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“Do you have a craving for the boy’s hair?”
Such a bizarre visual snaps Byleth out of her trance. “Hair?” she questions.
“Not so loud!” Sothis hisses. Her impatience stirs through Byleth as they wait for the commanders to cross the pathway and unblock their view. “Can you think of any creatures who feast on hair? You deserve to be counted among them if you keep staring.”
Except Byleth isn’t staring. She’s observing. The boy—the king—stands in the same spot every morning, greeting the golden sun as it settles over the camp. He could be indulging in his morning routine. She’s still getting to know him, after all, doing her best to declassify him as the enemy. But recalibrating her perception can’t make her abandon a mercenary’s lesser-known power: Memory. You must absorb every aspect of your target, from scars to moles to body language. Claude’s defining feature is the braid tucked behind his right ear.
“Will you not speak to him?” Sothis presses. “You would not be whining like a dog if you just made your presence known.”
Byleth retreats further back into her tent. “He looks busy.”
“And busy leaders need to take their minds off of things.”
Two soldiers cross the pathway, heading for the mess hall. Fresh bread and tinges of citrus waft through the air, rousing Byleth’s actual appetite. She begins to follow them before she gets left with scraps for breakfast.
“Your stomach can wait. Now do as I say!” Sothis snaps.
Byleth swallows her irritation and listens—and before Sothis threatens to wield her flesh again. She blinks at the ground with every step but almost trips over her feet when Claude turns his eager sun-kissed face to her. “Good morning,” she squeaks out.
“Hey. Did you rest well?”
How thoughtful, she thinks, until she remembers their impromptu detour from Fhirdiad. The entire army has been on edge since setting up camp in eastern Gloucester territory; she and the generals have taken turns on night patrols, on guard for those who slither in the dark. Nodding, she looks down at the leather-bound book in Claude’s hands. “What are you reading?”
“Researching alternatives for combat. Weapons and wyverns are all good, but we forget that alchemy can do the job, too.”
He opens the book to where his thumb has bookmarked the pages. The top half of the page illustrates two flowers, the broad-leaved narcissus. The first type has a tall stalk with keeled petals while the second has a fuller, bowl-shaped bloom. Byleth skims the description, learning that they have intensely sweet fragrances or up to twenty flowers on each stem.
“They’re called daffodils in Fódlan,” Claude explains. “They only grow in certain parts of Leicester. But don’t let the pretty things fool you, either. They’re dangerous if they fall into the wrong hands. Or even the right hands.”
“How so?”
He turns to the next page, showing her a diagram of a daffodil’s life cycle from a lone, thick-rooted bulb to a full-grown flower. “People commonly mistake the bulbs for onions. Eating them can irritate your mouth and make you dizzy and drowsy. But an extract from any part of the flower can make your stomach brew up a storm if you catch my drift.” His impish grin fades as he lets out a wry chuckle. “Long story short, let’s just call this research a hobby of mine.”
If he’d told Byleth this a month ago, she would have kept an ironclad grip on her dagger at all times. He may be too thrilled at the idea of poison, but she has to admit his ‘research’ is quite interesting. “That’s a unique hobby to have.”
“Thanks. Well, if you mean it as a compliment.”
Sothis expresses her dissatisfaction with a scoff. “In what world would we compliment that?”
Byleth squeezes her clammy fist, feeling a sting of regret. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“Oh, I was joking. I know my interests are sort of unconventional.”
They can’t be as odd as staring at him across the camp every morning, fixated on how the sunlight hits his profile. She stirs as she looks at the bronze bead holding his braid in place, dreading how close she is to making a fool of herself. “I have to eat,” she blurts out. “Breakfast, I mean.” She turns away in a hurry, tuning out how Sothis groans.
Having a full meal clears her mind, nourishing her to train in the afternoon. She hacks at a training dummy, changing positions as she imagines different scenarios in combat. Her thoughts drift to targets poisoned by daffodils and how easy a fight could go by debilitating the enemy. Just how many sneaky tactics did Claude have planned? Would he care to share more of his brilliant ideas with her? She stops pondering when she sees Sothis floating next to the dummy.
“You are too soft with your strikes,” the goddess scolds. “Being smitten has made you more skittish than a rat.”
No one can hear her blabbering, but Byleth still glances around the camp in a panic. “Why are you so insistent about him?”
“Why do you insist on letting his face flood your mind?” Sothis then taps a finger against her chin, turning her fierce eyes upwards. “Perhaps that is the problem. Your thoughts about him are trapped between the two of us to hear.”
Byleth listens reluctantly, knowing the solution will fill her with twice the amount of dread.
“It is rather embarrassing how we ended up here in the first place, but at least those who bested us show potential to connect with.”
“And you want me to connect with him?” Byleth timidly asks.
“I am not particularly desperate to know the boy. Just because he makes a good king does not mean he is any less vexing.” Sothis’ rigid features thaw as she approaches her timid vessel. “But I do know your heart as if it were my own. He makes you curious. You feel a rush of warmth when you hear his name. I have to admit it is quite soothing for me as well.”
Letting calmness flow where vengeance once thrived has been a drastic change. Her hatred threatened to bleed her dry until the moment Claude said a part of him had been calling out to her. Now she has a chance to be free from the darkness, to start anew and find a greater purpose.
To answer his long-awaited call.
The next morning in the command center brings a perfectly reasonable excuse to stare. Claude doles out the next set of responsibilities, choosing who will rout bandits and stay behind to volunteer around camp. He’s firm but not overbearing in his decisions, giving room for everyone to voice their opinion. Something about his attentiveness makes Byleth soften. After the meeting, she stands off to the side, waiting for him to finish speaking with Judith and Holst. Once he beckons her over with that easy smile, she says the six words that kept her tossing and turning the night before.
“I know where to find daffodils.”
His thick brows perk up. “Really?”
A year ago, the mercenaries trekked through this part of Gloucester territory, tasked with settling a petty dispute over an arranged marriage. Jeralt tried to avoid family squabbles, but coin was coin. They walked through windswept pines that dipped down a hillside, leading to a valley sprinkled with golden blossoms. The smell of grass tinged with vanilla tickled Byleth’s nostrils, and she felt a rare sense of astonishment at the vivid blooms, shining like burgeoning stars that had fallen at her feet. The chaos of war made her forget just how much color could exist in the world.
“I can take you whenever you have time,” she says to Claude.
“I’d love that. How about this afternoon? Just gotta write back to some fussy lords first.”
The shock of the moment awakens Sothis. “So soon? His Majesty must be as eager as you are.”
Nervous, Byleth glances at the stack of letters on the table. Then Sothis clears her throat abrasively, reminding her that Claude is waiting, watching, expectation ablaze in his luminous eyes. “I’d love that, too,” she softly replies, knowing it'll earn her a shrill lecture from Sothis.
As expected, the goddess zooms out of her as they leave the building. “Why the slouched shoulders? You must walk with confidence if you will be in a king’s company! It would be nice if you brushed your hair as well.” She swats her translucent hand against Byleth’s cloak, then glares at her the way a commander would size up a meek soldier. “Is that dirt I see on your clothes? And when was the last time you bathed?”
“Stop it,” Byleth mutters, shielding her pink face from the camp. Her frantic state intensifies by midday when she waits for Claude at the gates with two horses. He emerges through the busy soldiers going about their day, walking with purpose as his yellow cape glides in the wind. Byleth rocks back and forth as she clasps her wrist tight, wincing against the flames spreading along her cool skin.
Once they leave camp, she realizes she can’t stay silent forever. “How have your meetings been lately?” she asks Claude.
“Feels like they get longer and longer by the day. But we don’t have to talk about work.”
“I don’t mind.” It is what a mercenary’s life is all about.
“More work means more problems. I’d rather kick back and relax.” Then his smile droops as he fidgets with his braid. “Uh, don’t tell Judith I said that.”
Byleth catches herself smiling back. His secret is safe with her.
They travel south with the sun, making small talk over the chittering birds in the lush, half-shaded forest. The terrain eventually dips into a hill and Byleth shivers with anticipation as they approach the familiar valley. Relief swells upon seeing the masses of yellow daffodils sprouting from the earth, still intact and sumptuous as the sweeping mountains in the distance. In a war-torn territory, the stunning field feels like a sanctuary worth protecting.
Claude lets out a low whistle, resting his hands on his hips. “What a sight.” He smiles like the boy enamored with the morning sun until he turns to Byleth with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Race you to the bottom?”
Unamused, she stays still. “It’s too dangerous to fool around on a hill.”
“More dangerous than a daffodil?” he goads.
How clever. Boys are no different than children. While glaring at Claude, she quietly reaches for Sothis in the depths of her mind. (What do I do now?)
“You figure it out. All this banter is putting me to sleep.”
Then Claude trudges down the tree-lined hillside, a speck of life melding into a vast world—a world Byleth wouldn’t have imagined belonging in. She reluctantly follows him, darting her gaze between the pines for any sign of movement. Her father would rage if he knew she’d led the Federation’s king into an open field for enemies to swoop in. Claude slows his descent as he hops over the trees’ exposed roots. He takes a small step but his gold boot slips on a thick root and he lurches forward to grab a tree trunk. Cursing to herself, Byleth jumps ahead to catch up.
But Claude’s grip on the trunk slips and he stumbles again, falling face first and yelling in pain. Byleth runs like she’s been thrust into battle, picking up the pace as Claude careens down the hill. She catches him by the wrist, digging her boots into the ground to pull him up. He looks ridiculous with his mussed hair and panicked green eyes, undeserving of any sympathy. But Byleth tosses an arm around him, helping him sit in the grass.
“Are you hurt?” she tensely asks.
Thin blades of grass fall out of his hair as he shakes his head and coughs into his dirty glove. “Just embarrassed I’d trip in front of someone as tough as you.”
Sothis responds with a curt hum. “You have set your affections on an oaf. Heavens, I have so much more to teach you.”
Ignoring them both, Byleth inspects Claude’s uniform for punctures, sweeping mud off his rose gold chest armor. Aside from a scratch on his chin and scarlet cheeks, he looks fine—like a living, breathing idiot, but fine. Then her face tightens as she glances at his braid, unraveled from the fall. The bronze bead that holds it in place is missing.
“Gods, do I look that beat up?” Claude asks with a hint of worry.
“No. Your…” Some explanations are better fit for showing, not telling. Byleth shyly reaches for his braid, jolted by the spark between her fingertips. “It’s gone.”
“Oh, that old thing. I have spare ones back at camp.”
She suddenly feels smothered by sadness. He’s still Claude, of course, but without a braid, it feels like he’s missing a core piece of himself. She strokes his wavy hair, cherishing what’s left of the twisted strands when she feels an unexpected burst of courage.
“May I?”
Claude studies her for a beat of silence, only blinking once he understands her request. “Yeah. Go for it.”
It promptly occurs to her that she has no idea what she’s doing. Her father dons a braid. The feisty goddess in her head has two. She imagines the patterns she knows well and divides Claude’s hair into three sections. She guesses to pull the left strand over the middle, and it makes sense to tuck the right strand where the middle one stood. After starting over a couple of times, the familiar pattern finally forms in her hands. But her concentration wavers with a glance at Claude’s long lashes, wet from coughing. His nostrils twitch as he stares at his dusty boots. He looks frail, a target prime for striking. But he isn’t an enemy anymore. He’s a clumsy king who floods her veins with nervous devotion—and somehow, he means everything to her in this moment.
“You aren’t one for many words, huh?” he asks.
Startled, Byleth glimpses through the braid.
“It’s not a bad thing,” he adds with an uplifting note. “Choosing your words carefully is a fine quality to have.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to find the right thing to say.”
“So say what’s on your mind now.”
She wants to be as honest as possible, but there is simply no sane way to admit it isn’t just his braid that puts her at ease. A single thought about him makes her bend and curve like a brook in the woods. Sharing personal space with him makes her chest buzz, like a restless force inside demands to be freed. The last time she followed him, he spared her life so she could have a new beginning. The promising spark in her core says another chase could lead her toward something bigger.
Claude nudges her knee with his. “What’s that smile for?”
It comes out as more of an observation than a question. Still, Byleth softly laughs. “I was thinking that you must really love flowers if you’d trip down a hill for them.”
Claude tilts his head toward the sun, letting out a precious laugh. The sound first made her sway when he sat a table away from her sharing a meal with his friends. She yearned to hear it again when she hid in the stables and watched him fall asleep under his wyvern’s wing, murmuring to the creature in an unfamiliar tongue. She doesn’t have to be far from him anymore, not when he can carry her to new heights.
With a final twist, she reaches the end of the braid. It isn’t perfect, but she wouldn’t oppose another chance to practice. “You’re a natural,” Claude compliments, taking hold of the braid. “Too bad about the bead though.”
An idea comes to Byleth as she looks down—the answer is always closer than she thinks. She tugs on the pink tassels dangling from her medallion, pulling one cord out from the bunch. Claude’s chest rises with a sharp breath as she makes a sudden move closer, but she only ties the cord into a knot, securing her hard work.
“Try not to slip again,” she teases, blushing on full display.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s go pick some poison.”
They stand again, staying close on the walk down. Claude peers at her from the corner of his bright eye, his curiosity piercing hot, but Byleth’s nerves dwindle as they mirror each other’s smiles. She tips her chin to her chest again, grateful for her guiding nuisance inside. (You were right. Connecting is good.)
“Do not waste your time connecting with me! The boy is all yours.”
All mine. The idea could make Byleth take a tumble of her own.
“You’ve seen how reckless I can be,” Claude says when they reach the tangled roots again. He extends a hand out to Byleth, flashing a sweet and scheming smile. “Care to help me out?”
Joy thrums through her as their hands lock in place. She could get used to walking in step with him, forever at his side.