea looks back at him, exasperation clear in her expression. A quick flick of the reins pulls Beauty alongside the pair and allows Sylvain to survey Dorothea’s mare. She’s trembling slightly, her eyes wide and ears pressed back flat against her head.

Sylvain feels a rush of pity for her. She’s probably never had to cross a river before, and certainly not one as wide or as fast as this one. Of course, she’s afraid in a situation like this, and Dorothea’s frustration isn’t calming her. They’ll never make it across the river like this.

“Do you think she’ll follow I lead the way on Beauty?”

Dorothea briefly studies the back of her mare’s head before shrugging. “I think it’s worth a try.”

Sylvain dismounts and retrieves a length of rope from one of his saddlebags to tie the two horses together. He repacks his bags, taking a minute to ensure they’re still watertight before remounting and guiding Beauty to the bank's edge. Beauty is calm beneath his hands as he strokes her neck reassuringly.

Enough stalling, he thinks and signals her to enter the water.

Compared with the steepness of the bank, the river stays surprisingly shallow for the first couple of steps. The water swirls around Beauty’s dark legs as she lifts and carefully places each hoof. Sylvain feels himself relaxing as they move forward. Dorothea’s intel had been good. Despite the fierce look of the river, the current isn’t strong, and it would be a relatively easy crossing.

Beauty halts suddenly, and it takes Sylvain a moment to figure out that the line between the two horses had drawn taught. He cranes around in his saddle to look back at the bank. Dorothea’s mount had not followed them into the river, too afraid of the water and her rider’s competence to proceed.

They won’t make it across.

For a moment, Sylvain considers cutting the rope and leaving Dorothea behind. Safely tucked in his saddle bag is the map that will lead him to Felix and the Agarthans. He doesn’t need her to guide him anymore, and her horse is slower and requires more frequent breaks than Beauty. Without them slowing him down, he would make better time in the rough terrain of the mountains.

A small voice quietly reminds him that he still doesn’t understand why Dorothea wanted to come in the first place. She hadn’t told him about the blade or what the Agarthans had done for the Imperial army. It makes him wonder about what other secrets she might be keeping. Perhaps it would be safer to go alone.

Sylvain shakes his head to clear the temptation.

Traveling alone is always dangerous, but the long years of war have made people increasingly desperate. Dorothea is a competent fighter who contributes to their watch without complaint. Her mount’s lack of endurance seems to chafe Dorothea’s patience as much as Sylvain’s. But most of all, whatever her reasons, Dorothea has never faltered in her near-manic pursuit of their targets.

She’ll help him save Felix.

Looking at her, at the frustration radiating from the tension in her shoulders and dipped head, Sylvain understands what he needs to do.

He turns Beauty around and guides her back to the shore.

“I can’t make her move,” Dorothea yells as soon as he’s in earshot, her voice tight with anger.

She can’t, not with her poor riding skills and impatient demeanor. But Sylvain has been riding horses since he was tall enough to stay atop a pony. He can. Sylvain dismounts as soon as Beauty scales the muddy bank and gestures for Dorothea to do the same.

“I’ll take her across,” he says as she slips from the horse’s back. “Give me a few minutes to get her comfortable with me. Once we’re in the water, you can follow on Beauty.”

Dorothea looks at him in surprise. For as long as they’ve been traveling together, he’s never offered to take care of her horse while he was tending to his own nor received a similar offer from her. They carry their own food and water and set up separate shelters when the weather conditions are poor. Circumstances drove them together, and neither had made any effort to become anything more than two people headed in generally the same direction.

But if they’re going to do this, if they’re going into an enemy stronghold, just the two of them against whatever they find inside, he has to trust that she’ll have his back. So, he offers her the first branch.

“She doesn’t trust you,” he says with a gesture at the spooked mare. “And we don’t have all day to cross this river if we want to make good time towards the mountains. I’m the better rider. I’ll take her. Beauty won’t fuss at the crossing.”

Dorothea considers before handing the reins to him with a speed that reveals how grateful she is for him to take charge. With one last pat on Beauty’s flank, he passes his horse to Dorothea. He doesn’t bother making sure she can handle his mare. Beauty will do her job no matter the skill of her rider. He turns his attention to Dorothea’s mare.

Sylvain approaches the frightened creature slowly, talking softly in a soothing voice. She lets him draw closer and relaxes marginally as he strokes her face and neck. It takes him a few minutes to get her comfortable enough with his lead to step closer to the water, but eventually, she does. They proceed in inches down the steep slope. A single step followed by reassurance and praise, followed by another step until the water touches her hoofs.

Slowly, Sylvain leads her into the water, letting the current swirl around his boots and her legs. Once they’re both in the river, he waits. It takes less time than he’d expected for her to grow curious and start nosing at the water.

Less than ten minutes later, her fear is gone completely, and he’s confident he can get her across.

She lets him mount her and obeys his flick of the reins, stepping further into the swiftly moving river. Her back is narrower than Beauty's, her steps smaller and less confident, but she follows his commands without protest. From behind, he hears Dorothea’s cry of surprise as Beauty follows them into the river.

Sylvain keeps his head turned forward to hide his smile. She didn’t think she’d be leading Beauty, did she?

For all the trouble they had getting started, the river crossing is surprisingly easy. It’s certainly a good place for somebody to cross the river without getting their goods inspected at the Great Bridge. A month ago, Sylvain would have thought to send a message to Dimitri or Byleth so they could figure out how to monitor this location for unauthorized crossings. A month ago, he was still a member of the gentry, sworn to serve his king and loyal to his teacher.

Today, however, the memory of their refusal to even look for Felix stokes the fire of his rage, and he has to concentrate on keeping his touch on the reins light. Besides, he’d given back his ring, the symbol of his noble house, and, with it, any ties of friendship or responsibility to United Fódlan. Let the smugglers use this route. It’s of no concern to Sylvain.

The opposite bank is steeper than where they entered but drier and covered in loose rocks that slide beneath his mount’s feet as she pulls them from the water. Sylvain stops her once the terrain is flat and dismounts. When he turns back to the river, he sees Beauty exiting the water, her head held high as if pleased at a job well done. As soon as Dorothea slides from her back, she walks up to Sylvain and nudges him with her nose, looking for a treat.

Sylvain pushes her away with a laugh. “I know, I know. I owe you as many apples as you can eat when this is over.”

Beauty tosses her head with a snort but accepts the compromise of his fingers stroking through her mane.

Horse placated, Sylvain glances over at Dorothea. She’s checking the contents of her saddlebags, which, due to the height of her horse, had nearly been submerged in the deepest part of the river. The sight of her little black book, dry and undamaged, seems to calm her, and she lets out a relieved sigh.

Sylvain wonders again at its importance to her. Of all the things to care for, why that little book? What could be so important that Dorothea’s first thought is to check that it’s dry instead of comforting her horse or emptying the water from her boots? He glances away before she can catch him watching, feeling strangely like an intruder.

“I know you didn’t have to come back for me when my horse wouldn’t cross the river.” Dorothea’s voice draws Sylvain’s attention back to her. “Thanks for doing it anyway.”

For the first time since they chose opposite sides of the war, Sylvain can detect warmth in her voice. It’s not the friendly affection he used to share with Mercedes or Ingrid, but it’s not the apathetic tone she usually uses to talk to him. His decision to help her had changed something between them.

Maybe they really can do this. Maybe together, they can rescue Felix and end the Agarthan threat.

“You’re welcome,” he says as he swings his weight onto his horse’s back and turns her toward the mountains. Next to him, Dorothea does the same.

Now that the river crossing is behind them, Sylvain feels a thread of anticipation thrum through his body. Only a few days lay between him and Felix, between him and fixing this aching emptiness in his heart. He twists the ring around his finger so the two largest gemstones, one a brilliant red garnet and the other a clear aquamarine, face upward.

“C’mon. Let’s go find that stronghold.”

Chapter Text

Alina collapses to the ground next to him with a grunt of pain. Felix listens to her rasping breaths as he waits impatiently for her to pick up the scattered pieces of her dignity. She’s spared him the gory details of what she’s endured at the hands of those mages, but Felix is observant; he sees the scars of magically healed cuts and the deep bruises that speak of broken bones.

Of herself, Alina may speak little. But every time they throw her back into the cell, she shares the secrets the Agarthans so casually spill in front of her, thinking her too weak or too little of a threat to mind their tongues. Felix hoards each secret, weapon, door, and name and imagines how he’ll use them to destroy the Agarthans.

Alina drags herself into a seated position and shifts closer in painfully slow movements.

“Felix,” she rasps, having long abandoned trying to call him ‘Lord.’

He acknowledges her greeting with a grunt as he studies her face. Deep lines stretch across her brow and sunken-in cheeks, making her look withered and old. Greasy strands of hair stick to her skin and cracked lips but do little to hide the deep, black circles under her eyes. They’ve been caged together for months, and he doesn’t even know what she looks like. Everything looks black and sickly in this damned green light.

“What color are your eyes?” He’s not sure why he asks. Maybe the long hours spent with only the whimpering Adrestian as company have made him sentimental. Perhaps he’s simply realized that she’s going to die here.

If Alina’s surprised by his question, she doesn’t show it. “Amber,” she forces the word out of her throat. “My father says they’re amber. Like my mother’s.”

Like Sylvain’s, Felix thinks before he can stop himself, the name bringing forth memories of a confident smile and arms that feel like home. Did Sylvain believe he was dead? Had he mourned in front of an empty grave? Or was Sylvain, with all his stubborn optimism, out there looking for Felix even now?

Felix shoves the thoughts aside before he can follow them any further. There was no point in thinking about outside while he was trapped in this cold, green cell. No point in remembering anything except the painstakingly recalled details Alina brought back. No point in anything that would distract him from his plans of destroying these Agarthans as soon as he could get free of his chains.

“They’re still alive,” Alina says, eyes fixed on the wall. “My parents are farmers and too old to fight. I sent most of my pay from the army home every month to help support them.” She speaks so quietly that Felix has to lean closer to hear her. “When you get free, can you tell them—” she stops to cough. “Can you tell them how I died?”

Felix doesn’t flinch at her words; he’s seen too much to flinch from the truth, but he is surprised that she’s said it aloud. Alina must feel what he sees. She’s of Faerghus, born a warrior, born to survive the harshness of life in a land dominated by winter. But nobody can fight the Agarthan experiments forever.

Even with her minor crest, she’s dying. But she isn’t dying quietly. She fights the mages every time they come for her, kicking, biting, and screaming. She steals their secrets and memorizes the compound’s layout. Not for herself, they both know she’ll never see Faerghus again, but for Fódlan. For him.

In the end, it’s a simple decision. Felix has always admired fighters.

He bites his palm hard enough to draw blood and extends it to Alina. “I, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, swear on the blood of my house that your parents will know of your bravery. And that your family will want for nothing that is in my power to give.”

Alina stares at him with wide eyes and a slack jaw.

Suddenly, Felix feels like a fool. Here he is, sitting in his own filth like an animal, making promises he’s in little position to keep. He withdraws his hand, cursing himself for doing something that Ashe would praise as knightly. But before he can retreat to his wall like a cowed dog, Alina cuts him off with a choked, “Wait!”

She bites her palm and quickly clasps her hand around Felix’s. It’s an old promise, one sealed in blood, dating back to before the Holy Kingdom had been more than an idea. Felix has always found the tradition bizarre, but Alina sags in her chains, her eyes closing as she sighs.

She’s quiet for long enough that Felix is convinced she’s asleep before she speaks. “They have a weapon that could destroy a fort,” she says without opening her eyes.

“Do they control it from here?” Felix asks, leaning closer.

Alina nods and starts to tell him everything she overheard. She tells the details in starts and stops, sometimes repeating herself, growing frustrated when she forgets what they said. Felix listens patiently and gathers every piece of information he can.

The day the Agarthans release his chains is the day they’ll die.

Sylvain scowls up at the setting sun as he squeezes between two thick tree trunks. The daylight is quickly fading; they’ll need to stop soon.

The two weeks he had predicted for the journey stretched into three, then four. They had underestimated the difficulty of traversing the mountain slopes, and not a day's travel past the river, the terrain had steepened, open fields giving way to forests thick with trees. Riding over the loose rocks, fallen branches, and uneven ground was dangerous, so they were forced to travel on foot with the horses trailing behind.

As the Ethereal Moon approaches, the days grow shorter and colder, with more frequent rain. The colder weather, Sylvain enjoyed. The damp and lack of daylight, he did not. Up ahead, he sees a small area, mostly clear of trees, that had just enough room for a bedroll and a fire. It would be wise to stop.

Sylvain sighs. “We should make camp here for the night,” he says over his shoulder to Dorothea. “We probably won’t find a better spot before it gets dark.”

“There’s still a bit of light,” Dorothea says, always reluctant to stop. “We should keep going.”

The thing is, Sylvain wants to agree with her, wants to press forward and look for any sign of the Agarthan stronghold. They’d been circling that little X drawn in fresh ink on his map for the last few days but hadn’t seen anything more interesting than a family of foxes. The lack of success is frustrating. They’re here. They made it. If only they could find the damn entrance.

Behind him, he hears the scrabbling of sliding rocks followed by a thud and a groan. By the time he’s turned around, Dorothea is back on her feet, glaring down at the root that caused her fall. She runs her hands angrily through her hair, shaking loose a few small twigs of evergreen needles. Luckily, besides her obvious irritation, she seems unaffected by the fall.

Although both Sylvain and Dorothea studied rudimentary Faith magic back in school, neither was particularly proficient. A minor cut, bruise, or burn could be easily handled, but anything more serious was beyond their capabilities. Thinking of what a broken limb would mean this deep in the mountain makes a shiver run down Sylvain’s spine. They can’t afford to take chances.

“I’m fine,” Dorothea says before Sylvain can ask. He’s afraid she’ll try to insist that they keep going, but it seems her fall has served as a warning. She lets out a long, frustrated exhale. “You’re right. It’s too dangerous to keep walking. Let’s make camp for the night.”

They stop at the little clearing and begin their standard ritual. Dorothea gathers dry kindling, which is becoming scarce with the frequent rains, to start a small fire while Sylvain unpacks their bags and tends to the horses. Once the animals have been brushed and turned loose to munch on the ample forest vegetation, Sylvain turns his attention to the large rabbit he’d managed to hunt earlier in the day.

He’s not particularly fond of hunting; he never found it as satisfying as Ingrid and Felix always did, but years of brutal winters guarding the Sreng border had given him the basic skills. If given the choice, he’d prefer his meat served with a tangy sauce on sturdy plates with a generous pour of wine instead of charred over a campfire, but at least it isn’t more dried rations.

The one good thing about the longer nights, Sylvain acknowledges as he butchers the animal in the glow of the fire, is that there is plenty of time to cook the meat into a jerky that would last a few days.

“Rabbit again?” Dorothea asks as she sits next to him. Her voice isn’t whiny, exactly, but it has the tone of somebody who would prefer not to eat rabbit.

“Yep!” Sylvain says with false cheer. “I can serve yours on a slice of hard bread.” He laughs at Dorothea’s raised eyebrow. “If you close your eyes, you can pretend it’s a meat pie.”

Dorothea leans back on her elbows. “I remember the meat pies they used to serve at Garreg Mach,” she says wistfully. “The pastry was always flaky and golden brown. I loved cutting into one and seeing how much filling the cooks managed to stuff in there.”

Listening to her describe them makes Sylvain’s mouth water. “Meat pies were one of my favorite meals. Felix’s, too.”

“I remember,” Dorothea says, sitting up to poke at the fire. “We used to end up at the dining hall together after our dancing lessons. Meat pies were one of the only things we could agree on, so we always ordered them. I swear, I must have eaten hundreds of meat pies.”

“You took my boyfriend to dinner and ordered him meat pies?” Sylvain gasps in mock affront.

“Every day for a month. If it makes you feel any better, he was a terrible conversationalist.”

Sylvain laughs, and it feels like pressing on a bruise. “A better dancer than you, though.”

Dorothea turns away from the fire to glare at him. “The judging was biased,” she says, nose pointed into the air. “A dance should be a conversation between two partners. It should have push and pull. Intrigue and invitation. It’s not supposed to be a constant attack.”

Sylvain grins, remembering the smooth footwork of Felix’s dancing, the way his skirt revealed his toned legs on each lunging strike. “Some partners enjoy a challenge.”

“Northerners,” Dorothea says with a shake of her head and a small smile. “No appreciation for the arts.”

“Hey,” Sylvain says in protest. “Don’t lump me in with the rest of them. I love the arts. I even saw Manuela perform a few times.” He serves them both a portion of the rabbit and moves the rest to the cooler edges of the fire to cook overnight into jerky. The meat tastes gamey and bland – nothing like a meat pie – but neither complains.

After they’ve eaten, Sylvain fills their only pot with water and puts it over the fire. Water is easy enough to find, the forest is full of streams meandering their way towards the Great River, and they’ve discovered that boiling pine needles makes a passible tea.

“Have you thought about going back?” Sylvain asks as he throws a sprig into the pot and watches it bounce around in the boiling water. Dorothea makes a questioning sound from where she’s rolling out her bedroll. “To the opera. Will you sing again when all this is over?”

Dorothea is silent for a long time before she replies. “No.” He hears the bedroll rustle as she slips inside. “I can’t think of anything worth singing about.”

Sylvain glances at her, wondering what she meant by that, but she’s already pulled the covers over her head. With a shrug, Sylvain pours himself a cup of the almost-tea and relaxes against the smooth bark of a large tree. It’s too earthy for his tastes, reminding him of the blends Felix usually prefers, but he finds it pleasant enough.

Staring into the fire, he lets himself think of Felix, where he is right now. Was he hungry? Cold? Hurt? Sylvain’s hands shake as he pours himself another cup. It tastes bitter as he sips it, watching the sliver of moon float across the sky and carefully thinking of nothing at all.

His sleep that night is fitful, and it feels like only seconds after he’d managed to close his eyes when Dorothea shakes him awake and presses a hot cup into his hands. The morning sunlight diffuses through the surrounding trees, promising a rare sunny day. It’s a good omen.

Sylvain pulls his blankets around himself as he joins Dorothea by the fire. Breakfast consists of some leftover rabbit and a fresh pot of tea. Dorothea always steeps the pine needles more than Sylvain prefers, but the liquid warms him as it goes down.

When they set off, Dorothea takes the lead. She follows the same game trail as yesterday for half the morning before veering towards a small stream. Sylvain pauses to refill the waterskins and let the horses enjoy the fresh water. He’s fastening the freshly filled bottles back to the saddlebags when he hears Dorothea calling to him from further into the valley.

“Sylvain! Come look at this! Quickly!”

He leaves the horses to their drinking and scrambles downstream until he finds her. She’s climbed a short way up into one of the massive trees that dot the landscape and is pointing at something Sylvain can’t see from his vantage point on the ground. They’ve circled the location marked on the Agarthan map for weeks, and only one thing could excite Dorothea this much.

Sylvain hauls himself onto the lowest branch, ignoring how the bark pulls at the skin of his hands and climbs until he’s standing next to Dorothea. Resting his arms against a higher branch for balance, he lets his eyes follow the line of her finger. The spot she’s pointing to looks like the surrounding forest, full of evergreen trees growing so close together that he can’t see any sign of the ground below. Nothing looks out of the ordinary.

“What is it?” he demands.

“Do you see that large pine tree? The one leaning to the left? Look just below it.”

He looks and finds the tree she’s talking about but nothing else. He’s just about to insist she just tell him what she’s seen when his breath catches in his throat. He sees it.

Right below the large pine stands four smaller trees in a perfectly square arrangement. Their coloring is artificial, too, with no gradation of color in the thick pine needles that cover their branches, just a uniform shade of green from trunk to tip. Unlike the surrounding trees that grow in random arrangements across the mountainside, these look unnaturally placed. Artificial. Like they’re marking something.

Sylvain’s heart slams in his chest. This must be it. They’d done it. They’d actually fucking done it.

Nearly two months of traveling had brought him here. To Felix. To the reunion he’d imagined a million times since the battle for Enbarr. The ring on his finger seems to burn in anticipation. Soon. Soon, it’ll be where it belongs, and Felix will be at his side.

Sylvain wills himself to set the anticipation aside and concentrate on the job they must do first. He feels Dorothea’s hand slide into his as they stare intently into the forest. “Do you see any guards?” he asks her in a whisper, half afraid that the illusion will shatter if he speaks louder.

They’re standing so close he can feel Dorothea shake her head. “I doubt they post any guards with the entrance this well-hidden. It took us weeks to find it, and we had a map. I say we go inside.”

It would be prudent to wait and watch the entrance for a few days to figure out how often anybody comes and goes. A good strategist would insist on it. Sylvain hasn’t been a good strategist since the day Felix didn’t come back. “Let's go, then,” he says, dropping out of the tree.

Directly between the strange trees is a large metal door that takes them nearly two minutes of straining and struggling to open. Sylvain wipes the sweat from his brow as he looks down at the stairs the door had been hiding. They are narrow and steep, plunging deep into the mountainside.

Green glowing lights pulse along the wall as Sylvain runs the tips of his fingers over the strange material. It feels smooth beneath his hand and icy cold. An involuntary shiver traces up his spine, and Sylvain pulls his hand back, his other fist tightening around his lance as he steps away. Everything about this place feels wrong. This is Agarthan territory, and he knows little of their enemy. Rushing in only to end up as a prisoner next to Felix would do neither of them any good.

He opens his mouth to preach caution, but Dorothea is descending the stairs before the first word can leave his lips. Startled, he stands frozen for a moment before his brain catches up, and he hurries after her. As they descend deeper, the eerie lights paint their skin an unhealthy shade.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Lance of Ruin pulsing in time with the glow. Sylvain looks away, unnerved.

The stairs go on for what feels like hours, but is probably only a few minutes, before leveling into a curved hallway. Spaced irregularly along the walls are a series of sturdy-looking metal doors. He watches wordlessly as Dorothea shoves the nearest one open. Without looking inside, she steps through, and Sylvain hurries after her with a hiss of disapproval. He’s all for finding Felix quickly, but this sloppy infiltration is asking for trouble.

The room they find themselves in is cluttered with tight rows of shelves, each teeming with filled jars. Sylvain steps closer to study them. One is filled with a viscous liquid that appears to climb up the inside edge. Another with what looks like – a human eyeball.

Sylvain recoils into the shelf behind him, sending several bottles cascading onto the floor. He hears at least one of them shatter. Through the ringing in his ears, he hears Dorothea say, “Good idea. We shouldn’t leave anything intact,” before a series of crashes announces the end to more jars.

He whips around. “Stop that!” he snarls. “All this noise will bring every Agarthan in this place right to us.”

Dorothea pauses in her destruction to look down at the black blade in her hand. The one designed to kill Agarthans. It gleams green as her fingers caress the surface. “Good,” she says, low and pleased, before sending an entire shelf toppling with her shoulder.

Sylvain lunges forward, but he’s too late to stop the shelf. It falls into the next shelf, then the next, until the whole row is tipping, sending bottles to shatter on the floor in a cacophony. Over the shattering of the bottles, he hears Dorothea’s delighted laughter.

Sylvain sees red.

He grabs her by the front of her shirt and slams her into the wall. “Are you mad?” he hisses at her, spittle flying into her face. “You’re going to get him killed.”

Dorothea scoffs. “Felix is either already dead, or he’s not. That’s your concern.” Sylvain’s grip slackens at those words, and she uses the moment to free herself. She walks over to the downed shelf. A bottle that had survived its journey to the floor meets its end under her insistent heel. “Making sure there’s nothing left of the Agarthans is mine. So, either help me destroy everything in this stronghold or get out of my way.”

Sylvain’s ears ring into the silence that falls after her words. Everything is still. Even his heart stopped beating the moment her words sunk in. Not her concern? Hadn’t finding Felix been the point of all of this? All the lost sleep and hard days on the road. Wasn’t it the hope of finding him alive that drove them forward?

For him, always. But not, he finally understands as he looks at the stranger in front of him, for Dorothea. Sylvain feels detached as he sees her clearly for the first time. Her eyes gleam black and soulless in the green light, dancing with the triumph of having deceived him. She quivers in anticipation of destruction, of killing Agarthans. A hunter. Not a savior.

Sylvain shudders.

“Well?” She demands, fists against her hips. “Are you helping or not.”

Helping? She dares ask for his help, knowing what it could mean for Felix—knowing how she led him here with her false promises and carefully omitted lies. The anger that’s been simmering for months builds under his skin. He wants to lash out. Wants to squeeze her traitorous neck between his hands until she’s begging for her life like he wants to beg for Felix’s.

Felix.

The name cools some of his anger, letting Sylvain think. Felix could be in this stronghold. He’s unsure how much of what Dorothea fed him were lies. Perhaps only her assurance that Felix was here. Perhaps all of it.

Sylvain shoves the thought aside. He can’t let despair render him useless. He’ll search every corner, every room, every centimeter of this stronghold for Felix. And if it turns out that Dorothea had lied about everything, he’d deal with her last.

Wordlessly, he turns and stalks from the room, the sound of shattering glass fueling his steps.

Sylvain sits with his back pressed against a tree. The evergreen branches overhead keep most of the rain from falling on his head, but the occasional drop makes it through. He gazes unseeing as one lands on the lance in his grip and smears the blood that coats the point. Sylvain tightens his grip on the shaft as he recounts the day’s tally.

Seventeen dead Agarthans. One destroyed stronghold. Zero leads on Felix.

With a muffled scream of frustration, he throws his lance onto the damp dirt. It skids into the nearest tree before lying motionless. Sylvain buries his face into his hands and breathes out a curse. He’d been so sure. So trusting.

After leaving Dorothea, Sylvain had found a small library, empty prison cells, a few bedrooms that would have looked at home in an aristocrat’s house, more endless shelves filled with jars, and a room filled with tanks of a liquid so dark, Sylvain had to shatter the glass to discover the bodies of demonic beasts housed inside. The Lance of Ruin had ended their lives as quickly as the Agarthans he encountered. He had searched every room, every corner three times before finally ascending the endless staircase that took him from the stronghold.

Sylvain hears footsteps approaching but doesn’t bother raising his face from the darkness of his palms when they stop beside him. Even through his hands, he can smell the scent of reason magic and smoke that clings to her, a stark reminder that they don’t share the same goal.

Bile rises in this throat. He feels sick with himself for trusting her. Hates himself for being stupid enough to trust anybody else with something as precious as Felix’s life. But he had been weak, been used to banding together to pursue a common goal. Except this time, he had made a mistake. And now Sylvain must live with the knowledge that Felix is suffering and will continue to suffer because Sylvain followed a snake.

“I found another lead,” Dorothea says into the silence that has grown long around them. “There was a map in the library with another Agarthan stronghold marked on it. It’s nearby. Maybe only a few days east of here.” She sounds excited, her eagerness to destroy the Agarthans evident in the quick cadence of her words.

When Sylvain stays silent, she steps closer. A part of Sylvain dares her to touch him, to pull on his arm to get him to his feet and give him an excuse to start the fight he feels building under his skin.

“I know you’re disappointed that Felix wasn’t—”

Sylvain snaps his head up at her words.

“Don’t you dare mention Felix,” he warns her in a low voice. “Don’t you dare speak his name when you don’t care if he’s alive or dead.” The last word gets stuck in his throat, and he forces it past his lips.

Dorothea must hear the danger in his tone because she stops coming closer. “I didn’t mean that,” she says.

More likely, she hadn’t meant to say that aloud, Sylvain thinks bitterly and doesn’t respond. He looks toward the Lance of Ruin, lying discarded in the mud. It had been as effective at killing Agarthans as Dorothea’s special knife. With his hero’s relic in hand, he doesn’t need her. He could leave her behind and return across the river to where von Vestra had guessed the stronghold was.

“I know what he means to you, and I want to find him just as much as you do.”

Dorothea sounds earnest, but Sylvain hears the lie in her words. She’s a practiced actress, a once-in-a-generation talent on the stage. An honest person would be fooled by her sympathetic tone and downturned lips. It’s too bad for her that they’re cut from the same cloth, and Sylvain, equally practiced at weaving together sweet words to seduce somebody to action, won’t be fooled any longer.

He gives a slight nod as if he’s convinced and says, “Show me what you found.”

“It’s a map to another stronghold.” As she squats down next to him, she pulls a small piece of paper from her sleeve and smooths it across his lap. A glance down shows a crudely drawn map of the mountains. Two locations are marked with small circles, both north of what Sylvain assumes is the Great River. It’s hand-drawn, obviously a copy.

“Is this the original?”

She shakes her head. “The original was mounted to the wall, and I didn’t want to waste any time removing it. A separate document noted that the Agarthans use the two locations I marked to conduct experiments.”

A part of Sylvain still wants to believe her because not believing her means that he’s wasted months on her murder crusade. The larger part, however, can’t shake the sound of her laughter as she sent the shelves toppling to the floor or the look in her eyes as she killed the Agarthan woman in the inn. It’s the same look she wears whenever she reads that little black book she had taken from von Vestra’s library.

Sylvain had accepted her explanation that it was personal, simply a record of people whom she had called friends, but he hadn’t understood the depths of her deception. Her words had fueled his hope, and he’d been desperate enough to ignore any inconsistencies and the warnings of his friends on the slightest chance that Felix was alive. Believing they shared a common goal, he hadn’t questioned the book's contents, hadn’t mistrusted the information she had ‘found’ in the inn, hadn’t protested crossing the river.

Sylvain looks at the copied map – yet another Agarthan secret fed to him only through Dorothea – and decides he’s done following like a dumb beast. His only chance to find Felix is to learn everything Dorothea has been keeping from him. Starting with her book. Knowing she’ll never willingly hand it over, the best action is to wait until her guard is down and take it.

With that decision made, Sylvain finds himself relaxing. This is a game he’s had plenty of practice playing. He lets his shoulders fall with a sigh. “Any chance they wrote down where they kept prisoners?”

“No.” Dorothea has the grace to pretend to be upset as she delivers the news. “But I think it makes sense to start with the closest of the two. If we don’t find Felix, we’ll head straight to the next one.”

“Alright,” Sylvain says, handing the map back before standing to retrieve his lance. He fastens it into the holster on his back and turns towards where they left their horses. “If we get moving, we can get a few hours of traveling before the sun sets.”

He doesn’t turn to look at her, but he can feel her pleasure as she follows. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to turn and throw her into a tree.

The dripping rain of early afternoon turns quickly into a downpour, making travel along the barely visible game paths slow and dangerous. Both pairs of Sylvain’s socks are soaked despite his supposedly waterproof boots, and the bottoms of his feet pulse painfully with each step. He slogs forward, eyes squinted against the rain, looking for any place suitable for camping.

Not for the first time, he misses the snow that’s surely covering Gautier territory.

Sylvain breathes a sigh of relief when a clearing, large enough for them to rest for the night, comes into view. He doesn’t bother consulting Dorothea before grabbing Beauty’s reins and leading his horse off the trail. It’s not yet dark, and he expects Dorothea to protest, but she doesn’t. Perhaps even Adrestians hate the miserably cold rains of the Ethereal Moon.

The first order of business is starting a fire, no small task in this weather. While Dorothea hangs their spare cloaks and blankets to make a barrier from the rain, Sylvain gathers a few large branches and covers them with pine needles and smaller sticks. He leaves the pile to Dorothea and turns to relieve the horses of their burdens.

By the time Sylvain finishes tending the horses, a pot of water is boiling over the small fire. He grabs some rabbit jerky from the day before and hard bread from one of the packs before sitting across from Dorothea.

The sound of the driving rain all around them makes conversation difficult, which suits Sylvain fine. It seems unfathomable that just yesterday, he had considered her a friend. So, they eat in silence, each preoccupied with their thoughts.

Dorothea, perhaps able to sense Sylvain’s lingering dark mood, retreats to her sleeping roll as soon as she’s finished eating, leaving Sylvain with the first watch.

His fingers itch to pull the book from her bags, but he waits. He drinks one cup of pine needle tea, then another. Only when the darkness is deep around him, and Dorothea has been motionless for hours, does Sylvain rise. He’s thankful for the rain that covers the sound of his footsteps as he creeps past Dorothea to get to her saddle bags.

He’s seen her stow the book so often that his fingers find it easily even without good light. He pulls it from her bag and hurries back to the fire with his prize. Sylvain’s heart pounds as he unwraps the thick leather Dorothea uses to protect it. This is it. Tonight, he’ll finally know what Dorothea’s been keeping from him. He’ll finally know where to find Felix.

Up close, the book appears old and uncared for. There’s no title printed on the cover, and when he cracks it open, he sees the sloppy handwriting of a child. The letters slant around the page, and thick drops of ink show where the writer’s unpracticed hand hesitated. He flips through the journal. There are uneven tears where pages have been ripped out, and many of the words have smeared where moisture dripped onto the ink.

A child’s journal. What’s so important about a child’s journal that would make Dorothea treat it with some reverence?

Sylvain picks a random page and skims the slanted text.

They took Annabella today. I miss her. She always sings me to sleep at night, and her voice is the prettiest. It reminds me of the singers at the opera. Or the birds that visited my window back home. None of the others like to sing, so I guess I’ll have to try it myself. I’m not as good as Annabella. Hopefully, they’ll bring her back tomorrow.

Seeing nothing helpful, Sylvain skips ahead.

There are only five of us left now. The others were taken one by one. They never come back. Eric keeps asking where everybody else is. I lied and told him they were on a special mission for Adrestia. He’s a baby, so he believed me, but now the others are asking. I don’t know what I can say to the older ones. They saw the mages drag our siblings away.

Could those mages be the Agarthans? he wonders and flips through the journal faster. The word ‘crest’ catches his eye, and Sylvain pauses.

My hair is completely white. I didn’t think I could cry about things like this anymore, but here I am, crying about losing my blonde hair. How selfish to care about something so silly when everybody else is dead. I’m the only one left. Their greatest success, they call me. It’s a hollow honor. I never wanted two crests. I’d give them both up in a heartbeat to have my family back.

Two crests? Sylvain lowers the journal in confusion. How could it be possible for anybody to possess two crests? Is this what Dorothea meant when she said the Agarthans experimented on crests? Did they want to take Felix’s? Or give him another one?

Before he can further follow that train of thought, the journal is ripped from his hands.

“How dare you,” Dorothea hisses, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. “You had no right.”

Sylvain snaps his head up to see Dorothea standing over him, trembling in anger. Her fingers are white with how hard she’s clutching the journal to her chest, and he can hear her breaths coming fast and short.

For a moment, he’s frozen, stunned by her sudden appearance. Then, his brain registers her words, and he feels a familiar anger rising in his chest. He had read enough of the journal to confirm that it contained information about the Agarthans, information about what could be happening to Felix. Dorothea had known, and she’d kept it from him. Just like she’d kept everything else from him. This time, Sylvain doesn’t choke down his rage. This time, he lets it find its target.

“You say that I have no right,” Sylvain says, matching her quiet tone. He stands and walks close enough to tower over her. “Tell me, Dorothea, what gives you the right to decide?”

Dorothea takes a deep breath and looks toward the fire. “This book belonged to somebody special to me.” Her voice trembles, and her eyes glitter with unshed tears. “It’s mine now.”

Sylvain stares at her in awe. Even after the proof of her deception is clutched in her arms, she dares act like a victim wronged by his actions. Does she think her fake grief and tear-stained eyes will move him? She may be a convincing actress, but Sylvain is no fool.  

“And is that somebody special, an Adrestian?” he asks.

She freezes at his words, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

“Then I’m afraid I must disagree. That book belongs to the victorious army of Faerghus, which makes it my book. An Imperial traitor like you has no claim to it. Hand it over.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Dorothea says, glaring at him, all traces of tears evaporating from her eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you replaced your house sigil with that engagement ring you moon over. If this book is the property of Faerghus, you lost your claim the day you renounced your King and country.”

Her words bring back memories of another conversation with so-called friends. Of another betrayal that still stings to remember. He’s so tired of fancy words. They never work in the end.

“Give it to me,” he says, lunging for her.

Dorothea dodges his grab and retreats to the other side of the fire.

“My, my,” she says, voice gone high with feigned surprise. “If this is the behavior of a former noble, then chivalry is truly dead.”

Sylvain lunges again; this time, she stumbles as she jumps from his reach. It’s enough of an advantage that he catches her around the waist and pins her to the muddy ground. Instead of trying to throw him off, Dorothea twists, keeping the book from his searching arms.

“Sylvain!” she cries. “Stop this insanity. I know you’re angry about not finding Felix, but this book has nothing to do—”

“The hell it doesn’t,” Sylvain cuts her off. “You’re the one who told me that the Agarthans wanted Felix to experiment on his crest. That book is the journal of somebody who lived through that. You know that it’s relevant!”

Even in the fire's dim light, he sees Dorothea’s face go deathly pale. All the struggle flees her body, and she collapses into the mud. “You read it?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

Her reaction makes Sylvain pause. “Not all of it, but enough.”

Only years of battle-trained instincts save him from being burned by her fireball. He flings himself backward with a cry of enraged denial, landing hard on his tailbone. By the time the stars have cleared from his vision, Dorothea is already on her feet, hunched forward over the journal. He’s about to scream at her because what the hell was she thinking attacking him like that when her brittle laugh cuts through the night, high and hysterical.

“You’re a real piece of work, Sylvain,” she says when her laughter finally fades, and she walks over to stuff the journal back into her bag. Her sleep roll goes in next.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks when she fastens her saddlebags onto her mare’s back. “You can’t just walk away.”

Dorothea mounts without replying. It’s foolish to ride on these steep mountain trails on a clear, sunny day, never mind in the dark during a downpour, but Dorothea spurs her mare forward.

Sylvain turns back to the fire, refusing to watch her fade into the surrounding darkness. He doesn’t care where she’s going. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He’s better off alone, without her lies. Without any more false promises of friendship and support. Ultimately, he’d been stupid to trust her, just like he’d been stupid to trust any of the Blue Lions.

Felix’s ring is freezing when he presses it to his lips in promise.

The acrid scent of burning chemicals clings to Sylvain’s nostrils as he washes the Lance of Ruin clean in the freezing waters of the Great River. For being such despicable beings, the blood of the Agarthans looks just like any human’s. It washes away just as easily, too, blooming crimson in the water before disappearing into the swollen current.  

Sylvain kneels on the bank long after his lance gleams gold, lost in thought.

After Dorothea stormed away from camp, Sylvain spent most of the next day debating where to go. He considered returning to Hyrm territory, where von Vestra had guessed the Agarthan stronghold might be located but dismissed the idea. The heavy rains had begun in earnest, swelling the river. Attempting a crossing anywhere other than the Great Bridge would mean death, and Sylvain couldn’t risk being apprehended by whomever Dimitri had stationed at the bridge.

Besides, von Vestra had, at best, a guess. Dorothea’s map had an exact location.

He was sure that Dorothea would continue their original plan. Whatever drove her to seek the Agarthans only burned hotter after destroying the first stronghold. No fight with Sylvain would change that. She was headed to destroy more Agarthans. And since the memory of her fireball and manic laughter made Sylvain’s blood boil, he chose the more distant location.

Without Dorothea’s timid mare, Sylvain made good time. He stopped keeping watch at night and only stopped to eat when Beauty refused to take another step until he had. They returned to the Great River and followed it towards the eastern border. Without the thick forest and steep terrain of the mountains, reaching the stronghold took less than two weeks.

The Agarthans had obviously counted on the remote location to keep it hidden because the entrance was undisguised. Sylvain entered uncontested and, finding no signs of Felix or any other human prisoners, had destroyed everything and everyone inside.

So, Fódlan has fewer Agarthans, which is good for Fódlan. But leaves Sylvain with nothing.

No Felix. No new leads. No allies. No hope.

Sylvain pulls his lance from the river, wincing as motion pulls at the wound that stretches from his left shoulder to his lower back. He lays back on the riverbank with a groan. Ingrid would smack him upside the head if she saw him getting dirt in the wound, but the pain grounds him and cuts through the numbness padding his brain.

Going into the stronghold alone had been reckless. Not that he’d had a choice. One of the mages had surprised him from behind while another distracted him. Luckily, the mage didn’t have much combat experience, and he had escaped with only a burn from her lightning spell.

He can only imagine the scathing lecture about his lack of self-preservation Felix would give him if he knew. Mercedes wouldn’t lecture him, but her hands would be too rough as they cleaned and tended the wound.

The wind stings his chapped fingers and cheeks as he lays there, staring despondently at the sky, his back pulsing with pain. A few wispy clouds float overhead on a background of icy blue. The sun is already retreating toward the horizon. It will be dark soon. And cold. He should get up. Retrieve Beauty. Start a fire—Hunt for fresh food. 

So many things need doing, but Sylvain can’t even make himself stand.

As he stares up at the clouds, movement catches his eye. At first, he thinks it’s a bird, taking advantage of the first rainless day in weeks, but it’s much too big. It disappears behind a cloud. When it reappears, Sylvain recognizes the silhouette from countless missions and battles. His bird is a Pegasus. It’s Ingrid.

Tears sting his cheeks as Sylvain watches her circle overhead, remembering a nearly empty stable and her tear-stained eyes. “I’ll tell Dimitri to assign me to patrol where you’re going. Send a signal if you need anything, and I will come,” she had promised. A million things must need her attention: knights to organize, a new country to build, and her territory to revitalize. But despite months with no word from him, with no way of knowing if he was alive or dead, she’s here. For him.

A tightness that he’s been carrying in his chest for months finally unclenches as he watches the woman who’s been a sister to him his whole life circle the sky. He remembers Mercedes’s steady care, Dedue’s soup, Ashe’s carefully penned translations, and Anette’s insistence that she wasn’t too tired to read one more of von Vestra’s books. Sylvain’s eyes close, and he lets himself remember Dimitri, carefully retrieving his signet ring from the floor and putting it in a drawer, keeping it safe until Sylvain was ready to wear it again.

“Stupid,” Sylvain says to the sky. “I’ve been so stupid.”

If he threw up a fireball now, Ingrid would be beside him in minutes. The ruins of the stronghold behind him would be evidence of the Agarthans. Even if she didn’t believe they might have Felix, Sylvain knew he could convince her they were a threat to Fódlan. One that required the full attention of Dimitri’s knights.

Sylvain lifts his hand toward the sky, magic gathering under his skin. Under the fading winter sun, Felix’s ring glints, as cold and beautiful as the man he made it for. He lowers the ring to his lips and holds it there as he watches Ingrid fly from his view.

Organizing a strike against a hidden enemy requires careful research and months of planning. Months that Felix might not have. How can Sylvain return to decadent meals, soft bedding, and comfortably warmed rooms while these monsters still have Felix? He can’t. Not when he hasn’t found the location von Vestra calculated.

But he won’t go alone; he owes his family that much.

Sylvain’s back screams in pain as he drags himself to his feet. He sets up camp next to the entrance to the destroyed stronghold and waits.

Sylvain grunts as he twists, trying to see the wound on his back. For the last few days, he’s diligently unwrapped it every morning and evening before using as much faith magic as he could muster to speed the healing, which wasn’t much. Faith magic has never come easy to him. But his efforts are paying off; the wound, while still raised and angry, looks less raw.

He pulls a fresh wound wrapping from his supplies – another thing he needs to restock – and begins binding his wound. What Mercedes can do in the blink of an eye takes Sylvain nearly half an hour to do alone. He sighs as the wrap slips again.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

She’s earlier than Sylvian expected. He hasn’t even been here for a week.

“Is that an offer to help or just an observation?” he asks, facing her.

Dorothea stands just outside his makeshift shelter, with rain-damp hair sticking to her face. She looks like she did the day she surrendered to Dimitri. Her clothes and hair are unkempt, her face thin and drawn, and her expression simultaneously defeated and determined.

“What do you want it to be?” Dorothea asks after a long moment of studying him in return.

“I’d like your help.”

“With your wound?”

“Yes, that,” he says, shifting to make room for her under the shelter. “And with finding Felix. I didn’t find any leads here, but we still have von Vestra’s original guess.”

She stares at him long enough that Sylvain starts to worry that he’s read her wrong. That despite looking haggard, she prefers to work alone. But before he can do anything humiliating, like beg, she steps inside the tent and takes the bandage from his hands. Unlike Mercedes, Dorothea is rough and unpracticed. She pulls too tightly and restarts three times before his wound is wrapped. It still takes a quarter of the time it would have taken him.

“We have to cross the Great Bridge to get back into Hyrm territory,” she says, settling next to the banked fire. “And when we get there, we still don’t know where to find them.”

Sylvain hums in agreement and hands her a skewer of freshly cooked fish, which she tears into with a pleased groan.

“Do we have any other leads,” he asks as she eats.

“No, we don’t.”

They’re not friends, not with everything that happened between them still unaddressed. But they are allies. And although Dorothea has her secrets, her desire to hunt the Agarthans is as strong as the day they set out. They’ll head west along the river tomorrow, toward the Great Bridge. And Felix.

Chapter Text

The sound of the door opening for the first time in days startles Felix out of a fitful sleep. All traces of drowsiness vanish instantly, and he watches, tense, as the mages enter. The gold-masked mage stops just inside the threshold, surveying the prisoners inside, with four silver-masked lackies right behind. It’s not hard to figure out what they want.

The Adrestian woman, the cell’s only other permanent occupant, lies listless on the ground. Her weakness disgusts Felix, although the silence is preferable to her earlier whining.

They could choose her.

Or him.

Two options left. And the Agarthans had done their best to make both easy prey. Food was provided at random, sometimes with long periods separating each appearance. Opportunities for exercise were nonexistent. And obviously, they didn’t have weapons.

The Adrestian woman seems to accept her fate, rarely moving even when food does appear. But Felix will not die like an animal in a cage. He eats what he can and moves his limbs as much as possible. When his opportunity comes, and it will, he will not squander it.

Felix closes his eyes, picturing the facility's layout in his mind. He hasn’t seen it himself, but Alina armed him. Every turn she took, he knows. She told him how they activated each door, the location of the master control room, and how to destroy this compound. The price of all this information had been her life.

And if Felix, too, is to die in this hole under the world, he will make sure that the price the Agarthans pay is higher still. Even if he never sees Sylvain again, or any of the Blue Lions, he’ll make the world safer for all of them. A true Fraldarius knight in the end. His father would be proud.

Having reached some silent decision, the mages move deeper into the room, their steps synchronized like soldiers. Felix is experienced at killing soldiers. A moment is all he needs. Just one.

He lowers his head, barring his teeth in challenge, and wills them to pick him. It must be now, a part of him admits as tension coils through his limbs. His major crest is strong, but even a crest bearer needs food and water eventually. If they don’t pick him now, if he spends another month rotting in chains, he might not have the strength when they finally do.

The mages step past him towards the Adrestian woman.

“Cowards,” Felix snarls, voice rusty with disuse. “Why don’t you pick on somebody who isn’t already half dead?”

His words go unacknowledged as the mages unchain the woman from the wall. She hangs limp between them and doesn’t protest as they drag her away.

The door slides shut behind them, leaving Felix alone.

He’s alone for a long time after that. Weeks, at least. Maybe even a month. Time is hard to track in this cell, with its constant green glow. But Felix is sure of one thing. The next time the Agarthans come back, they’re coming for him.

In the days before they arrive, neither food nor water is sent. It doesn’t bother Felix. Let them think he is broken. They’d learn soon enough.

When the doors finally slide open, revealing the mages in their typical formation, Felix stays prone on the ground. He smiles into the filthy floor as they come closer, feeling the heat of his magic as it circles beneath his skin. Swordsmanship may be the hallmark of the Fraldarius family, but he’s hardly defenseless without it.

A soft chink signals the release of his chains.

They’re expecting him to jump up, so he doesn’t. Felix twists to the side and uses the force of his legs against the wall to shove himself across the floor and out of their hands. One of the mages falls when he contacts their shins, and he sends a concentrated blast of fire right into that mocking mask. Felix keeps his momentum, rolling twice before landing on his knees. He takes out another two with a powerful Thoron.

The familiar sensation of his crest activating sings through his blood as Felix flings himself to his feet and sprints toward the door. Reason magic from one of the remaining mages singes his arm as he throws himself from the room and slams his fist into the control panel, shutting the door on his assailants.

His blood pounds in his ears, and his muscles scream in protest, but his heart soars as the door clicks closed. There’s no time to celebrate. He must keep moving. Closing his eyes, he pictures the floor plan. To reach the control room, he needs to go left.

A blast of magic hits him in the ribs and sends him careening into the wall. The impact staggers him, and before he can regain his senses, somebody tackles him to the ground. A scream of denial rips from his throat as he activates his crest again, trying to throw them off, but three mages are on top of him now.

“A major crest and a fighting spirit,” an inflectionless voice says above him. “This one will be a much better candidate than the others. Sedate him.”

Felix kicks and twists and bites, but the mages manage to wrestle his face into the floor. He feels a prick in the side of his neck, and his vision starts to narrow. Strength slips from his limbs until he can’t move anything at all.

He had one chance. One chance to free himself and get revenge. One chance to see Sylvain again, and he failed. Despair pulls him into unconsciousness as quickly as the drugs.

The guard towers of the Great Bridge of Myrddin loom tall and imposing on the horizon. Serving as the major trade route connecting the north and south, the roads are wide and well-maintained. People, horses, and carts pack the road as they approach the checkpoint guarding the bridge. Nobody looks twice at two dust-covered travelers among the throngs of others.  

Sylvain and Dorothea dismount their horses and join the line of people getting their papers and goods inspected by the bridge guards. Sylvain unbuttons then rebuttons his jacket before smoothing the fabric down self-consciously. He has his papers, but he’s nervous about handing them over. Two scenarios weigh heavily on his mind.

Either the guards will immediately detain him to be escorted back to Fhirdiad on Dimitri’s orders, or they’ll arrest him for being a fraud. The second seems more likely. He’s never felt less like the heir to House Gautier than he does today. His clothes are worn and filthy with mud. Even the finest fabrics can’t withstand months on the open road. At least the constant rain kept them from smelling too ripe.

Some heir to a noble house he is, with barely the coin to pay the bridge toll. Hopefully, they can pass on credit. His father wouldn’t be pleased to receive a bill for his wayward son, but he’d pay it to avoid any rumors of poverty.

Dorothea seems equally uncomfortable as they approach the front of the line and, finally, the guard on duty.

“Good afternoon, soldier,” Sylvain says with a wide grin as he hands over their papers. If they’re lucky, the guard might wave them through without reading too closely.

“What brings you to the Great Bridge, travelers?” the guard asks, looking at Dorothea’s papers. He wears the livery of House Bladdiyd but speaks with a Gloucester accent. Sylvain isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.  

“Business in Hyrm territory.”

“And what business would that be?” the guard asks, flipping to Sylvain’s papers. His head pops up when he reads the name, eyes wide as they meet Sylvain’s.

“Lord Gautier,” he says, feet snapping together as he gives a shallow bow. “I sincerely apologize that you had to wait in line. His Majesty said you would be coming, but we didn’t know when to expect you. Please forgive any delays we caused you, my Lord.” Then he steps aside and motions them across.

Sylvain stands unmoving. His Majesty sent word? Had Dimitri gone out of his way to ensure Sylvain could travel freely? He hadn’t thought Dimitri approved. A discrete elbow from Dorothea unfreezes Sylvain.

“Nothing to forgive,” he says, waving away the soldier’s apology. “Keep up the good work.”

Without further delays, they’re across the Great Bridge and back into former Adrestian territory. At the fork, they choose the leftmost road that will lead them toward where von Vestra calculated the Agarthan stronghold to be.

Sylvain feels lighter with the crossing behind them. “That went better than expected,” he says to Dorothea, who makes a small sound of acknowledgment.

Sylvain sighs. She’s been doing that for weeks, acknowledging him without contributing to the conversation. At first, Sylvain had dismissed it as tiredness, but as the days and weeks passed, he had to admit that he was being snubbed. It would have been easiest to ignore her attitude. They’re still traveling together; after all, both are still invested in their destination, if not each other.

But not talking had gotten them into this mess, and Sylvain’s never mastered the art of silence. He likes to poke and prod until the other person is annoyed enough to enter the conversation. Once they’re talking, Sylvain can usually weasel his way out of whatever he’s done. Or at least get yelled at or whatever the other person needs to get closure.

Sylvain turns Beauty towards the side of the road, cutting Dorothea’s mare off, so she’s forced to do the same. Dorothea arches an eyebrow at him.

“Are we really going to ignore each other all the way to Hyrm?” Sylvain asks.

Dorothea studies him as she tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear. “That depends,” she says, not pretending like she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Are you going to apologize for going through my things like a thief?”

Of course, this is about the journal. Since they started traveling together again, Dorothea has used her saddle bag as a pillow, and Sylvain hasn’t seen her reading the book. Obviously, she doesn’t trust him not to try to take it again.

Sylvain could lie, pretend he was very sorry, and swear he regrets it. But he’s so sick of all the lies between them. So sick of looking at the person who should have his back and mistrusting her intentions. His fingers find the ring and twirl it. Brutal honestly usually isn’t his play, but perhaps he’ll take a page from Felix’s book.

“I’m not sorry I took it.”  

Dorothea’s mouth forms a thin line, her expression matching the darkening clouds. “You’re not sorry. That’s just great, Sylvain.” She pulls at her horse’s reins, guiding her back onto the road, but stops when Sylvain blocks her. She glares at him, but he’s long developed an immunity.

“No, I’m not. And you wouldn’t be either, in my place.” He threads his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “You see, there is no future for me without Felix. I knew that even when we were kids. I fought for six years not for some noble cause or patriotism but for my happily ever after.” Sylvain looks away from Dorothea, brushing rain from his cheeks. “And just when I thought I could finally have everything I’d ever wanted, it was taken from me.”

He can feel Dorothea’s gaze on the side of his face, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“Then you came along and dangled that future in front of me again.” Sylvain curls his fingers through Beauty’s mane, gently undoing tangles caused by the humid rain. “There is nothing more important to me than getting Felix back. There’s nowhere I wouldn’t go. Nothing I wouldn’t do.” He turns to meet her gaze. “And I think you understand that.”

Dorothea’s expression is hard to read as she studies him. “I do understand you. Probably more than most,” she says after a moment, “But let me present a different scenario.”

Sylvain lifts an eyebrow at the redirection and gestures for her to continue.

“What if that journal was Felix’s?”

His first impulse is to laugh. It’s an absurd thought. Felix would never keep a journal. He hates any activity that involves sitting with a pen in hand for longer than absolutely necessary, doubly so if it also requires confiding his feelings. In fact, Felix is so averse to writing that Sylvain usually pens important letters for him, adding diplomacy to Felix’s blunt messages.

“Felix would never keep a journal,” he says, smiling at the thought.

The corners of her mouth lift as she reaches the same conclusion. “You’re probably right,” she concedes. Her expression becomes serious again. “But let’s assume he did. That while those vile Agarthans did unspeakable things to him, he wrote everything down. Every experiment, every thought, every secret.” Her dark eyes bore into Sylvain’s. “If you had that journal, had the record of his suffering, would you let me read it?”

Sylvain flinches from her words. He doesn’t want to imagine what Felix might be going through as he sits astride his horse on the side of the road. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that while he’s bothered by damp clothes and chaffed skin, Felix could be dy—No, he can’t think like that. Felix is strong. He’ll be alright. He has to be.

He shakes his head. “Never.”

“And if I took it? If I read the worst moments of Felix’s life, what would you do then?”

At the thought, goosebumps form on Sylvain’s arms, his body going cold despite his layers. Even the thought of somebody else taking something so personal to Felix makes Sylvain feel sick with anger. He speaks without considering his words.

“I’d kill you.”

The wind rustles the trees around them, heralding another bout of rain. Travelers and carts pass them on the road, their words sounding far away as Dorothea and Sylvain stare at each other.

He should take it back, laugh it off like an off-color joke. After all, their conversation was supposed to make them better partners, not make Dorothea turn her horse around and get as far away from him as possible. In the end, he doesn’t bother. Dorothea would never fall for that.

She nods as if his response is reasonable and says, “I considered it.”

“And what stopped you?” Sylvain asks, surprisingly calm.

Dorothea’s eyes blaze. “I want them dead more.”

Sylvain can’t help himself; he laughs. What a pair they make. “I’ll tell you what,” he says, “Promise me that bringing Felix safely home will be our first priority, and I’ll make sure Dimitri gives you a whole battalion of knights to kill Agarthans.”

Dorothea turns in the saddle to face him completely, her eyes narrowed with interest. “And why would he do that?”

“Because we have the evidence to prove that they exist and are a threat to Fódlan,” he says. They’d found weapons and experiments that made Sylvain’s stomach churn. Even with a newly united country to govern and a war to recover from, Dimitri couldn’t afford to ignore a threat like the Agarthans.

He can see in her eyes that Dorothea wants to believe him. What they’re doing is dangerous. And slow. A whole battalion of knights would be much more effective, and Dorothea was trained to lead troops. At the same time, it’s clear that she’s doubtful. Her reception after deserting the Imperial Army was hardly warm.

Seeing she still needs convincing, Sylvain adds, “Knowing that he did nothing to help rescue Felix will devastate Dimitri. He’ll feel horribly guilty. If I ask for knights, I’ll get them.”

The little display with the guard must prove his point because Dorothea glances back at the bridge and then nods. “It’s a deal,” she says. “First, we’ll put all our resources into finding your man and getting him home safe. Then you’ll get me an army to destroy the Agarthans.”

Felix home safe. Now, that’s a thought. Sylvain aches with how much he wants. He wants lazy mornings cuddled together under sleep-warmed blankets. And shared meals arguing over everyday stuff like crop rotations and Felix’s inability to put anything away. He wants to wrap Felix up in his arms and feel him melt into Sylvain. He wants sex, shared cups of tea, early-morning sparring matches, everything. He wants his best friend.  

Sylvain brings his hand up to his mouth and kisses his ring before bringing his teeth to his palm to draw blood. He extends his hand towards Dorothea. “I, Sylvain Gautier, swear on the blood of my house that after we rescue Felix, the resources of my house and my allies’ houses will be yours to hunt the Agarthans.”

Dorothea rolls her eyes but refrains from commenting on the barbaric rituals of Faerghus. They may look uncivilized, but the people of the Holy Kingdom always honor blood oaths. Which, in Sylvain’s opinion, is much better than the empty bluster of the other regions.

Biting her palm hard enough to draw blood, Dorothea clasps their hands together. “And I, Dorothea Arnolt, swear on my house that my priority is finding and rescuing Felix.”

Sylvain breathes out a sigh, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. Nothing has changed. They still don’t have a destination or proof that Felix will be there. At the same time, everything feels different. For the first time since leaving Enbarr nearly four months ago, Sylvain trusts that they’re allies.

Wordlessly, they turn their horses back onto the muddy road. As the rain picks up around them, Sylvain thinks again of the journal. He has an idea who it belongs to, but the threads weaving them together are too fragile to pull, so he keeps his question to himself. Let Dorothea keep her secrets. He has her vow.

Describing Dorothea and Sylvain as lost would be a gross over-exaggeration. Lost implies a destination more concrete than if Hubert von Vestra had to guess where the Agarthans might be camped out, he’d probably look here-ish. Which, for the record, is all they have to go off of.

They’re cutting circles through the trees, looking for—well, they’re not sure what they’re looking for, exactly, but they certainly haven’t found it during the days they’ve been looking. Sylvain is miserable, wet, and frustrated. Nothing they own is dry anymore—he doesn’t even remember what dry feels like.

And he’s not giving up—he’d rather carve out his own heart—but the days of finding nothing are wearing on him. Dorothea is equally frustrated, and their conversations are terse. Most days, they don’t talk at all. There’s little to discuss when the same failure marks every day.

Sylvain passes by a tree with a deep gouge in the side, stopping to stare at it. Most trees look the same, but he swears they’ve passed this particular tree at least three times in the past week. He runs his fingers along the groove, wondering absently if they should start marking every tree they’ve already passed. It’s an insane thought, but wandering aimlessly hasn’t really gotten them anywhere.

A soft song reaches his ears, barely audible over the rain, and he turns toward Dorothea in question. She hasn’t sung since that night in Enbarr, and he can’t figure out why she would start now. But when his gaze finds her, he realizes that she isn’t the one singing. She’s staring intently through the trees, eyes squinted.

Dorothea slips between two trees, forcing Sylvain to jog after her. They stop at the edge of a small clearing, unremarkable other than the woman kneeling between two shrubs. A basket full of mushrooms and edible flowers sits on the ground next to her as she forages around the roots of a large tree. Her clothes are plain, and her face is common. The only interesting thing about her is her snow-white hair.

“Good morning,” Dorothea says, stepping into the clearing. The woman startles and looks up at them with wide eyes. “My friend and I are looking for something, and I think you can help—”

Before Dorothea has finished her question, the woman springs to her feet and bolts from the clearing, leaving her basket abandoned on the ground. With a curse, Dorothea chases after her, and Sylvain, not wanting to be left behind, follows. It quickly becomes apparent that they won’t be able to catch the woman; she’s fast and familiar with the woods, so they slow down and follow the signs of her flight.

“Why are we chasing her?” Sylvain asks between ragged breaths. He’s never enjoyed running, preferring to ride in battle.

“Her hair,” Dorothea says, sounding equally breathless.

Sylvain grabs her arm and pulls her to a stop. “What about her hair is so important?”

“It’s white!” Dorothea says as if he’s supposed to take some special meaning from the color. When all she gets from him is a blank look, she narrows her eyes. “I thought you read the journal.”

“Only a bit,” Sylvain confesses. “You pulled it away before I could do more than skim a few sections.”

Dorothea uses his grip on her arm to get them moving again. “White hair is a sign of successful crest experimentation. If the Agarthans had her, she might know where their stronghold is.”

Sylvain’s breath catches as he takes in what she means. He was right, after all; the journal helped them find a new lead on the Agarthans. With effort, he swallows down his retort. Dorothea provided the information when it was relevant, and he can choose to be satisfied with that. “Let’s catch up to her, then,” he says, turning his attention to tracking the woman.

They follow the woman’s path to a small village on the forest's edge. The houses show signs of disrepair; the straw roofs are thin, and the wooden boards are cracked and rotting. People, mostly children and the elderly, wander between the houses. The war had taken a hard toll on the poorer villages of Adrestia.

Sylvain mentions as much to Dorothea, who hums thoughtfully. “I don’t think they’ll be sympathetic to a Northern Lord asking questions about one of their own,” she says.

“Going off the lack of young men and women, I doubt they’ll be receptive to a former Imperial general either,” Sylvain says, surveying the village. There are no defenses, and nobody carries a weapon of any kind. They wouldn’t encounter much resistance if they tried to get the information by force, but he’d rather not resort to that.

“Let’s try a different tactic,” Dorothea says, threading her fingers through his and pulling him towards the village. Sylvain lets her, curious to see what her idea is.

An elderly woman comes to meet them, a broom clasped in her hands. Deep lines carve across her tanned face as she frowns at them. “And what brings two travelers to our little village?” Her voice is rough and unwelcoming.

Dorothea presses herself against Sylvain’s side. “We’re looking for shelter,” she says, ignoring the old woman’s glare. “And information.”

“You’ll find neither here,” the old woman says. “Best be on your way now.” She shakes the broom at them for good measure.

“I’m afraid we can’t give up that easily,” Dorothea says. “My husband and I saw a young woman in the woods with white hair, and we think she was taken by the people we’re looking for. We want to know where to find them.”

The woman studies them with an unreadable expression. “What would you do with these people if you find them?”

Dorothea hesitates, unsure which answer might give them the information they want. Sylvain studies the old woman and notes how her knuckles are white around the handle. Trusting his instincts, he says, “We’d murder them, of course.” He feels Dorothea’s hand tighten against his in warning, but the old woman cracks a smile.

“Then perhaps we do have something to discuss,” she says and gestures them towards one of the shabby houses. “Take off your boots before coming inside.”

They sit at a small table, pressed shoulder to shoulder, as the old woman bustles about the kitchen. She pours them both steaming cups of tea and watches them take their first sips. It’s worse than the pine needle tea, but they both thank her heartily. Appeased, she joins them with her cup.

“So,” she says, after she’s taken a sip, “You want to murder the Faerghus mages.”

Sylvain inhales his next sip, coughing. Dorothea elbows him discreetly in the ribs before his mouth can get ahead of his senses. Obviously, they’ll get no allies here defending the Holy Kingdom. The old woman looks at them intently, so Sylvain chokes out a “Yes, ma’am” between wheezing breaths.

Taking pity on him, Dorothea takes over. She rubs a hand across his back. “They did unspeakable things to one of our friends. We want to make sure that they can’t do anything like that to anybody else.”

“I’m glad,” the old woman says, setting her now empty cup down. “Most people in the village are either too old or too young to do anything about the invading army. But I’m glad there are people like you to continue the cause. The traditions of Adrestia are far older than these Holy Kingdom upstarts.” She spits on the floor. “I’d be a real pity if they won.”

Sylvain smiles awkwardly. He certainly won’t be the one to tell her that Fódlan is already unified and that, technically, Dimitri is now her king. “Right,” he says, mussing his hair, “Now that we’ve established that we’re here to hunt the mages, can we talk to the white-haired young woman? We’d like to know where she was taken.”

“No need for that,” the woman waves them off as she gets up to refill their cups. “We know where they are. A couple of the people still young enough to fight were going to check it out, but we hadn’t managed to gather any weapons. We’ll be glad to leave them to a capable young couple like yourselves.”

Sylvain exchanges a wide-eyed glance with Dorothea. He can feel his pulse in his fingertips as he taps them on the table. Could this finally be the break they desperately need? Are they finally going to have a map to Felix?

The old woman returns with a steaming pot of tea. “Here,” she says, refilling their cups, “Finish your tea, and I’ll get the map from that old coot next door.” The bitter scent of the steam makes Sylvain’s eyes water, and as soon as the woman ambles out of the door, he pours it out.

“Can we trust anything the crazy lady gives us?” he asks Dorothea under his breath.

A hint of a smile stretches across Dorothea’s face. “I’ve seen crazier.” She takes a sip of the tea, grimaces, and follows Sylvain’s lead in pouring it out. “Besides,” she says, sitting back down to wait, “it’s not like we have anything else to go off of.”

Anything Sylvain could say in response to that is quickly swallowed when the curtain serving as a door, is pushed aside. “Here it is,” the old woman announces, placing a map on the table before them. “This is where my granddaughter was gathering turnips when she was taken.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sylvain says, studying the map with his heart in his throat. They’re close, only a few days away if they move quickly. He rolls it up and tucks it into his cloak before standing and helping Dorothea to her feet. “This will be very helpful.”

The old woman gives a humph in response and shoos them out the door. “Better get moving,” she calls after them. “We don’t want those barbarians from the North winning this war.”

Sylvain has enough sense to wait until they’re out of sight of the village to laugh.

Buoyed by the prospect of finally finding the Agarthans, it only takes them two days to reach the spot the old woman marked on the map. They find a clearing full of turnip sprouts and mushrooms, which must be where the young woman was gathering, and work outward in larger and larger circles. It doesn’t take long for them to realize that they’re close.

At first, the sensation feels like restlessness, which Sylvain attributes to being close enough to taste success without actually having success, but he realizes it’s not coming from him. A miasma seems to seep from the ground, and Dorothea, more proficient in reason magic, identifies it as the byproduct of having too much magic gathering quickly in one area.

Soon, they can see it in the surrounding trees. Their leaves stink with rot from where they lie piled around the trunks, and their branches seem to grab Sylvain’s clothing whenever he takes his eyes off them. Even Beauty, who had been trained to ignore magic flying across a battlefield, becomes nervous and reluctant to move forward. It’d be enough to put off anybody who wasn’t serious about going further, but to Sylvain and Dorothea, it’s a relief.

Eventually, they can’t convince the horses to go any further. Sylvain presses his forehead to Beauty’s and strokes her velvet coat. “Be good and wait for me here,” he tells her as he slips her a handful of berries from his pocket and ties her to a nearby tree. “Don’t be mean to Felix when we come back.”

Beauty tosses her head with a snort.

Sylvain shoulders his pack and tightens his grip around his lance. He uses it to gesture Dorothea forward, “Age before beauty.”

Her answering smile has teeth. “As my valiant knight requests.”

They walk deeper into the ever-thickening forest, the magic so saturated in the air now that Sylvain can taste it on his tongue, metallic and rotting. It’s twisted and dark, nothing like the reason magic Sylvain has mastered. They let the scent of it guide them forward. If the air grows cleaner, they turn around. If the residue grows heavier, they press on.

When the light grows too dim to see, and their walking becomes more stumbling over branches than actual progress, they stop for the night. This close to their enemies, starting a fire is risky, so they eat cold rations and curl up in their bedrolls. It’s pitch black around them, the dense canopy of trees stuffing out any light from the stars or the moon.

The air around them smells sweet with rot, making Sylvain wish for rain. Anything to clear his nostril of the stench. They’re so close to what could be the end of this horrible journey. So close to finding Felix. Thoughts of what he might find when he gets there turn his stomach. He feels faintly nauseous. Sighing darkly into the night, he flops onto his side; there's no chance he’ll be sleeping.

From his left, he hears Dorothea shift restlessly. “You should be prepared,” her voice is soft when she speaks.

Sylvain lays still, waiting for her to go on, but there’s only the subtle buzzing of magic in the air. “For what?” he prompts her.

“For the person you find in there to not be the Felix you remember.”

Sylvain sucks in a breath, feeling light-headed. He’s been avoiding thinking anything of the sort for months, and Dorothea wants to bring it up right before they infiltrate the stronghold. He’s not innocent or naive. He knows what torture can do to a person and what somebody might become to make it stop. Picturing Felix in the hands of the Agarthans makes bile rise in his throat, but there’s one thing Sylvain knows down to his bones, knows as well as the inky color of Felix’s hair or the way his hand feels wrapped in Sylvain’s.

“It wouldn’t change how I feel about him.”

“Not at first,” Dorothea agrees, and Sylvain twists to face her. He can’t see her silhouette through the darkness, but he can picture the carefully blank look she gets whenever they edge too close to why she deserted. “At first, you’ll convince yourself that he’s still your Felix. Still the person you love. You’ll make excuses for every unusual behavior and tell yourself that the warmth will return to his eyes. You’ll do everything you can to help him heal.”

Dorothea’s voice catches in her throat. Even though it’s too dark to see, Sylvain turns away, giving her a semblance of privacy. When she continues, her voice is thick with tears. “But these people. These Agarthans. They’re monsters. And monsters don’t leave anything behind. They crush a person's soul and leave something else behind in the shell.”

Sylvain stares into the darkness of the forest. He’s desperate for her to stop talking. He’s terrified that she will.

“And one day, you’ll realize that they’re gone. That the person you loved is gone, and the only thing left in that shell of a body is a monster that looks at you with her eyes. And then you’ll know that the only thing you have left to give the person who means more to you than yourself—is peace. And then the last act of love you can perform is to set their body free.”

Silence settles after her words, and Sylvain blinks rapidly, his throat tight. Even though his memories of the final battle for Enbarr are hazy, drowned out by an overwhelming desperation to find Felix, he remembers what they removed from the throne room. Remembers elongated limbs swathed in red fabric. He can’t, won’t, imagine it with black hair and Fraldarius teal. Still—

“I couldn’t do it,” he admits to the night.

A sound halfway between a hiccup and a sob comes from Dorothea. “Me neither.”

Dorothea and Sylvain lay side by side in the dirt under the branches of a fallen tree. This compound is much larger than the others they’ve found, with multiple entrances and rotating sentries. They watch the relieved guards return inside as the two new mages take their places to either side of the door. From their limited observations, they have a few hours before anybody will come looking for this pair.

“Are you ready?” Sylvain whispers to Dorothea.

She answers by slipping from their hiding place. They stick to the densest clusters of trees, darting between shadows until they can’t come any closer without alerting the guards. Sylvain slides his lance from the holster on his back and twists the shaft in his grip. A glance back at Dorothea confirms that she’s in position. At his nod, she casts.

The silencing spell hits both mages simultaneously, and Sylvain uses their moment of confusion to dart forward and spear the first one through the heart. He barely notices the mage dissolving into black smoke as he turns toward the second, who is scrambling to pull a weapon from his boots. Sylvain knocks the knife to the ground with his first stipe and lobs off the mage’s head with his second.

Dorothea steps out from the woods as he wipes the blood from the blade and picks one of the robes from the ground. “I thought we were going to keep these intact,” she says, pushing her hand through the fabric with an arched eyebrow. “The giant hole and bloodstains are rather conspicuous.”

“As if they’d look any better after one of your fireballs,” Sylvain grouses as he grabs the other and pulls it over his head. It smells like stale body odor and reason magic. He grimaces. If it weren’t likely to get them through the stronghold easily, he’d rip it off and burn it. Instead, he breathes through his mouth and thinks of Felix as he places the accompanying mask over his face.

He tries to ignore the sounds of his breaths echoing wetly against the metal as he turns to Dorothea. Even knowing the plan, seeing the mask covering Dorothea’s face is jarring. On the polished silver surface, he sees himself as the spitting image of an Agarthan mage. He turns away, unsettled. 

“Ready?” Dorothea asks, her voice muffled behind the metal.

Sylvain fists his hands and squeezes tight enough to feel the ring through his gloves. His heart pounds in anticipation. After months of travel and heartbreak and loneliness, every cell in his body longs to burst into the stronghold and tear it down to find Felix even a second sooner. But his unspoken promise to Ingrid was sincere. He’ll do this as safely as he can.

“Let’s go get Felix.” He activates the hidden mechanism next to the entrance. The door opens, revealing a staircase lit with eerie green lights. As they descend deeper underground, the temperature drops rapidly, and Sylvain watches each breath fog the air. In front of him, he sees Dorothea cross her arms, shivering.

As the staircase finally ends, Dorothea holds her hand up, stopping him. Soft voices come from the hallway before them, and Sylvain risks a glance around the corner. Three more mages guard another door, presumably leading deeper into the compound. They’re gathered around a makeshift table, playing a gambling game. Sloppy.

The mages don’t react as they walk nearer other than to hide the game pieces and stand up straighter. “You guys get relieved alre—” Dorothea’s blade drives between his ribs, cutting off his question. Shocked, the other two don’t even try to attack, and the fight is over almost as soon as it begins.  

One of the mages has a sword, and Sylvain pauses to pick it up. It’s not a particularly nice weapon, but Felix was a master with any blade, not just his beloved Zoltan. He removes the holster and attaches it to his waist.

“Should we take the clothes?” Dorothea asks.

Sylvain looks around. Besides the door the mages had been guarding, there are only smooth walls in either direction. He shakes his head. “It’s only a matter of time before they realize the guards outside are missing. After that, it won’t matter what they find here.”

They shove the robes and masks into the stairwell, finding a key in the process. It unlocks the door, and they proceed deeper into the stronghold.

Immediately, Sylvain notices that this place feels different than the others they’ve found. It’s certainly larger and heavily guarded. But it’s more than that. While the other locations held a few rooms for living and a few for experiments, this stronghold seems to twist on forever. The ghostly green lighting is the same, as are the door mechanisms, but this place buzzes with activity.

They pass other mages in masks, mostly silver but some gold; their disguises work well enough that nobody looks at them twice. Every time they come within an arm’s length of a group of mages, Sylvain fights the urge to uncover his lance, pin them to the ground, and demand they take him to Felix.

An hour passes, then two. They move slower than Sylvain can bear, opening each door they pass with the stolen key. The contents of the rooms are diverse: a chamber filled with large pools of liquid, a kitchen, rows of beds like a barracks room, shelves filled with samples, an empty prison cell with chains hanging from the walls, a machine covered in unidentifiable buttons, more tanks, more samples. No Felix.

Sylvain’s jaw clenches harder with each door they open. This is the place. He can feel it in his bones. His Felix is here, and Sylvain can’t find him. It’s been too many weeks of travel and grief full of cold, lonely nights and desperate longing. Too long since Sylvain has held his most precious person.

A sharp inhale from Dorothea draws his attention. She’s staring into the next room, her body frozen. Sylvain can’t see her expression through the mask, but he knows. He knows.

He’s through the door before he decides to move, limbs frantic and clumsy. At first glance, the room might be mistaken for an infirmary. Along the right side of the room are four cots, each separated from its neighbor by heavy curtains, and rolls of bandages and other supplies cover the surface of the nearby cabinets. It smells heavily of antiseptic that only just masks the underlying scent of blood. If not for the garish green lights, it could have been the army’s medical tent.

But a glance to the right dispels the illusion. Devices that Sylvain has no name for—but look more suited for torture than any medical procedure—hang from racks full of sample jars. Some of the jars are empty, but others contain things no human could survive without. In the center of the room is a metal table, large enough for five grown men to lay side-by-side on, with chains attached to each corner.

A gold-masked mage stands at one end of the table, watching two silver-masked mages wrestling an uncooperative man into the chains. The man’s black hair is matted, and longer than Sylvain has ever seen him wear it. His feet are bare, his clothes little more than rags, but Sylvain would recognize him anywhere.

“Who are you?” the gold-masked mage demands. “This is my laboratory and my test subject. Leave before I have you reported for disciplinary action.”

Test subject? The words echo through Sylvain’s brain, getting louder and louder until all he can see is red. This disgusting Agarthan wretch dares call Felix his test subject? Any rationality Sylvain has left after seeing Felix in chains is drowned out by the ringing in his ears. After months of pushing down his rage and promising himself later, there’ll be time for that later, he’s finally face to face with the maggot responsible for their suffering.

Sylvain doesn’t think. He doesn’t plan. He doesn’t consider. Between one breath and the next, he’s across the room and tackling the Agarthan to the ground. His relentless fists rain down blow after blow until the man’s body hangs limply from his hands. Even then, he can’t stop. With a scream of anger, he grabs the man’s head and smashes into the edge of the metal table again and again and again and again until the gold metal deforms and then cracks. Then he does it again. And again.

He’d probably have done it forever—this mage deserves to suffer for eternity—if the body in his hands hadn’t dissolved from between his fingers, leaving a mutilated mask and bloody robes. Dorothea’s knife gleams red as she withdraws it, eyes wide behind her silver mask.

“Sylvain, focus,” she says, blade held between them. “We need to get Felix out of here.”

At that name, Sylvain pushes past Dorothea and stumbles towards Felix, who is slumped on the floor between what remains of the other two mages. Sylvain falls to his knees before him and reaches out, desperate to have Felix in his arms after so long. But before he can grab him, Felix pulls the blade from his hip and presses the tip to his neck.

“Who are you?” Felix asks, applying enough pressure to draw blood. “And what do you want with me?” His voice cracks, and he’s listing sideways, but the blade is steady in his hand.

Sylvain drinks him in. Bruises in every stage of healing cover every visible inch of his body, and he looks like he hasn’t slept or eaten in weeks. Obviously, he’s been through hell, and Sylvain’s heart aches for him, but he’s alive. He’s fucking alive.

“Fe, it’s me, sweetheart. It’s Sylvain,” he says, tearing the silver mask from his face. “I’ve come to take you home.”

The blade lowers from his neck as Felix stares at him, eyes wide. “How—" He shakes his head as if clearing it and raises the sword again. The blade shakes in his hand. “Do you think I’m a fool? I know you people can wear any face you want. If you think wearing that one will make me compliant, I’ll show you how wrong you are.”

Before he can respond, Dorothea crouches down behind Felix and draws her blade against his throat. The blood freezes in Sylvain’s veins. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing. Get that blade away from him.”

“Relax, Sylvain. I’m not going to hurt him.” Dorothea says, looking him in the eye. “I’m just making sure Felix doesn’t do anything he’ll regret before you convince him that you’re who you say you are.”

Sylvain forces himself to take a deep breath and take his eyes off Dorothea, who’s still holding a blade to Felix’s neck, to turn his attention to Felix. The anger has faded, replaced with an uncertainty that Sylvain desperately wants to soothe. There are a million stories he could offer, hundreds of small moments shared between them, but he needs something that will make Felix –and Dorothea—put down the blade.

“Take my glove off,” he says as he slowly extends his left hand towards Felix.  

Felix narrows his eyes, but the longing is still there. “Why?”

“Because when I tried to propose to you before the battle for Enbarr, you told me to ask you after.” Sylvain cups Felix’s cheek in his palm, his thumb wiping away the tears gathering there. “I’ve been carrying it around ever since. Waiting for another opportunity to ask you.”  

“Sylvain?” The sword at his neck sags and then clatters to the ground.

“I’m here, Fe,” he says, gathering Felix into his arms. Breathing feels easy for the first time in months. Felix is alive. He’s here. He’s safe and alive and in Sylvain’s arms. The blood rushes to Sylvain’s head with the sheer relief of knowing, and he’s thankful that he’s already on the ground. “Felix.” He presses the name into his hair, against his cheek, to his temple. “I love you. I can’t believe I finally fucking found you. I love you. I love you.”

Sylvain feels the rapid rise and fall of Felix’s breaths as he clings to Sylvain. His skin is cold, and he’s too fucking skinny. Serios, he needs to get Felix out of here. He’s going to feed him, bathe him, and keep him in their bed until he looks less like he’s seconds away from passing out on the floor.

“How—” Sylvain reluctantly lets Felix pull back. He clings to the front of Sylvain’s robes, looking as dazed as Sylvain feels. “Sylvain, how did you find me?”

“I never stopped looking,” he says, releasing Felix’s fists to wind their fingers together. “Not for one single second. I knew you wouldn’t break our promise—”

“As much as I hate to break up this reunion, and I really do, we need to leave right now,” Dorothea says, reminding Sylvain that they’re kneeling in the middle of an Agarthan lab. More mages could come in at any moment, and as much as he’s confident they could defeat any threat, he’s not willing to risk Felix. Not ever. But especially not in this state.

The bruises mottling Felix’s skin make Sylvain feel sick, and he gathers faith magic into his fingers. Healing always comes easier to him when it’s Felix, but even still, all he manages to do is fade the worst of the damage. He can’t do anything about the starvation or the exhaustion, and he hates how useless he feels.

“You’re right. We need to leave.” Sylvain says. Unwilling to let go of Felix, they rise unsteadily to their feet. He eyes the robes and masks on the floor distastefully. As much as he hates the idea of Felix wearing them, it’s their safest exit strategy. Best to avoid any conflicts if they can and make their escape as quickly as possible.

Felix disagrees. Vehemently. “We can’t leave,” he says, eyes blazing. “You don't know the weapons these mages possess. We leave all Fódlan in danger if we run away without destroying them.”

“We leave Fódlan in more danger if we die trying,” Sylvain argues, scooping a robe from the floor and pressing it into Felix’s arms. “We’re better off escaping and returning later with a full battalion of knights.”

Felix pushes the robes back into his arms. “I’m not going to run away.” He crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at Sylvain. It’s such a familiar sight that Sylvain fights a smile. So stubborn. Even after everything that’s clearly happened to him, he’s still Felix. Still frustratingly stubborn Felix.

“Felix,” Sylvain says softly, unwilling to lose this argument. “We have to.”

When Felix remains silent, Sylvain weighs his options. Although Felix, who, like the rest of the Blue Lions, always puts King and country first, might want to play hero, Sylvain feels decidedly uncharitable. Felix is standing in front of him. Alive. And absolutely nothing will change that so long as Sylvain has any say. They’d given up six years of their lives for Fódlan. That’s enough for a lifetime. Let somebody else deal with the Agarthans.

He doesn’t even have to voice his argument to know that Felix won’t agree, which leaves Sylvain with a hard choice. Every fiber of his being protests hurting Felix in any way, but he can’t see another option.

Magic gathers at his command. It’s a relatively harmless spell. One he’d learned helping Mercedes in the medical tent. It makes the target sleepy, and the healers use it to tend wounds without causing the patient further distress. Given that Felix is barely upright, it will be enough to render him unconscious.

Oh, he’d be furious when he woke up. But he’d be alive. It’s a trade Sylvain will make.

“So you’re going to destroy this one compound,” Dorothea says, drawing their attention away from their standoff. “What of the others?”

Sylvain looks at her questioningly. There are no other compounds that they know of. They destroyed every Agarthan stronghold they found, and von Vestra only wrote of this one.

“What others?” Felix demands, echoing Sylvain’s unvoiced question.  

Dorothea turns to face Felix. “There are more than a dozen other Agarthan strongholds throughout Fódlan,” she lies. “If we destroy this one, it would be a victory, but a small one. The Agarthans would realize we were coming and abandon the bases the Imperial Army knew about. They’d go into hiding, we’d lose our advantage, and Fódlan would be in even greater danger.”

She points to the bundle of clothes in Sylvain’s arms. “Put those on so we can leave quietly. Sylvain promised me the backing of both your houses to hunt the Agarthans down, but if you try to ruin it for me now, I’ll drag you out of here unconscious.”  

Shock fades to gratitude as Sylvain realizes what she’s doing. She’s giving him an out. She’s being the bad guy, so he doesn’t have to be. And he knows what it’s costing her. He knows how much Dorothea must want to tear this compound to the ground. How much she must want these Agarthans to suffer for what they did to Edelgard.

Thank you, he mouths at her, hoping she understands the depths of his gratitude. Dorothea nods back.

Felix deflates with a sigh. “Fine,” he says, to Sylvain’s relief. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sylvain steps forward, and Felix lets him pull the black robe over his head. With practiced hands, he secures the sword belt around Felix’s waist and tries not to rage when he has to puncture a new hole to get it tight enough. The mask goes last, and they leave the laboratory without further discussion.

They walk through the compound in a single file line. Dorothea leads the way, with Felix limping in the middle. It takes all of Sylvain’s self-control not to scoop him up and carry him out, but they can’t draw attention to themselves. Fewer mages are walking the hallways than when they came in, and Sylvain feels himself breathing faster with every step.

They’re so close. They’re almost free.  

It seems surreal as they walk up the staircase leading into the fading sunlight uncontested. Felix pauses at the entrance, staring at the sky, and Sylvain nudges him gently forward. As soon as they’re far enough away that they can’t be seen, Sylvain scoops him into his arms. It’s a testament to Felix's exhaustion that he doesn’t protest. He’s asleep in minutes, his head resting against Sylvain’s shoulder.

Despite the weight in his arms, Sylvain feels the lightest he has in months.

Chapter Text

The midday sky is gray and cloudy—threatening another bout of rain—as Sylvain pulls gently on the reins, turning Beauty toward a small hill overlooking the surrounding plains. Felix dozes behind him in the saddle, his body a comforting weight against Sylvain’s back. Sylvain leaves one hand on the reins while the other keeps a firm grip on Felix’s arms, which are looped loosely around his waist. He squeezes Felix’s wrist to remind himself that he’s real, that he’s here.

When they reach the base of a large tree, Sylvain pulls Beauty to a stop and slides from her back. Felix stirs as Sylvain pulls him down into his arms. He loosens his grip as much as possible, trying not to remind Felix of his chains in that hazy state between dreaming and awake. Luckily, his nightmares have let him rest undisturbed today as Felix blearily blinks his eyes open. 

“What are we—” he mumbles, eyes lidded.

Helpless to resist such an unguarded Felix, Sylvain kisses each lid and laughs as a fist bats weakly at his chest. “Dorothea stopped in the last village to restock our rations. She’ll meet us here when she’s finished.”

Felix cracks an eyelid, then squints it shut against the light. Ever since they’d left that place, even the weak daylight that filters through the clouds caused him headaches. Not that Felix ever said as much, but Sylvain has spent most of his life studying Felix, and he notices the tightness around his eyes and how still he holds his head. It makes Sylvain pray for rain. What hardship was waterlogged hair if it meant Felix could be even more comfortable?  

As Felix lets his eyes adjust, Sylvain cups his cheeks in his palms and revels in the ability to stare at his lover.  His cheekbones are still far too sharp, but the dark circles under his eyes have faded. During a brief stop to rest the horses, Sylvain had stolen a moment to comb the tangles from his hair and tie it back into a ponytail, which falls over his right shoulder.  

Honey eyes finally open, and Sylvain feels his heart skip a beat. Still so beautiful. After months of only seeing those eyes in his dreams, of being terrified of forgetting their exact shade, it feels surreal to be able to look.

“What are you staring at?” Felix asks, frowning at him.

Sylvain smooths the furrow between his brow. “You,” he says and laughs brightly at the color that paints the tips of Felix’s ears. 

“Surely Dorothea expects you to do something other than flirt with me,” Felix says, although he makes no effort to escape Sylvain’s arms. “Like start a cookfire or set some of our supplies to dry?” 

Dorothea had absolutely told Sylvain to do both those things, but letting go of Felix seems impossible. How can he possibly think about which cloaks are wet with Felix, warm and safe in his arms? 

Felix groans and buries his face into Sylvain’s shirt. “How can you say that with a straight face?”

Had he? He hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but he hardly regrets it. In fact, he has months of romancing to make up for. “I love you,” he says to the top of Felix’s head. Felix doesn’t react outwardly, but Sylvain sees his ears flush darker and feels his fingers twitch against his back. “I love you,” he repeats, because he can. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Felix’s head pops up. “Enough,” he hisses, face flushed scarlet. He squirms from Sylvain’s grasp and reaches for the saddle bags. “You’re ridiculous.”

Sylvain watches as his deft fingers undo the buckles securing the bags across Beauty’s back. He steps forward to help, taking the bags as they slide free. As they work, Sylvain can’t help glancing at Felix. More often than not, he’s looking pointedly away, but Sylvain isn’t bothered. Felix will respond when he’s ready. 

Sure enough, his patience is rewarded less than a minute later when Felix says, “I love you, too,” quietly and in the direction of the ground before he turns and stalks off to find a suitable spot to start a fire. 

Sylvain watches him walk away, a huge smile stretching across his face. His steps are smooth and powerful, with no trace of the limp left after Sylvain and Dorothea pooled together their paltry stores of faith magic. None of Sylvain’s boots fit him, so he’s wearing Dorothea’s extra pair over a set of her trousers. At Sylvain’s insistence, he’s wearing one of his shirts—a soft red one Sylvain had been saving in the bottom of his bag—and warmest cloak. The cloak is too long, dragging on the ground as Felix walks, but it’s lined in fur and keeps out the rain. 

As Sylvain watches, Felix gathers a bunch of branches and arranges them into a loose pile. A concentrated application of reason magic has them burning in less than a minute. Sylvain will never tire of watching Felix work, each of his movements precise, or the small furrow that forms between his eyebrows as he concentrates. And now, nothing will get in the way of Sylvain having this every day for the rest of his life. 

“Are you just going to watch?” Felix’s voice pulls Sylvain from his daydream. “Or are you going to make yourself useful?”

Grabbing the saddlebags, Sylvain makes his way over to help. He sets a pot of water over the fire to boil and starts to sort through their supplies. Dorothea should be back soon with fresh food from the town, but they can get a few things started while they wait. 

He’s considering their options—hard bread, dried jerky, a few berries they found this morning—when Felix asks, “Did we win?” 

At first, Sylvain thinks he’s asking about the Agarthans, about if their escape hurt their enemy, but then he remembers that Felix went missing during the battle for Enbarr. He doesn’t know if any of their friends are alive. He looks over at Felix, at his hunched shoulders and fingers clenched tightly into the fabric of his borrowed pants. He’s braced for bad news.

Sylvain wraps his arm loosely around Felix’s shoulders, giving him the opportunity to pull away if he needs space. “We won the battle. Won the war. All the Blue Lions survived, Felix,” he says, squeezing Felix’s shoulder. “Dimitri is now the King of Unified Fodlan. Everybody is alive and safe and focused on rebuilding.”

With an audible exhale, Felix sags against his side. “Not you, though. You didn’t go home.”

His voice raises at the end like it’s a question. Like Sylvain could go anywhere, do anything without him. Sylvain turns his face to cup his cheeks in his hands. He kisses his brow, his nose, both of his cheeks, and the sensitive spot behind his ear, all while whispering his name. “I couldn’t go home, not without you. Not when there’s no home for me without you.”

Felix squirms free enough to smack him in the arm. “How can you say such—” he flounders. “How can you be such a—” he trails off again, cheeks painted pink.

Sylvain wants to pinch them, the urge to tease unbearable. “Romantic?” he offers, waggling his eyebrows.

“Sap,” Felix corrects.

“I’ve been saving up,” Sylvain says with a shrug. “Four months without you was far, far too long.” 

He meant his words to be teasing, but Felix turns away, his eyes staring vacantly toward the horizon. “Four months—” He says the words as if they’re a difficult concept he can’t quite grasp. As if he can’t imagine that he’d been in that place for that long. Sylvain’s heart aches for everything he’s suffered.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Sylvain says, trying to keep his voice casual. He’s not all that successful if Felix’s flinch is anything to go by, but he has to get the words out or he’ll choke on them. “But if you ever want to talk about it—today, tomorrow, next month, ten years from now—it doesn’t matter when. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen.”

A part of Sylvain dreads knowing. Dreads that hearing Felix talk about what they did to him while Sylvain followed false leads would shatter him. At the same time, he’s desperate to know. What had those monsters done to him while they kept him captive? What did he see when he woke with bitten-off screams or trailed off with that vacant look in his eyes? He wants, no, he needs to know, so he can hunt them down and pay every hurt back twice over. 

Unwillingly, he remembers the journal tucked in Dorothea’s bags. Threading his fingers through Felix’s to ground himself, Sylvain imagines himself in her place. If they had taken Felix from him, he’s not sure anything could have convinced him to leave any of them alive. 

When this is over, when they’re safe behind the walls of Fhridiad, he’ll ensure she gets her army. It’s the least he owes her. 

Felix pulls his hands free with a shake of his head. “I can’t.”

“That’s okay, too,” Sylvain says and means it. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need.” He turns back to the fire, letting Felix have a moment to compose himself. 

“I need to thank you,” Felix says. 

Sylvain shakes his head. Felix doesn’t need to thank him, especially not for this, but he swallows the denial at the look on Felix’s face. 

Satisfied that Sylvain isn’t going to interrupt him, Felix continues, “You had no way of knowing I survived at Enbarr. No way to be sure where I was.” He grabs a stick from the ground and pokes at the fire. Knowing it’ll be easier for Felix to finish without Sylvain’s eyes on him, he also turns his attention to the fire. It bursts and then settles with Felix’s tending. “If you hadn’t come for me, I’d be dead.”

Sylvain flinches and gives in to the urge to look at Felix, to see him alive, whole, and safe. Felix doesn’t meet his eyes, focused on the fire. He looks far more relaxed than Sylvain feels. 

“Anyway,” Felix says, finally making eye contact with Sylvain. “Thanks for coming after me, I guess.”

For all that Sylvain is good with words, he can’t find the right ones to explain how little he wants or needs Felix’s thanks. Breathing isn’t a choice. Needing sleep isn’t a choice. Neither is loving Felix. It’s such an ingrained part of Sylvain that he wouldn’t recognize himself if he didn’t. Even if he could articulate everything he feels, he’s not sure Felix is ready to hear it–not today, at least.  

Sylvain brings his hand to the nape of Felix’s neck and brings their foreheads together. He presses a chaste kiss to Felix’s lips, trying to explain with his actions instead of words. Felix returns the kiss, slow and sweet, and Sylvain melts into it. 

Without separating from Felix, he pulls him into his lap. The warm weight on his thighs grounds him as he tilts Felix’s head just enough that their noses slide against each other, and he can deepen the kiss. Blindly, his fingers find the clasp of Felix’s cloak, and then it slides from his shoulders. Sylvain pulls back and almost groans at the mirrored want in Felix’s eyes. It’s been far, far too long. 

Felix’s stomach grumbles, breaking the tension. Sylvain presses his head onto Felix’s shoulder with a laugh. “We should probably eat, huh?” he teases. Calloused fingers comb through his hair and send shivers down his spine. Sylvain sighs. Why does he have to be the responsible one? Reluctantly, he lifts Felix off his lap, kisses him one more time, then turns his attention to feeding him. 

Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long to put together a decent meal. It’s nothing fancy, just strips of jerky, hard bread, and a few small berries they had found growing in the forest, but it soothes something in Sylvain to see Felix eating. Between bites, Sylvain entertains with stories about their trip. He embellishes them heavily and delights whenever his dramatics make Felix smile. Even away from the comforts of home, he’d be content spending every day like this. 

Once he’s finished eating, he lays on his back, enjoying the rare dry weather and Felix’s warmth pressed against his side. His eyes slip closed. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but they’d been riding hard with little rest for the last few days, and sleep claims him easily.

A rough shake startles him awake.

“Wake up,” Felix says, prodding him again. He’s leaning over Sylvain, his expression tense, and Sylvain feels the last remnants of sleep vanish.

“What is it?” Sylvain asks as he stands, already scanning the horizon. The sky is still light; he can’t have slept for long, and nothing seems wrong. They’re still alone, with no sign of immediate danger. 

Wordlessly, Felix points in the direction they came from. Following the elegant line of his finger, he sees Dorothea riding towards them. She’s riding hard, her mare’s hooves skimming the ground, and Sylvain’s stomach tightens. There’s no reason for her to be riding this hard unless she’s running from someone. Or something.

“We need to be ready to leave in a hurry,” he says to Felix, who nods before smothering the fire. They pack quickly and are standing, weapons drawn, by the time Dorothea reaches them. 

“What happened?” Sylvain asks as he helps her slide from the horse’s back. He can feel her ribs heave as she tries to catch her breath. From his left, Felix presses closer, echoing his question. 

“There was nothing I could do,” Dorothea says, gripping his forearms tightly. Her eyes are blown wide, her breaths still coming too quickly. “I had to run, Sylvain. I had to.” 

“Who did you have to run from? The Agarthans?”

Dorothea nods, and Sylvain feels light-headed. That Agarthans had tracked them here? It didn’t make sense. Surely, one missing prisoner wasn’t worth pursuing, not for such a secretive group.

“Did they attack you in the village?” Felix asks. 

Dorothea shakes her head. “No, they didn’t attack me.” When she looks up at Sylvain, he sees tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “They attacked the village.”

“The village?” Sylvain asks, guiding Dorothea to sit on a nearby boulder. Once she’s seated, he hands her a waterskin and encourages her to drink. “Start from the beginning,” he orders. 

She takes another gulp of the water before setting it down beside her. Wringing her hands together, she looks back toward the village. Her voice shakes as she tells them the story. “I was about a mile past town when I heard a rumble. At first, I thought it was a nearby river, but the sound kept getting louder and louder. Then, the ground started trembling. I turned back to see what it could be and saw—” she trails off, eyes unfocused. 

Felix steps closer, his shoulder brushing Sylvain’s arm. Without taking his eyes off Dorothea, he finds Felix’s hand and squeezes it. “What did you see?” he asks, afraid of the answer. 

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “One minute, I could see the village. The next, it was swallowed by a mass of shadows. They were too far away to see clearly, but it looked like an army. Some looked like foot soldiers, others like men on horseback. There were demonic beasts with them, too. There were so many of them. I couldn’t do anything except watch.”

It takes a minute for her words to sink in and another for him to understand. A shadow army with demonic beasts. Had they won one war only to start another?

“Are they headed here?” Felix asks her, his sword ready in his hand. Sylvain wants to sheath it, wants to bundle Felix on his horse and ride until nothing and nobody can find them. He swallows down the impulse.

“No,” Dorothea says. “They were headed north, towards Faerghus.”

Sylvain feels sick as he stands in the wreckage of the small village. Smoke from the burning remains of houses and shops stings his eyes, and he coughs to clear his throat. The bodies of animals and people lay trampled in the streets. There’s no sign of any dead Agarthans. He clenches his fists.

“We have to warn them,” Felix says from beside him. “Dimitri and Byleth need to mobilize the army.”

Sylvain withholds a sigh. Only a few months of peace and they’re at war again, this time with an enemy they barely know. He doesn’t want to fight anymore. Doesn’t want to sleep on the ground and eat food preserved to last weeks. He doesn’t want to spend sleepless nights wondering which of his friends might not survive the next day.

Surely, Dimitri’s scouts will see signs of the approaching threat. The Holy Knights and the Royal Knights will mobilize to face the Agarthan army under the direction of many seasoned generals. There’s no need for the three of them to try to outrun the Agarthans or meet them on the battlefield. No need for Felix, who still sleeps more hours than not, to fight.

“I’m not sure we can,” Dorothea says. “We have three people and only two horses. Even if the horses were fresh, I’m not sure we could outride them.”

Beside him, Felix reaches down and pulls something from beneath charred rubble. He shakes it a few times to dislodge the worst of the ash. It’s some type of soft toy. Sylvain can imagine a child carrying it through the market street as their other hand clutched at their mother’s skirt. He looks away, ashamed.

“I won’t accept that answer,” Felix says, staring at the limp toy. “What those Agarthans did—” he pauses to cough. “What they did to us— I can’t stay here and let them continue doing what they want. They have to be stopped.” He tosses the toy back into the rubble and turns to Sylvain. “I have to stop them.”

Sylvain looks at him, at his set expression and determined eyes, and knows defeating the Agarthans is something Felix must do. He doesn’t know the details of what he endured, can’t without Felix sharing, but he understands the drive for revenge. The Agarthans have spent too long in the shadows, too long taking whomever they wanted with no consequences. And as much as Sylvain desperately wants them to be somebody else’s problem, he can’t deny Felix this. 

“We’d have to split up,” Dorothea says. “You and Sylvain could ride to Garreg Mach and warn Byleth. I’ll head south and follow once I can find another horse.” 

It’s a generous offer. One he knows she doesn’t want to make. As much as Felix hates the Agarthans, Dorothea wants them dead more. She wants them dead so much that she would devote the rest of her life to the pursuit. After what she did for him in the stronghold, he won’t leave her behind.

Magic gathers between fingertips, coalescing into a ball of red light. “I have a better idea,” he says and throws it into the sky.

It’s hard to tell how long they've been sitting on the outskirts of the village with smoke clouding the air, but Sylvain guesses it’s late afternoon. Felix leans heavily against him, his head resting on Sylvain’s shoulder as he sleeps. Sylvain alternates between watching Dorothea pace and scanning the horizon. When he finally sees wings overhead, he gently shakes Felix awake. 

Ingrid circles overhead twice, trying to see through the lingering smoke, before she dives down to meet them. Before her Pegasus’s hooves touch the ground, she flings herself from her back, stumbling in her haste to dismount, before she recovers and sprints toward them. She tackles Felix with a sob, throwing them both off balance, and Sylvain reaches out to steady them before they tumble to the ground. 

“Thank Serios, you’re alive, Felix,” Ingrid says, her voice muffled with tears. “Thank Serios.” She rocks him back and forth in her arms, her hands clinging to his shoulders.  

Felix hesitates for a moment before he lifts his arms to return Ingrid’s hug. His eyes are wet as he awkwardly pats Ingrid’s back. “I’m fine, Ingrid.”

Just as suddenly as she hugged him, Ingrid pulls back and punches Felix in the shoulder. “You’re clearly not,” she says, brushing the tears away from her eyes. “You look terrible.”

“So does your hair,” Felix says, scowling. “I can’t believe you cut it even shorter.” He tries to step back, but Ingrid lunges forward and grabs his cloak. The fabric bunches under her fingers as she clings to him. 

“I can’t believe you let yourself get kidnapped,” she snaps back. Sylvain withholds a sigh. For all that he considers Ingrid a sister, sometimes he forgets that she and Felix are siblings. Or would have been in another life. They’ve been like this since childhood, always snipping at each other. It soothes something in Sylvain to see them argue; Ingrid would never poke at Felix if she thought he was too weak to poke back. 

He puts a quelling hand on Felix’s shoulder, which opens the conversation for Ingrid’s barrage of questions. 

“Where have you been? Who took you? What did they do to you? Are you all right? What happened in Enbarr?” There’s no space for Felix to answer, not that Sylvain thinks he would, as months of worry bubble up as question after question.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain cuts through her questions. She half turns towards him, reluctant to let Felix out of her sight for even a moment. Sylvain can relate; he’s terrified that any time he closes his eyes, Felix won’t be there when he wakes. “Those stories will keep. We have more pressing concerns.”

Torn, Ingrid looks between him and Felix. Sylvain is afraid he’ll have to insist, but she must see something in Felix’s face that warns her not to push. With a sigh, she relents. “Does it have anything to do with what happened to this village?”

He’s not surprised at her guess; Ingrid is observant. “Do you remember those strange mages in Enbarr?” he asks.

Ingrid turns to face him, keeping one hand tight around Felix’s cloak. Her brow furrows as she thinks back. “Do you mean the ones in the East Wing of the palace? The ones—" she trails off, eyes darting back to Felix. 

The mention of that place, combined with the scent of smoke lingering in the air, makes Sylvain see fire. He can feel the heat on his face and hear the screaming around him as hands gripped his armor, holding him back. With effort, he frees himself from the memory and focuses on Felix. 

“They call themselves the Agarthans,” Dorothea says as she stands beside Sylvain. “The Imperial army had an alliance with them during the war.” Ingrid turns her attention to Dorothea, her expression unreadable. Sylvain thinks they might have been friends at Garrag Mach, but their friendship hadn’t survived the war or what had come after. 

“Allies?” It’s Felix who asks the question, disgust evident in his tone. 

Dorothea shrugs and crosses her arms over her chest. “They promised weapons and technology that would help us in the war. In exchange, they wanted the monastery and Lady Rhea destroyed.”

“What kind of technology?” Ingrid asks.

Dorothea is quiet for a long time before she replies. “They said they could give anybody with a crest unlimited power.” At the mention of crests, Ingrid glances back at Felix, who deliberately avoids her gaze. She looks at Sylvain, a question in her eyes. He tries to keep his face neutral, but enough must show. Her face crumbles, and she pulls Felix tightly against her side. She doesn’t ask any questions, and Sylvain loves her for it. 

The sound of wind rustling the dry grass fills the silence that descends over the group. Night is quickly falling. They should find shelter. Before Sylvain can suggest it, Ingrid gasps. “Edelgard—” she starts, then lets the thought trail off. Sylvain winces. Of course, Ingrid would put all the pieces together. She’d been in the throne room, too.

Dorothea surprises Sylvain by answering the unasked question. “Edelgard accepted their offer of power to win the war.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “We underestimated the cost.” She says nothing more, but Sylvain can see the chasm of grief below her words, see how treading too deep could consume her. He changes the subject, and Ingrid mercifully lets him. 

“We found the stronghold from von Vestra’s notes. That’s where they were holding Felix. We got him out, but it appears the Agarthans have an army.” A range of emotions flash across Ingrid’s face before finally settling into a mix of guilt and grief. Guilt from not believing him back in Enbarr, for not believing in Felix. Grief for what she must now understand he endured. 

“Sylvain, I—” She starts, voice small and broken. 

He expects to feel vindicated by her grief—she had been his most vocal opponent—but looking at the devastation in her eyes, he doesn’t want to cause any more pain. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him or Felix. Her actions came from a desire to protect him, and although a part of him will always wonder if Felix could have suffered less if only the Blue Lions had banded together to rescue him, he can’t fault her for that. 

Stepping forward, he presses their foreheads together. “It’s okay, Ingrid. I understand.”

She chokes out a sob as she winds one arm around his neck. The other she uses to drag a protesting Felix closer. “Thank you,” she whispers into his ear, too softly for Felix to hear. “Thank you for bringing him back to us.”  

“Always,” he says. As if he could choose a different path.

“Why do I have to be a part of this?” Felix asks, pushing at them until they break apart. Sylvain steps back from Ingrid with a smile and reels Felix into his chest. Red tints the tips of his ears as he buries his face into Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain tugs at his ponytail, which earns him a pinch in the side in retaliation but lets him hide. 

Sensing that the moment has passed, Dorothea redirects them back to the topic of the Agarthan army. “I watched them destroy this village in minutes,” she tells Ingrid, who wipes the tear track from her face and gives Dorothea her full attention. “We were debating the best way to warn the King and Archbishop when you arrived.” 

Ingrid’s gaze turns assessing as she studies their horses, worn clothing, and meager supplies. She lingers on Felix, still tucked against Sylvain’s chest, and he knows she’s considering his borrowed clothing and ragged state. They certainly don’t look prepared to ride swiftly to Fhirdiad. 

Humming thoughtfully, Ingrid gestures toward her Pegasus. “My Pegasus can carry two. Even with the extra weight, she’ll make the trip swiftly.”

Sylvain’s lips thin in displeasure. It’s not a bad suggestion, per se. Felix would get to proper medical care and full meals faster riding with Ingrid than taking the slow route over land, but everything in Sylvain protests the thought of letting Felix out of his sight. His grip tightens around Felix’s shoulders. 

“Absolutely not,” Felix says, twisting to face Ingrid. “I will not get on a flying horse with a reputation for hating men.”

Ingrid narrows her eyes at him. “She is not a horse.”

“Looks like a horse to me.”

“Enough,” Sylvain says before they can get going again. “It’s a good idea, Felix.” And it is—if he can just get over the anxiety twisting his guts at the thought of watching Ingrid and Felix fly away from him. “You and Ingrid can return to Fhirdiad and warn Dimitri about the Agarthans.” Mercedes and Annette should also be in the capital, and they’ll bully Felix back to health—not that Sylvain is dumb enough to mention that. 

Felix’s nails bite into his forearm through his shirt. He glares at Sylvain. “I’m not going without you. Ingrid and Dorothea can ride the winged beast. I prefer a horse.” 

Sylvain wants to agree with him, wants to keep Felix at his side, but he knows Ingrid’s suggestion is best. “Felix—” he begins, only to be interrupted by Ingrid. 

“Who said anything about you riding with me?” she asks, baffled. “You and Sylvain will ride my Pegasus straight to Fhirdiad.” Felix makes a noise to interrupt, but Ingrid ignores him. “Dorothea and I will take the horses and ride for Garreg Mach. No matter the weapons these Agarthans have, they won’t win a battle against both the Knights of Serios and the army of United Fodlan.”

That’s… the best thing he’s heard yet, actually. He’s never flown on a Pegasus, but back at school, he spent many weekends doing flying lessons on Wyvern-back. A Pegasus won’t bond with a male rider, but if Ingrid tells her to fly home, she will, even with two male riders on her back. 

Next to him, Felix is protesting vehemently, but Sylvain wants. He looks at Ingrid, trying to gauge if she’s serious. Handing over a bonded animal is no small thing, but if she can trust him with her Pegasus, he’ll trust her with Beauty. She meets his eye and inclines her head. Grateful tears sting his eyes, and he blinks them away.

“Thank you, Ingrid,” he says. “We’ll need to pack a few—”

“You can’t be serious,” Felix interrupts. “I won’t get on that—”

Sylvain cuts him off with a kiss to his temple. He leans down, bringing their faces close enough that their noses press together. “Please, Felix,” he whispers. “You’re in no shape to fight the Agarthans right now.” He feels Felix pull back, but he tightens his grip. “If we fly back, Mercedes can help. You’ll have time to rebuild your strength before we march. Time to practice with a new blade.” If he can’t appeal to Felix’s sense of self-preservation, perhaps he can appeal to his battle prowess. 

He sees the battle behind Felix’s eyes and schools his face when Felix finally relents with a terse, “Fine.”

The next few minutes pass quickly as they redistribute their supplies. Sylvain spares a minute to say goodbye to Beauty and warn her to be nice to Ingrid, but he isn’t worried. Ingrid is as good a rider as he is, and she brought her plenty of apples during the war. 

Soon, there’s nothing left to do. He lifts Felix onto Ingrid’s Pegasus and ignores his sharp intake of breath as the animal shifts with his weight. Ingrid soothes her with a few strokes to her velvet nose. Sylvain steps forward, about to mount, when Dorothea stops him with a hand on his arm. She presses something wrapped in leather into his hands, and when he looks down, he’s shocked to see a familiar journal.

“Dorothea—”  

“If we don’t make it to Garreg Mach in time, I want you to have it.” She wrings her hands together to stop their shaking. “There might be something in there that will help you win against them.”

Sylvain stares at the journal for a few slow breaths before tucking it securely into his cloak. He doesn’t thank her; she’s not doing it for his gratitude. “I’ll give it back to you when this is over.”

She nods, then turns on her heels and marches away. 

Grabbing the reins around Felix’s body, Sylvain pulls himself onto the Pegasus’s back. He hugs Felix tightly and presses a kiss behind his ear. “Ready?” he asks. At Felix’s jerky nod, Ingrid gives a sharp whistle, and wings unfurl to lift them into the sky. 

Felix clutches his wrists hard enough to bruise as the Pegasus swings toward Fhirdiad. The ground races beneath her wings and Sylvain twists back to watch Dorothea and Ingrid become smaller and smaller until they merge into the landscape. 

“Can you believe this view?” Sylvain shouts to be sure Felix can hear him over the roaring wind and rhythmic beating of wings. Felix’s response, if he gives one, is lost in the breeze. Sylvain leans forward and, to his delight, realizes that Felix’s eyes are scrunched shut. Laughing, he jostles Felix’s shoulder. His eyes pop open. If looks could kill, Sylvain would be ashes, but he’s too elated to mind. He tightens his arms around Felix. 

They’re going home. He and Felix. They’re free, they’re alive, and most importantly, they’re together.

The pleasure of that first flight fades quickly into aching legs, windburned skin, and nights of just enough sleep to rest Ingrid’s Pegasus before they’re airborne again. Even Felix’s aversion to riding fades beneath the monotony of traveling for speed, and he spends most of their journey sleeping. Ingrid’s Pegasus needs no guidance to return home, which is best since she tolerates their presence only long enough to be fed, watered, and brushed. 

Brown gives way to snowy white, and by the fourth morning, Sylvain can recognize the familiar landmarks of Farghus. By afternoon, the imposing walls of Castle Blayddid appear. They land near the knight’s stables, and Sylvain entrusts Ingrid’s Pegasus to a young knight, who stares at them with wide, round eyes and strides towards the castle. 

A year has passed since he last visited Fhirdiad, and that was only to liberate the capital from Cornelia, but he remembers the way from a childhood spent playing among these walls. They encounter slack jaws and fervent whispers but no opposition as they go to Dimitri’s private offices. 

Before knocking on the ornately carved door, he turns to Felix. “Let me break the news before you appear out of thin air,” he says, brushing an errant strand of hair behind Felix’s ear. “Everybody mourned you.”

Felix frowns but doesn’t disagree, so Sylvain gives his hand one last squeeze and slips through the doors at Dimitri’s acknowledgment. 

Dimitri sits behind his desk, a pile of documents in front of him and a quill in hand. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his shoulders hunch inward. Governing a new nation has obviously taken its toll, and Sylvain feels momentarily guilty that he’s about to add to the burden. He brushes the thought aside. He’s also bringing good news, news he knows will lift Dimitri’s spirits. 

“Your majesty.”

Dimitri’s head snaps up at his voice. “Sylvain,” he says, springing to his feet. The desk shakes as he bumps it in his haste to cross the room. He grips Sylvain’s forearms with a bit too much force. “I’m so relieved to see you, my friend.”

“I’ve brought someone you’ll be equally relieved to see,” Sylvain says, still trying to think of a casual way to mention that he found Felix. 

“Have you?” Dimitri asks. “That’s good. It’s been… quiet here with everybody—” The end of his sentence trails off as Dimitri stares over his shoulder. His skin turns ashen, and he takes a half-step back from Sylvain. “Not you, too,” he murmurs, too quietly to be directed at Sylvain. 

“Dimitri?” he asks, concerned at his sudden change in demeanor. 

Dimitri darts another glance over Sylvain’s shoulder before shuddering and returning to his desk. “I apologize,” he says, flipping through a stack of papers. “But I am quite busy today. You’ll have to excuse me.” 

“Are you really going to ignore me, Boar?” Felix asks from the doorway. Sylvain withholds a sigh. Patience has never been Felix’s virtue. He expects Dimitri to run to Felix or throw himself at his feet. Instead, he flinches and rummages more intently through his paperwork. Felix stalks past him to stand beside Dimitri before reaching up and poking his cheek. “I’m not one of your ghosts.” 

Dimitri turns his head but not to look at Felix. No, he looks at Sylvain, his expression a mix of desperate, longing, and anguished. For a second, Sylvain doesn’t want to reassure him, the memory of Dimitri's refusal burning hot in his gut, but the raw grief in his expression is too much for Sylvain to handle.  

“Dorothea was right,” Sylvain says. “We rescued Felix from an Agarthan compound in Hyrm territory.”

The noise Dimitri makes is more animal than human before he turns and sweeps Felix into his arms. He moans his name like a mantra as he rocks them back and forth, his massive cloak swallowing Felix’s smaller frame. Then he starts babbling apologies, which spurs Felix to action. 

He pushes against Dimitri’s shoulders, and Dimitri retreats only far enough back to clutch Felix’s arms in his hands. His face is wet with tears. “Stop that,” Felix orders. “I’m alive, and I’m fine. I don’t need or want your apologies.” 

Felix may not want apologies, but Sylvain disagrees. Dimitri had a literal army of soldiers and knights at his disposal. Even if he couldn’t spare another general, he could have spared a battalion to track down Felix. If Dimitri had trusted him, he could have rescued Felix sooner, before Sylvain could count every rib in his chest. What right did Dimitri have to cry joyfully at having Felix home when he’d done nothing to help?

“Felix, you don’t understand. I didn’t—" 

Felix cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. “Enough, Dima. You’re a man, not a god. Stop trying to shoulder the weight of the world.” Dimitri deflates at his words, looking smaller than he had any right to, and Sylvain exhales audibly. A part of him will always resent Dimitri’s inaction, but he can put it aside. Sylvain had been willing to sacrifice everything to chase even the smallest possibility of a life with Felix. As Fodlan’s new King, Dimitri had chosen the living, and after everything he’s been through, Sylvain can’t begrudge that. 

“Dimitri,” Sylvain says, stepping farther into the room. Dimitri faces him. He looks vulnerable like he expects and deserves to receive Sylvain’s rage. His acceptance makes the last of Sylvain’s anger fizzle out. Sylvain offers him a small smile as a peace offering. He’s sorry to spoil what should be a celebration, but they hadn’t ridden for nearly four days straight for nothing. “I’m afraid we didn’t bring only good news. We need to reconvene the war counsel.”

To his credit, Dimitri doesn’t doubt Sylvain twice.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate war camps?” Sylvain grouses as he stares at the mud caked onto his boots. Thousands of marching feet, melting snow, and heavy winter rains turned the camp into a mud pit in hours. At least the leather was new and waxed to keep out the damp. 

“Twice today,” Mercedes says from where she’s organizing a box of medical supplies, “And at least five times yesterday.”

Sylvain winces. He hasn’t been in the greatest mood since they marched to meet the Agarthan forces a week ago. Every time he thinks this is over, thinks that he gets to put down his spear and make whatever he wants of his life, he’s back on the battlefield. 

Dimitri had taken their warning seriously, even before the letter arrived from Byleth explaining the Agarthan’s history and hatred for the Church. He called for fighters to defend the nation against this ancient threat, and the people had come in droves, eager to make names for themselves and prove their worth to their new King. Veterans of the war, easily spotted by their competent movements and worn gear, march alongside their former enemies and fresh recruits under the banner of United Fodlan. 

Word of the violent Agarthan army that destroyed any village in its path with no regard for civilian casualties spread like wildfire over the continent. The villages they passed through greeted the army with rapturous cheers, homemade meals, and anything else the people could spare. 

Noble families without soldiers sent wagons loaded with supplies, desperate to endear themselves to Dimitri and to prove how well their territory was recovering from the war. Surely, they would be valuable trading partners if they could provide a wealth of supplies. 

Perhaps the most notable difference between marching to fight the Adrestians and marching to fight the Agarthans, for Sylvain at least, is that he and Felix share a tent. During the war, they each had their own tents—even if they rarely used both—partially because it was expected, partially because they didn’t want to make a spectacle of their relationship. But after everything that has happened over the last few months, neither suggested separate sleeping arrangements.

During the day, they march with their battalions, but as soon as the army stops for the night, they find each other again. They share a bedroll, as they did on the road, but this one is larger and lined with soft furs to ward off the chill of winter, which bites even this far south. 

Sylvain relishes their closeness. On nights when his nightmares plague him with visions of him arriving too late or memories of endless searching, and he wakes up doubting he ever found Felix alive, Sylvain can pull Felix tighter against his chest and listen to the steady beating of his heart. His sleep-warmed skin is a constant reminder that Felix is safe.

Felix’s nightmares are less easily soothed. Some nights, he wakes up screaming. On others, Sylvain will roll over to find him staring silently at the wall of their tent. Sometimes, he can coax Felix into sharing his dreams, and Sylvain’s heart breaks with every story he collects. Sometimes, he can’t even get Felix to look his way.

With each night, Sylvain learns. He learns when to push and when to pretend to be still asleep. He learns when Felix wants to be held and when anybody in his space makes him lash out. He learns how to ask what Felix needs and explain what he needs in return.

So, marching to meet the Agarthan army is different than marching to Enbarr, but it’s war all the same, and Sylvain is rather done fighting. At least their enemy is in sight, pinned between Dimitri’s troops and the Knights of Serios, who arrived this morning. Tomorrow, they’ll fight for their people, country, and way of life.

And then it’ll be over. An overwhelming need to see Felix fills Sylvain, and he slides off the bench. He’s probably reviewing the army’s supplies with Dimitri or getting in a few more practice forms on the makeshift training grounds. “Well, I won’t keep bothering you then,” he says, turning to the door.

Mercedes steps into his path. “Take these,” she says. Instinctively, his arms hold the box she presses against his chest. “I already cast the sterilizing spells on these bandages, but they need to be rolled and spread equally among the beds. There’s a few more boxes in the back room.”

Sylvain blinks. “What—”

“Annette is making a new batch of restorative potions. After you finish the bandages, she’ll need help bottling it.”

Sylvain tries to hand the box back, but she sidesteps him. “Mercedes,” he sighs. He hates refusing her, but he needs to see Felix. “I’d love to help, but—”

“Felix is with Dimitri,” she cuts him off gently but firmly. “And he doesn’t need any help to do his job.”

Sylvain sets the box down on the bench, then starts rolling a bandage just to have something to do other than look at Mercedes’s knowing eyes. She’s always seen right through him. “I know he doesn’t,” Sylvain says, although it comes out whinier than he’d like. “I just need to make sure—”

“Felix is fine, Sylvain,” Mercedes says. She comes to his side and picks a length of bandage from the box. The white cloth forms an obedient roll under her expert hands. “I wouldn’t have cleared him to march with us if he wasn’t.”

Sylvain snorts, “Like any of us could have stopped him.”

Mercedes sets her roll down next to Sylvain’s looser one and grabs another. “Felix is fine, Sylvain,” she repeats. “He’s gained back nearly all the weight and strength he lost, and I watched him disarm Dimitri twice a day ago. You’re both important generals in this army, and you both need to be able to do your jobs.”

Sylvain drops his half-formed roll into the box and turns to look at her. “You heard me arguing with Dimitri.”

Mercedes finishes her roll before she cups Sylvain’s cheek in her palm. “I think the whole camp heard you arguing with Dimitri,” she says with a gentle smile.

Mercedes was in the war council and, apparently, heard him arguing with Dimitri afterward, so she already knows what this is about. Still, Sylvain finds himself explaining. “He assigned me to lead the cavalry units.”

Mercedes fusses with Sylvain’s hair, pushing a few longer strands behind his ears. “I can’t think of anybody better suited than you and Beauty.”

The mention of his mare lightens Sylvain’s mood a bit. Ingrid had brought her over last night and watched him inspect every inch of Beauty with minimal grousing. Whatever they had encountered on the trip to Garreg Mach, she had taken excellent care of his mount, better care than Sylvain could have managed riding her all the way to Fhirdiad, and he was grateful to her. They hadn’t talked much, as Ingrid had been anxious to reunite with her Pegasus, but he knew both she and Dorothea were alive and would march with Church tomorrow. Which reminds him— 

“But Felix is marching with the infantry troops,” Sylvain says. He means to sound neutral like he’s reciting impersonal assignments, but her eyes tell him he missed by a mile. He should stop talking—he doesn’t want to rehash this argument with her—but the words pour out anyway. “The infantry troops are meeting the Agarthans head-on. That means Felix will be fighting for his life while I’m leading the cavalry to flank their army.” He bites his lower lip to keep from saying more.

For a while, Mercedes says nothing, and Sylvain can hear the muffled sounds of people busting about outside the tent. Then she sits on the bench and pats the space next to her in invitation. Sylvain takes it, dropping onto the bench with a sigh. Even though it crinks his neck a bit, he lowers his head onto her shoulder and lets her twine their fingers together.

“Felix will be fine.”

He scoffs. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she says. Her voice sounds so sure. Sylvain wants to believe her, wants that more than he’s wanted anything in his life, but he sees melted stones in every cookfire and feels like his breath catches in his throat whenever he can’t see Felix. “Dimitri is marching with him,” Mercedes continues, “as are Dedue and Annette.” She squeezes his hand. “And even if they weren’t, Felix can defend himself.”

Sylvain sighs. He knows all this, heard it all from Dimitri at the war counsel, but he can’t shake the knowledge that anything could happen in battle—that even with Byleth and all the Blue Lions, something had happened to Felix.

Sensing his lingering doubts, Mercedes changes tact. “Do you think I don’t worry about Annette when I watch her march into battle? Do you think I don’t worry that while I’m tending to another soldier, they’ll bring one of you back to my tent, too wounded for me to save?” Sylvain shakes his head, but she isn’t finished. “Do you think I wanted to let you run off on a suicide mission to the mountains with an enemy general, exhausted and half-mad with grief?”

Sylvain flinches away from her words, but she won’t let him go. She pulls him back to her side, and he lets her. “You didn’t believe he was alive?” he asks, voice thick.

“It doesn’t matter what I believed,” she says, running her thumb along the back of his hand “Sometimes the best way to support the people we love is to let them fly even when we desperately want to keep them safely on the ground.”

“You’re saying I’m hovering,” he says, accusation lacing his words.

“A bit,” Mercedes admits.

They lapse into silence, and Sylvain forces himself to think past the tightness in his chest. Felix is fiercely independent. Even as a child, he always wanted to prove his abilities. He might not be tired of Sylvain’s hovering yet, not with the memories of that place plaguing his dreams, but he would be in time. And Sylvain never wants to pin him down.

Mercedes must see his decision in his eyes because she stands from the bench and pulls the box of unwrapped bandages toward him. “Roll them a little tighter, if you would,” she says with a pat on his shoulder. “I’ll get the other boxes.”

By the time Sylvain has helped Mercedes and Annette resupply the medical tent, prepared his gear, tended to Beauty, and checked in with his Battalion, the sun is dipping below the horizon. His fingers find Felix’s ring, once again hanging around his neck on a leather cord, and he’s struck with the sudden urge to see it wrapped around Felix’s finger. 

Since rescuing Felix, there had been many moments when Sylvain almost slipped the ring into his hand and asked—a stolen moment between planning meetings or a private dinner eaten shoulder to shoulder in the late hours of the evening. But something had stopped him each time, and the ring remained around his neck.   

But tonight feels right. 

Maybe it’s the symmetry of his first proposal—on the eve of winning a final conflict against their enemy—or the heady feeling of anticipation that permeates through the camp. It could be that the color of the sunset reminds Sylvain of the inset stones. Perhaps it’s simply that he feels ready to ask.

He’s not sure Felix will agree. The last time he offered this ring to Felix, he told Sylvain to wait until after the battle. Maybe Felix will feel the same way now. But the weight of the ring seems to press against his chest, and only one person can alleviate it.

Predictably, he finds Felix on the makeshift training grounds, facing off against a figure stuffed with straw. His sword, newly commissioned after his favorite had melted in Enbarr, arcs through the air in graceful ribbons while his feet dance easily over the snow-crusted dirt. 

Unlike the sword-dance forms he sometimes performs, there’s a utilitarian quality to his blade work. Each strike is fast and lethal. Economical. Felix loves the blade, loves wielding his sword for the sake of his art, but that joy is missing tonight. This rhythm speaks only of death. 

Given who they face tomorrow, Sylvain understands. 

 “Are you just going to stare at me all night, or do you have something you want to say?” Felix asks without breaking stride. He lands a killing blow to the dummy’s heart, then spins to land another through its gut. 

“Why can’t I do both?” Sylvain asks as he steps further into the torchlight. They’re not alone, but everybody else is too focused on their preparations to eavesdrop. Despite the cold, a drop of sweat slides down Felix’s brow to disappear into the furs lining his cloak. Sylvain wants to follow it with his tongue. 

Felix lowers his sword with a sigh and turns to face Sylvain, eyebrows raised as if to say, out with it then.  

Sylvain closes the remaining distance between them and reaches for Felix’s left hand. He traces each knuckle before flipping his hand and kissing the palm. Felix makes a noise of disgust but tellingly doesn’t pull away. His ponytail, which Sylvain styled for him this morning, is askew, and his cloak hangs unevenly from his shoulders. Sylvain fixes both with practiced hands. 

“Well?” Felix asks once Sylvain is finished. 

Sylvain laughs as he slides the leather cord from around his neck. Typical Felix, never one to indulge in romantic gestures. He runs his fingers over the ring’s surface in a practiced gesture, tracing each inset stone. The metal is warm from being carried so close to his body, and he holds it for a minute before placing it in Felix’s palm.

“Marry me,” he says, folding Felix’s fingers around the ring. For a moment, he’s in a tent surrounded by the muggy summer heat of Enbarr, looking into the same golden eyes. It feels like a lifetime ago. He blinks the memory away.

Last time, he allowed Felix to refuse. Last time, they had both been content to wait until after the fighting. Something to look forward to. Something to survive for. He had been a different person then, without the knowledge of what it feels like to search the faces of the dead for those beloved features. Hadn’t understood how bleak the rest of his life would look without Felix at his side. 

Felix will try to refuse, but Sylvain has spent many sleepless nights imagining what he could have said or done differently. And since rescuing Felix, he’s spent too many minutes in front of the mirror practicing. He has a counter prepared for each point Felix will raise, and in matters of the heart, he can be just as stubborn as his lover.

“Sylvain?” Felix waves a gloved hand in front of his face. He’s scowling at Sylvain. “Are you listening to me?”

He hadn’t been. He was so caught up planning his rebuttal that he hadn’t heard Felix’s refusal. “Sorry,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. The strands slip through his fingers to fall back onto his forehead. “I’m listening now.”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Who asks a question like that just to ignore the answer?” He turns his back to Sylvain and lifts his sword into the first stance of his form. 

Sylvain steps forward and hugs Felix from behind, pinning his arms to his side. “Someone nervous about the answer,” he says. He kisses Felix’s temple before spinning him around and grabbing his shoulders. “Felix Fraldarius, will you marry me?”

Felix arches an eyebrow and remains stubbornly tight-lipped. 

“Feeeeeelix—” Sylvain whines, “C’mon, sweetheart. I’m desperate.”

Felix’s lips quirk at the corners, and his eyes shine in the torchlight, illuminating the makeshift practice area. He’s teasing. Seeing Felix relaxed and happy enough to tease sends a warm shiver through his gut. Sylvain feels an answering smile tug at his lips.

Felix pokes his cheek. “You better be paying attention this time,” he warns. 

Sylvain puts his hands up in pledge. “I am! I am!”

Even with reassurance, Felix stretches the tension until sweat starts to bead on Sylvain’s brow, and he’s nearly squirming in anticipation. When Felix finally takes a breath to answer, Sylvain leans forward. 

“Yes.”

Sylvain’s fingers close around the ring as Felix presses it back into his grip. He doesn’t let the smile slip off his face because he can’t imagine not smiling with Felix in his arms, but that doesn’t mean he will accept this refusal without a fight. The first practiced argument finds his tongue. “I know you think we should wait until after the battle, but it makes more sense to get engaged now. Afterward, there will be—”

Felix interrupts him by pressing a hand over his mouth. Sylvain reflexively licks his palm and ends up being the one to pull back when the taste of leather and sword polish hits his tongue. He grimaces.

“Are you deaf?” Felix asks, “Or too stupid to know what ‘yes’ means?”

“I’m not—” Sylvain pauses. He blinks, replaying their conversation until he hears Felix’s yes. The word echoes through his skull, getting louder and louder until he has to grab onto Felix’s arms to keep from sinking to the ground. Yes . Felix said yes . A giggle bubbles up from his chest. It figures that Felix would agree the one time he was ready for him to argue. 

“Sylvain?” Felix asks, his steady grip the only thing keeping Sylvain upright. “Did I break you?”

Sylvain hears the question, but his brain refuses to process it. Married. They’re getting married. They’ll share a home, a bedroom, a life. They’ll wake up every morning with their limbs tangled together. Felix will leave his clothes all over their room, but Sylvain will tolerate it because he loves Felix. And Sylvain will whine and moan about long hours governing the country and waking up early to fit in a training session, but Felix will tolerate it because—

“Because I love you, too, or whatever,” Felix answers Sylvain’s rambled mutterings, then grunts as Sylvain hoists him into the air and swings him in a circle. He still feels too easy to lift, too light, but Sylvain has the rest of his life to make sure that Felix is fed and happy and his. Felix is his. He spins them twice before setting a disgruntled Felix back on his feet. Felix whacks him on the chest for his trouble, but there’s no force behind it and he leans into Sylvain’s space right after, so he’s not really upset. 

Once he regains his balance, Felix takes off his glove and offers Sylvain his left hand. “Well,” Felix says when Sylvain doesn’t move. “Are you going to put it on for me?” 

In his haste to do just that, Sylvain almost drops it twice. Somehow, the ring ends up on Felix’s finger. It’s a perfect fit—Sylvian had taken great care to get the size right—and the teal and red stones glitter against the band. They both stare at it for a long time before Sylvain pulls Felix tight against his chest. 

It would be romantic to stand in each other’s arms, newly engaged, in the flickering torchlight, if not for the clang of weapons clashing and grunts of exertion in the background. The sounds remind Sylvain that they’re in a war camp on the eve of battle, and his good mood evaporates into the night. 

“Felix—” Sylvain starts, “about tomorrow—”

He trails off as Felix presses a kiss to his lips. “I have no intention of dying tomorrow.” Puffs of warm breath ghost against his lips as Felix speaks. “And you better not let anybody kill you either. We promised.”

Sylvain cups the nape of Felix’s neck. They’re pressed too close together for being in a public place, but Sylvain can’t bring himself to care. The reminder of their promise brings back a memory of another time, of Felix’s tiny hand entwined with his equally small one and words of forever shared between children who couldn’t possibly understand what the word meant. Sylvain is older now and knows how soulless forever would be alone.  

“Promise me you’ll stay by my side until we die?”

“I already said yes,” Felix says. He endures Sylvain’s hug for another minute before he pokes him in the ribs. “Go get your lance. I want to get a few more reps in.” He pushes Sylvain toward the rack of practice weapons, ignoring his protests. 

In an ideal world where he didn’t propose on the eve of battle, Sylvain would have swept Felix off his feet after that promise and carried him through the moonlight to their shared tent. But this is not that world, and the Agarthan army awaits them tomorrow, so Sylvain picks up his lance and faces off against his fiancé. Never one to disregard an advantage, Felix fights with his left hand bare, and Sylvain loses every match, distracted by the glint of gold on Felix’s hand. He’s not upset in the slightest.

Sylvain ducks low in the saddle to avoid the sword of an Agarthan Pegasus rider. As the rider swoops past him, a veteran from his battalion clips a shadowed wing and sends the enemy careening into the ground. Before they can recover from the impact, Sylvain slices the rider’s head off with his lance and turns to parry another strike before the body can dissolve into nothing. 

Stories always depict battles as spectacles of glory where knights display their skill and bravery, and enemies wait politely for a fair, back-and-forth exchange of blows. In Sylvain’s unfortunately vast experience, actual combat is chaotic, impolite, and deadly. The stories never mention stumbling over the limbs of fallen comrades and enemies alike or the desperate screaming of the dying. They gloss over how blood slicks the shaft of a weapon and how a moment of inattention could mean shattered bones or a life-ending wound.

Every fiber of his being longs to look for Felix, to gaze out over the throngs of soldiers to find a flash of teal or the golden glint of the Aegis shield. He longs to ride to Felix’s side and face this enemy together, but surviving requires all of Sylvain’s focus. Looking for Felix could mean his life or those of his battalion, so she shoves down the rising tide of anxiety and thinks only of his next target. 

He turns just in time to redirect a blow aimed at his head. The Falcon Knight wheels in a tight circle and turns back to charge him again. Sylvain throws a fireball to knock her off course and thrusts his lance at her torso. She manages to block him, and the impact with her shield sends a jolt of pain up his arm. His shoulder feels numb, and it’s all he can do to dodge her next three strikes. 

On the fourth, Beauty slips in the snow-slick mud, and only a powerful Thoron saves him from a lance through the gut. He spares a moment to glance toward his savior and sees Dorothea clad in the armor of a Holy Knight of Serios. Her hair streams behind her in the wind as she casts two more spells in quick succession that separate the Falcon Knight from her Pegasus. 

Sylvain kills the creature before she can remount and puts the Agarthan woman between him and Dorothea, forcing her to defend the attack from two sides. Her lance work is lethal and quick, the tip of her weapon darting from behind her shield as she deflects their attacks. It’s familiar in a way that makes Sylvain wary, as is the shape of her shield. Shadows cling to the metal, but through them, Sylvain can almost make out—

A quick jab punches into the shoulder of his armor, throwing him off his horse and into the mud. He grits his teeth through the impact and rolls, wrenching the lance from her grip. As the woman deflects one of Dorothea’s firebolts, he takes a second to inspect his shoulder. The tip hadn’t punctured his armor; only a small dent showed where he’d taken the hit. He’d have a nasty bruise tomorrow, but he can fight. 

He levers himself to his feet and rejoins the fray. His reach is longer than the Falcon Knight’s, and he’s stronger, but she is fast. Luckily, Sylvain is well-practiced at fighting a quick opponent and losing her weapon puts her on defense. Between him and Dorothea, she is dead in less than a minute, leaving behind her shield. 

Sylvain nudges it with his boot. It looks like the Aegis shield, but it can’t be. He’d seen it on Felix’s arm this morning, gleaming gold like all the hero’s relics. Still, he can’t deny the similarities.

“The Agarthans revived the Ten Elites,” Dorothea says before Sylvain can work himself into a panic. “Or recreated them somehow. Byleth ordered us to take them out to weaken Nemesis.” Her eyes dart over his shoulder, and he turns, thrusting his lance through the gut of an Agarthan foot soldier before turning back to Dorothea.   

“So that was—?” he trails off, unable to finish his thought. 

“Fraldarius,” Dorothea finishes for him. “Or something that looks like her, anyway.”

Sylvain feels a shiver run up his spine. Reviving the Ten Elites and making them fight their descendants. What more were these monsters capable of? 

A glance shows his battalion making quick work of the remaining Agarthan soldiers. “Where to next?” he asks Dorothea.

“I passed Daphnel on my way to help you.”

Sylvain follows the line of her finger to a Holy Knight commanding two demonic beasts, and just beyond, Ashe and Dedue engaged with a third. Somewhere on the battlefield, Felix was probably facing another of the Ten Elite, and Sylvain longs to ride until he finds him, longs to make sure he’s alright. But that would take too long, and his friends need help.

He’ll have to trust Dimitri and Byleth to keep Felix safe. 

“With me,” he calls to his scattered battalion. As they fall into formation behind him, he remounts Beauty and extends a hand to pull Dorothea up. Once she’s seated behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist, he spurs Beauty back into battle.

They make quick work of Daphnel and his demonic beasts, then Lamine. He sees Ingrid fell Dominic with a diving strike and watches the corpses of demonic beasts pile up on the battlefield. Little by little, the sounds of clanging metal and people screaming fade until he notices a gathering group of soldiers at the far end of the valley. 

He and Dorothea dismount at the edge of the circle, and he pushes his way through. Disgruntled voices give way to apologies when the knights recognize his armor and the Lance of Ruin, and he’s able to reach the clearing at the center quickly. Relief weakens his knees when he sees Dimitri standing in the center, flanked by Byleth and Felix, then fades when he notices who they’re facing. 

Shadows cling to a grizzled man as tall as Dimitri and nearly twice as wide. Scars cover nearly every visible inch of his skin, and he holds the Sword of the Creator. A glance confirms that he hadn’t disarmed Byleth, so it can only be another Agarthan creation. Which makes that man—

“Nemesis,” Ingrid says, squeezing between him and Dorothea. He arches a brow when he sees their hands clasp, but Nemesis jumps forward, and Sylvain jerks his attention back to the combatants. 

Nemesis dodges Dimitri’s strike and sends the flexible blade towards his blind spot. Before Sylvain can scream a warning, Felix blocks the attack, sparks flashing where the two relics collide. Byleth aims a strike at Nemesis, but he retracts his sword in time to parry. Even three-on-one, Nemesis holds his ground, and they go back and forth in a deadly dance. 

Sylvain grinds his teeth, wanting to step in, but another blade would only get in the way. He watches, fists clenched, as Felix dives out of the way of Nemesis’s blade and comes to his feet in a fluid roll in time to counterstrike. His hair whips behind him as he whirls to protect Dimitri from another attack. Even fighting for his life, he’s beautiful. 

It seems like they could go on forever, exchanging blows, when Nemesis launches a jumping strike at Felix. He flips backward, throwing the Aegis shield into the ground and knocking the Sword of the Creator from his hands. Nemesis reaches down to retrieve it but is forced backward by Byleth. Unarmed, he’s forced on the defensive, dodging each strike until Dimitri drives Ahreadbar through his chest. 

Silence fills the battlefield as Dimitri holds his lance aloft with Nemesis impaled upon the shaft. Smoke pours from the wound in thick ribbons as his body slides slowly down. Before he can reach Dimitri’s gauntlets, his body dissolves into smoke, and just like that, it’s over. 

Throngs of soldiers rush to surround their King, their cries of victory filling the air. Sylvain shoves his way toward the center, aiming for the spot where he last saw Felix, eyes scanning for any sign of a familiar teal cloak.

Sylvain grunts as somebody collides with him from behind. Familiar gauntlets—ones he fastened on earlier this morning—grip his armor as Felix hugs him. All the tension drains from his body as the knowledge that they both survived fills him. Sylvain laughs with the sheer relief of it and swings Felix around to hug him properly.  

Felix’s usually disorderly hair is a mess, matted with blood and sweat. The scent of reason magic clings to him, but underneath, Sylvain can smell sweat and floral notes from the hair oil Annette gifted him. A small cut stretches from his cheek to his ear, and Sylvain heals it as he drags a finger across. 

As Sylvain looks him over, noticing a few rips in his leather armor, Felix inspects him in return. His eyes narrow as he notices the dent on Sylvain’s shoulder plate. “Don’t tell me you let somebody through your guard,” Felix says, inspecting his armor. 

“I had a run-in with Fraldarius,” Sylvains says. Felix’s eyebrows raise. “Lucky for me, she isn’t as fast as her descendent. The blow didn’t pierce my armor.” It hurt quite a bit, but he doesn’t want to worry Felix. Besides, it isn’t anything Mercedes can’t handle. By tomorrow, it will be reduced to a bruise, which he’ll use as an excuse to wheedle Felix into pampering him. 

“Good,” Felix says with a proud light in his eye and kisses him soundly. It’s not a very good kiss, as far as kisses go. Neither can stop smiling, and their teeth keep colliding as soldiers jostle them from every side in a rush to congratulate each other, but it’s everything Sylvain could ask for. It’s over. It’s finally over. And he has Felix safe in his arms. 

He’s not naive; he knows there’s more to do. The Agarthan army might be destroyed, but their compounds remain, filled with inhuman experiments and dangerous weapons. But that’s a problem for somebody else. Somebody without a fiancé to build a home and country with. Somebody who is neither Felix nor Sylvain. 

Around them, soldiers praise the quick end to a monstrous enemy and sing odes to the strength of their King. Sylvain ignores all of them in favor of Felix, who wraps his arms around Sylvain’s neck. He needs to find Dorothea and the rest of the Blue Lions, but for now, Sylvain holds Felix tight in his arms and loses himself in their kiss.

Chapter Text

A soft tune in a familiar voice reaches Sylvain’s ears as he approaches the stables. It’s a tune from a popular opera featuring a secret relationship between the heir to a noble house and the daughter of a baker. He doesn’t remember much about the story, but the music is upbeat and catchy. Happy.

Sylvain leans against the doorframe and watches Dorothea brush her mare’s coat in even strokes. She sings both parts of the duet, switching easily between the characters as she works. She’s wearing clothes suited for travel, and a thick cloak hangs on the open stall door. Unlike the clothes she’d traveled in for months, these are brightly colored and woven with quality materials. A gift from a suitor, perhaps?

Dorothea looks up as Sylvain enters, the song's final notes fading. “I didn’t realize you were leaving today,” he says, offering an apple to Beauty as he enters. She greedily takes it from his hand before sniffing his jacket in the hopes of finding more. He strokes her velvet nose before turning to pluck an oiled saddle and a blanket from the bench and bringing them to Dorothea.

“I would have left sooner,” Dorothea says as she lays the blanket across the mare’s back. Sylvain waits for her to smooth the invisible wrinkles before placing the saddle on top. “But apparently, it takes many moons to mobilize your knights.”

Sylvain stifles a smile. She’d been increasingly vocal about wanting to leave, but Dimitri had insisted she go well supported and well supplied. Not wanting to send the unwilling, he had called for volunteers to track down their enemy and force them from the shadows. Volunteers had lined the streets after the announcements. Some were war veterans who knew no life other than fighting; others were magic scholars or church historians interested in learning about the Agarthans. Those who hadn’t volunteered had offered information and supplies. All of which took months to sort through and organize. So, Dorothea may be impatient with the wait, but she’d be safer and more effective.

Besides, nothing about her stance as she tightened the saddle looks impatient. The dark circles under her eyes have disappeared, and her hair is neatly combed and styled to tumble over her shoulder in gentle waves. She looks taller, too, like she’s not huddled against a heavy weight. He’s happy for her—happy she can seek closure without the suffocating pressure of desperation. He’s even happier that he’s not going.

“I heard you picked Ingrid to lead your knights,” he says with a knowing smile.

Dorothea leads her mare out of the stall and lifts a pair of stuffed saddlebags. She hands one to Sylvain, who dutifully fastens it. “Is that such a strange choice?” she asks. “She’s a competent fighter, and the knights respect her authority.”

While all that might be true, Sylvain knows that’s not the only reason Ingrid is going. He’s teased Ingrid relentlessly over the past few weeks, relishing as her cheeks turned ruddy and she fled the conversation, but he hasn’t seen much of Dorothea. She’d been researching the Agarthans, and Sylvain avoided even whispers of that group. “So, it has nothing to do with the reports of you two taking tea together in the gardens or sparring in the practice fields late at night? You know, you never told me what happened after we flew off on Ingrid’s Pegasus.”

“And I never will,” Dorothea says, eyeing him. “For such a busy noble, you gossip like a fishwife.”

“Neither Felix nor Dimitri are much for idle conversation, so somebody has to keep them abreast of the latest news.” Since Sylvain is not the Margrave, he has no specific role in Dimitri’s court. Sure, he could volunteer to lead a counsel, train the knights, or become an ambassador like the other Blue Lions, but nothing calls to him. One day, he might desire more responsibility. For now, he’s happy to share Felix’s workload, his meals, his company, and his bed.

“And how is being the Duke’s kept man?” Dorothea asks, her eyes dancing.

Sylvain waggles his eyebrows. “Physically demanding.”

“Yes, I’d heard rumors that you start every morning getting your ass kicked on the training grounds,” Dorothea retorts tartly. “Seems your husband-to-be wants to keep you trim for the wedding.”

As usual, even mentioning his upcoming wedding puts a smile on his face. Sylvain runs his finger over the band on his finger, delighting in the feel of the smooth metal. Felix had surprised him with it on the day they returned from fighting the Agarthans. “ Don’t get all sentimental about this,”  Felix had said.  “I’m simply tired of all the courtesans thinking they might have a chance with the future Margrave.”  Despite the warning, Sylvain had blubbered when Felix put it on his finger and hasn’t removed it since.

Dorothea rolls her eyes at his expression. “Pity the fool in love,” she says theatrically, and Sylvain laughs. Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles back, and for a moment, Sylvain glimpses a future where their spouses spar in the courtyard while they debate the arts. He’s sorry he has to dampen the mood, but there’s one thing left to do. 

“Thea,” he says. Something in his voice must give him away because the smile slips from her face. Tension returns to her shoulders as he reaches into the pocket of his cloak and produces a battered black book. Wordless, he offers it to her. 

For a long time, she simply stares at it, her hands clenching and unclenching as if she fights her desire to grab it. Finally, she turns from him and mounts her horse. “Keep it,” she says, her voice thick.

“Thea—”

Dorothea shakes her head, silencing him. “Or destroy it. I don’t want it anymore.”

Sylvain’s heart aches with the pain he hears in her voice. If things had been a little different, if they’d been a bit slower, it could be him with only a book and his memories. “Thea—”

“It’s time,” she says, looking him in the eye. Her eyes shine with tears, but her voice is steady. “It’s the choice of the living how they want to remember the dead.” She swipes her thumb across her cheek, interrupting the line of tears. “And I choose to remember the happy moments. Tea and pastries in the garden and dancing together in a candlelit courtyard.”

With a nod, Sylvain tucks the book back into his cloak. Dorothea wipes her face clean as Sylvain leads her horse out of the stable and into the morning sun. He sees Ingrid across the courtyard, assembling the knights into two neat rows. “Take care of each other,” he tells Dorothea. 

“We will,” Dorothea says, sitting straighter in the saddle when she glimpses Ingrid. Sylvain opens his mouth to tease her, but she cuts him a glare so icy he resists. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she adds, “We’ll be back in time for your wedding, and I expect seats of honor, Sylvain.” 

“You’ll have them,” he promises. 

He watches as Dorothea joins the group, then turns back into the stables, where he readies Beauty and a smaller, gentle-natured mare for a trip.

“How much farther is it?” Sylvain asks for the fifth time in as many minutes. He’s not genuinely curious. The day is bright and pleasantly chilly, and Sylvain is more than happy to follow wherever Felix leads, even a little backwater village half a day’s ride from the capital. But Felix has been in a strange mood all morning. 

When Felix had asked him to come, he hadn’t told Sylvain where they were going or why. He’d mentioned repaying a debt, then refused to say anything else.  

“Felix!” Sylvain whines when Felix continues to ignore him. “Won’t you take pity on your poor fiancé and tell him where we’re going?”

Turning his head just enough to roll his eyes at Sylvain, Felix says, “My poor fiancé should get used to not always getting what he wants. I’d hate for him to become spoiled.” His tone is harsh, but there’s a tilt to the corner of his mouth that makes Sylvain smile in return. He loves this brat.

“I think I deserve to be spoiled.”

The sound Felix makes can only be described as skeptical. “I do spoil you,” he points out. “I let you pick the venue for our wedding. I let you pick the date. I let you pick—”

“Only because you told everybody that we’d get married in the middle of the woods on the coldest day of the year,” Sylvain interrupts with a laugh. The wedding of a duke is no small occasion, especially one with such close ties to the king. Some days, it seems like everybody from Dimitri’s advisors to the farmers of Ordelia has an opinion on where and how they should wed—at Garreg Mach for the new Archbishop to bless the union, Fhirdiad to celebrate their roots, or Fraldarius since it’s the Duke’s wedding.

After a particularly heated argument that derailed a council meeting for over an hour, Felix had publicly threatened to pick the most miserable conditions for a wedding. Worse weather would encourage the guests not to come, he argued. Sylvain appreciated the sentiment, but Annette was horrified. She appointed herself their official wedding planner and, after two days of hounding Felix for preferences about flowers and outfits, had gotten him to agree that Sylvain would make all wedding-related decisions. Sylvain isn’t sure what she offered—or threatened—him with, but wedding planning has gone smoothly since. 

“Speaking of our wedding,” Sylvain says. He’s never going to tire of saying that. Our wedding. “Annette wants to know what dessert we want to serve.”

Predictably, Felix has nothing nice to say about any of the desserts Sylvain lists. Peach sorbet was too sweet. Saghert and cream too mushy. The sunbeams pierce through the trees overhead to spread patches of light onto Felix’s hair as he finds something wrong with every suggestion. Sylvain is having trouble thinking of something more ridiculous than sugar-coated board meat cake when they round a corner, revealing a small cottage in the center of a clearing. 

It's picturesque in a rural way. Icicles drip from the thatched roof, and snow lines each windowsill. There’s wood stacked in neat piles and buckets for collecting snow to melt. Smoke rises lazily from the small chimney, signaling that somebody is home. A dog starts barking as they approach the house, and the door swings open, revealing an older woman in a worn but clean dress. Sylvain turns to Felix in question, but Felix strides forward without looking at him.

He introduces himself with a deep bow, stunning Sylvain, the old woman, and the man who comes to join her in the doorway. There’s only one person in Fodlan that the Duke of Fraldarius should bow to, and he would protest if Felix ever tried. Just who are these people? 

Despite his curiosity, Sylvain follows Felix’s lead, bowing when he’s introduced, and soon finds himself seated at a small wooden table that tilts whenever he leans his elbows on it. The woman serves four cups of tea before sitting next to her husband. Under the table, Felix clasps his hand. 

Felix clears his throat. “Are you Alina’s parents?”

At the name, both startle. Their fingers weave together as they lean forward, looking imploringly at Felix. “You know our Alina?” the woman asks. “Is she alive?”

Felix hesitates, debating which question to answer first, before he says, “Yes, I knew your daughter. She was the bravest woman I’ve ever met.” 

From the way both their faces crumble, they caught his wording. Tears trace the wrinkles on the old woman’s face. “How—” she chokes on the question. Her husband rubs her back and finishes for her. “How did she die?”

“She died a hero,” Felix says. “Thousands of people are alive today because of her bravery. I’m alive today because of her bravery.” The couple sits up straighter. Who wouldn’t with Duke Fraldarius speaking so highly of their daughter? Even among the common people, it’s no secret that Felix isn’t easily impressed. “I came to tell you her story.”

It’s dark when they leave the cottage and walk the path back to the town where their horses are stabled. Sylvain reaches for Felix’s hand, squeezing it when Felix grips back too tightly. His eyes itch, and his head feels fuzzy from crying, but he also feels lighter. 

They’re not healed—not today, maybe not ever. But they’re together. They survived. Tomorrow, they’ll return to Fhirdiad. They’ll plan their wedding and work towards a future of peace and prosperity—a future free of the Agarthan threat, a future where parents don’t answer their doors to news of their children’s deaths, a future Alina and many others gave their lives to make possible. A future Sylvain will face hand in hand with Felix as his husband.