Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Byleth guided his horse through the dense yet serene forest, the morning light filtering through the canopy, casting soft golden rays upon the path ahead. Clainsiia, perched confidently in front of him, clung to his side, her eyes wide with curiosity as they rode deeper into the woods. The air was fresh, carrying the scent of pine and the melodic songs of birds overhead. The shimmering blue lake that reflected the sky in the distance made the scene feel almost magical. To Clainsiia, it seemed as though they were being led by some unseen force, like the light itself was guiding them.

"Father," she asked softly, her voice laced with wonder, "What are we going to do again?"

Byleth chuckled gently, reaching over to ruffle her blue hair , so much like his own. Her eager questions always reminded him of his younger days, the days when he too was filled with uncertainty but also an unrelenting drive. "We're going to train, Clainsiia," he said with warmth. "Not just for you to become strong, but so you can protect your younger sibling when the time comes. One day, you'll lead Fódlan just like your mother."

Clainsiia blinked, her mind drifting to her lessons with Shamir, Leonie, and Yuri. She had learned much from them, but today felt different. She furrowed her brow, piecing together her thoughts. "Is that why Shamir, Leonie, and Yuri trained me, Father? So I can protect?"

Byleth nodded. "Yes. They see in you the same potential your mother and I do. But there's more to it. They, like me, were mercenaries once. We fought to survive, to protect what mattered most." His eyes softened as he remembered his past, the lessons from his own father. "Even my father taught me to fight when I was young, just like I’m teaching you now."

Clainsiia wrinkled her nose in concentration. "Meru…merumary?" she tried to say, causing Byleth to burst into laughter.

"Mercenary," he corrected her gently, his voice still carrying a hint of amusement. "But you're close." He then crouched down, pulling her off the horse before tying the lead rope to a nearby tree.

The sun shone through the branches, casting a halo of light around them as Byleth retrieved two bows from the saddle—one iron and one smaller, just right for Clainsiia. He handed the miniature bow to his daughter, along with a few arrows, watching as her tiny fingers curled around them.

"Do you remember how to shoot?" he asked.

Clainsiia's eyes lit up, and she nodded rapidly. "Of course, father!" She gripped the bow with determination, though her small hands fumbled slightly in excitement. Byleth placed a gentle hand over hers, guiding her fingers into the proper grip. Together, they walked towards an old abandoned mercenary base that still bore the marks of battle. The worn targets stood resolute, as if waiting for new challenges.

"Each battle," Byleth whispered, "is a chance to grow."

Clainsiia gazed at the targets, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her memories of past lessons swirled in her mind, but for a moment, her thoughts stilled. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, and spoke aloud, her words carried by the soft forest breeze.

"Goddess Sothis, if you can hear me... please give me the strength like my father had when you gave him your power."

Byleth's smile deepened as he listened to her prayer. It reminded him of how far he had come, the stories he had shared with her—tales of strength, loss, and victory. There was something magical in seeing his daughter aspire to carry on the legacy, not just of her family but of the peace they had fought so hard to achieve.

"Hmm... and this child is trying to be like someone I know." A voice, ethereal yet familiar, drifted into the clearing. Byleth turned his gaze, and there, beside him, stood Sothis—her shimmering green hair and golden eyes glowing softly in the filtered light of the forest. She crossed her arms, a hint of amusement in her expression. "You really are trying to make her strong, huh?"

Byleth chuckled softly, his heart warm with the sight of the ancient goddess who had guided him through so many battles. "It's not just strength," he said, his voice gentle but resolute. "I want her to be able to protect, to understand what it means to fight not just for survival, but for those she loves."

As they spoke, Clainsiia drew back her bow, her small face set in determination. She let the arrow fly, and it landed with a satisfying thud, right in the red dot of the target. Her eyes widened with disbelief, and she glanced at her father, her heart pounding in her chest.

"What the!?" Sothis exclaimed, clearly startled. "How much training have you let them give her?"

Byleth crossed his arms, one leg bent as he leaned against the tree. He couldn’t help but be impressed by Clainsiia’s progress. "Shamir, Leonie, and Yuri... they've trained her well," he admitted, his voice filled with pride. "I want her to be better than me—stronger, faster, smarter."

Yet as the words left his lips, his gaze shifted downward, his brow furrowing slightly with a weight he couldn’t ignore. His fingers dug into the bark of the tree, a shadow of regret passing over him. Sothis, ever perceptive, noticed the change in his demeanor and stepped closer, her gaze softening.

"You don’t want her to be this way, do you?" she asked quietly.

Byleth's jaw tightened, his throat constricting for a moment. He glanced at Clainsiia, who was happily nocking another arrow, unaware of the quiet storm brewing in her father’s heart. "No, I don’t," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "But one day... one day there will be another war. And when Clainsiia rules, it might happen during her reign. I have to prepare her. I... I must do what I can as her father, even if it means... even if it means pushing her into a world I wish she never had to face."

Sothis looked at him, her ancient eyes filled with both wisdom and sorrow. "You wish you could give her a life of peace," she murmured. "But you know as well as I do that Fódlan’s history is stained with conflict. Perhaps, in training her, you can ensure she’s ready for it, even if the thought of it pains you."

Clainsiia, unaware of the conversation between her father and the goddess, shot her final arrow. It sailed through the air with precision, embedding itself into the target. Four arrows hit the smallest circle, three the second smallest, and three more scattered across the third smallest circle. She gasped, bouncing on her heels, excitement radiating from her like sunshine.

Byleth smiled, a mix of pride and melancholy swelling within him. "Impressive," he said, his voice regaining some of its warmth. He could see so much of both himself and her mother in Clainsiia—the determination, the fire, and the gentleness hidden beneath it all.

He knelt down, rummaging through a small bag he had brought with him. "I think you deserve something for your hard work today," he said with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Clainsiia’s eyes sparkled, curiosity tugging at her as she watched him. From the bag, Byleth pulled out a muffin, freshly baked and still slightly warm. Her excitement was palpable as she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck in gratitude.

“Is it my favorite?!” she squealed, bouncing on her heels.

Byleth chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling with affection as he nodded. "Yes, it is. Just for you."

Her smile widened as she eagerly took the muffin, plopping down beside him on the grassy forest floor. She wasted no time, taking a big bite, the sweetness melting on her tongue. But as she chewed, a thought crossed her mind. She slowed down, glancing up at her father with curious eyes.

"How did you know this was my favorite?" she asked between bites, her voice tinged with wonder.

Byleth’s smile deepened, a hint of playful mischief flickering in his eyes. He leaned back on his elbows, letting the gentle breeze caress his face. "Hubert may have mentioned it," he admitted with a chuckle. "He’s been watching you sneak into the kitchens a little more often than you think."

Clainsiia’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing pink with embarrassment. "Wait... Hubert caught me?!"

Byleth laughed softly, a warm, comforting sound. He placed a gentle hand on her back. "Don’t worry, I won’t tell your mother," he teased, lowering his voice in mock conspiracy.

Clainsiia let out a sigh of relief but then looked at him with disbelief. "Promise?"

"I promise," Byleth said with a soft chuckle. "Besides, your mother... well, let’s just say has been known to sneak a sweet or two herself."

Clainsiia giggled, a sound so pure it filled the forest around them with warmth. She nibbled on her muffin, relaxing in the peace of the moment. But then, a noise broke the tranquility—a distant, thudding sound growing closer, like thunder rolling over the horizon.

Byleth’s sharp senses kicked in. His muscles tensed as he straightened, his eyes narrowing toward the source of the sound. The ground trembled slightly beneath them as if a storm was approaching, though the sky above remained clear. It wasn’t thunder—it was hoofbeats, the unmistakable rhythm of a horse galloping toward them at full speed.

"Clainsiia," Byleth said in a low, steady voice, rising to his feet. "Get behind me."

Without hesitation, Clainsiia obeyed, her small form pressed against her father’s back, her muffin clutched tightly in her hands as her heart raced. Byleth’s hand gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever was coming their way. His senses heightened, every muscle in his body prepared to spring into action.

The noise grew louder, the hooves pounding the earth like a drumbeat. But as the figure came into view, Byleth’s grip on his sword loosened. His keen eyes caught a flash of orange hair flowing behind the rider, and the familiar crest on the armor told him exactly who was approaching.

The horse slowed as it reached them, and the rider dismounted with practiced ease. "Ferdinand," Byleth called out, relaxing his stance. He slid his sword back into its sheath, his brow furrowed slightly in concern. "What are you doing out here?"

Ferdinand approached, his usually composed face etched with urgency. He bowed slightly, a quick gesture of respect before speaking. "My apologies for the sudden intrusion, Professor," he said breathlessly, his eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. "It’s Edelgard. She’s—"

Byleth’s heart skipped a beat, his body going cold. "What’s wrong with her?" he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

Ferdinand hesitated for just a moment before delivering the news. "She’s in labor."

The world seemed to stop for a second. Byleth’s breath caught in his throat, a swirl of emotions flooding his chest—fear, joy, and the weight of responsibility all crashing into him at once. He could hardly believe it. The moment they had both been waiting for, the moment he had been preparing for, was finally here.

Clainsiia peeked around her father, her innocent face filled with confusion. "What’s labor?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Byleth placed a hand on her shoulder, trying to steady his racing heart. "It means your little brother or sister is coming."

he said gently, though inside, a storm of emotions swirled—joy, anticipation, and a thread of worry tightening in his chest.

Clainsiia’s wide eyes searched his face, her earlier excitement fading as concern took its place. "Will Mother be okay?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly, her hands gripping the now-forgotten muffin tightly. Her innocence in that moment, the way her brows furrowed in genuine worry, tugged at Byleth’s heart.

He knelt before her, placing a hand tenderly on her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray crumb. "Your mother is strong," he said softly, his voice filled with reassurance. "She went through this when she had you, and she’s going to be okay. I promise." His words, though calm and steady, carried the weight of his own fear—a fear he wouldn’t let show to his daughter.

Clainsiia gave a small nod, though her worry didn’t entirely disappear. Byleth rose, lifting her effortlessly into his arms and placing her gently atop Ferdinand’s horse. She held on tightly to the reins, her small frame looking even smaller against the large animal. "Stay with Ferdinand," Byleth instructed, his voice firm but loving as he met Ferdinand’s gaze.

Ferdinand nodded, his usual regal composure replaced with a more somber determination. Byleth gave him one last look, a silent plea to protect what mattered most to him. With that, Ferdinand took off, the sound of hooves thundering as they disappeared into the distance, carrying Clainsiia toward safety.

But Byleth wasn’t finished. His heart raced not just for Edelgard, but for the journey still ahead. He turned and sprinted toward his own horse, but as he neared, his breath caught in his throat. A massive wolf, its teeth bared and dripping with blood, had its jaws clamped around the horse’s leg, the once-majestic creature struggling in vain. The horse, Dakota, thrashed, its panicked whinnies cutting through the air.

"Damn beast," Byleth cursed under his breath, his eyes narrowing with fury. He could feel the pulse of urgency, the ticking of precious time slipping away. He drew a small dagger from his belt, its edge gleaming in the fading light. Without hesitation, he hurled it with precision. The blade struck true, embedding deep into the wolf’s skull. The creature let out a strangled yelp before it collapsed, lifeless, onto the ground, its massive form sinking into the dirt.

Byleth didn’t waste a second. He strode over, his hand gripping the hilt of the dagger as he pulled it free from the beast’s head. Blood coated the blade, but Byleth’s attention was elsewhere—on Dakota.

The horse was in agony. Its legs trembled, its eyes wide with pain and fear. Byleth’s heart sank as he knelt beside the animal, stroking its neck, feeling the warmth of its fur beneath his palm. "Dakota..." His voice cracked, the weight of realization crashing over him. Dakota had been his father’s horse, a steadfast companion, a symbol of the past he held onto. But now... now the beautiful creature was suffering.

"I’m sorry, old friend," Byleth whispered, his hand steadying as he prepared to do what he must. He stroked Dakota’s mane one last time, pressing his forehead to the horse’s as if saying a silent goodbye. Dakota, as if understanding, closed its eyes, its breath slowing until it stopped entirely.

Sothis’s voice echoed softly in his mind, her tone laced with sorrow. "I am sorry, Byleth... Dakota was once your father’s... I know how much this must hurt."

Byleth stood, his eyes clouded with grief. He looked up, seeing the ethereal form of Sothis beside him, her usual radiance dimmed by the sadness she shared with him. "I know," Byleth whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I have to let go of the past."

He wiped the blood from his dagger, sheathing it as he turned his gaze to the path ahead. The palace was still far, and with no horse to ride, the journey seemed even longer. But there was no time to waste. Edelgard needed him. His family needed him. And so, with a final glance at Dakota’s still form, Byleth broke into a run, the weight of his loss heavy on his shoulders, but his determination burning brighter than ever.

The wind rushed past him as his feet pounded the earth, the trees blurring around him. He could feel the distant pull, the call of his duty as a husband and father. Nothing else mattered now. Not the pain of the past, not the loss he carried in his heart. Only the path ahead, and the promise he had made to be there when his family needed him most. 

Sothis’s voice, soft yet firm, echoed within him, breaking the rhythm of his thoughts. "Byleth, you will tire yourself like this... your strength has limits, even if you refuse to acknowledge it."

His breath was ragged, his muscles burning with each stride, but he didn’t slow down. "I don’t have a choice," he muttered, barely audible over the rush of wind in his ears. "I can’t fly, and I don’t have another horse with me. So, I’ll keep running."

The sound of his own heartbeat pounded in his head, the landscape blurring as he pushed himself further. He could see nothing but the road stretching endlessly ahead, yet there was no stopping. His body screamed in protest, but the thought of Edelgard, of her alone in the palace, fighting through the labor of their second child, kept his legs moving.

Suddenly, up ahead, a figure on horseback emerged from the forest path. Byleth’s instincts kicked in, and he veered toward the rider, desperation in his eyes. As he drew closer, he saw the rider’s vibrant purple hair and sharp eyes, framed by the worn, rugged attire of a mercenary. He quickened his pace, raising a hand to signal the rider.

"I need your help!" Byleth called out, his voice hoarse from the exertion. The rider slowed, turning toward him with an alert gaze. "My wife… she’s in labor. I need to get to Enbarr… now."

The woman’s eyes softened as she saw the urgency on his face. She studied him quickly, noting the exhaustion in his steps, the sweat dripping from his brow. "You’re a mercenary?" Byleth asked between breaths as he approached.

The woman nodded, her voice steady. "I am. Just getting back from work, but I can help you. Hop on."

Byleth didn’t hesitate. He reached for her extended hand, their fingers briefly brushing before he pulled himself up onto the horse behind her. The scent of sweat and leather filled the air as they set off at a rapid pace, hooves pounding against the dirt road, the wind whipping around them.

As they rode, the woman glanced over her shoulder at him. "Name’s Shez. And you?"

"Byleth," he answered, his voice still tight with urgency. "I’m the—"

Before he could finish, Shez’s eyes widened slightly. "Wait… Byleth? The imperial consort? Husband of Edelgard von Hresvelg?"

Byleth nodded, barely catching her look of astonishment. Shez turned back to the path ahead, but her tone carried a new weight of realization. "I see. So you're the one who rules all of Fódlan."

There was a brief pause before she continued, her voice more serious now. "May I ask... what are you doing out here, running through the forest like a madman?"

Byleth's grip tightened around her waist, his breath still heavy as he replied. "I was seeing how my daughter’s training was going. Then... an old friend of mine came to alert me that my wife is in labor. I wanted him to take my daughter to safety, and I was going to catch up. But my horse—"

He trailed off, the image of Dakota’s broken, bloodied body flashing in his mind. His voice cracked as he forced himself to continue. "My horse was attacked by a wolf. A beast nearly its size."

Shez glanced back at him once more, sympathy flickering in her eyes before she turned her focus ahead. "Damn... that sounds rough. You’ve been through a lot."

Byleth didn’t respond, his thoughts too tangled in the weight of everything—his worry for Edelgard, his guilt over losing Dakota, the ache in his chest from pushing his body past its limits. But Shez’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts once more.

"Don’t worry, Byleth," she said firmly. "We’ll get you to Enbarr. You’ll be with your wife soon."

He nodded, though the tension in his chest refused to ease. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, the image of Edelgard’s face, her labored breathing, and her strong yet vulnerable form flashing in his mind. He wanted to be there—he needed to be there.

The landscape began to shift as they rode, the familiar sight of Enbarr’s towering spires emerging in the distance. Relief washed over Byleth, but it was quickly tempered by the gnawing uncertainty of what awaited him. Would Edelgard be okay?

Would he make it in time to see the birth of their child? His heart pounded not just from the physical exertion but from the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside him—fear, hope, guilt. Every breath felt heavy, as though his soul was bracing for the unknown.

The city gates loomed closer, and as they approached, the knights stationed there noticed their emperor. Without hesitation, they swung open the gates, the clinking of their armor barely registering in Byleth’s mind. He could feel his pulse in his ears, everything narrowing to one desperate need: to be by Edelgard’s side.

Shez turned her head slightly, her purple hair whipping in the wind. “Where is she? Where would your wife be giving birth?”

Byleth, still clutching her waist for balance, forced the words past his dry throat. “The royal quarters. In our room.”

Shez urged the horse faster, sensing the urgency. They sped through the city streets, the familiar sights blurring past as Byleth’s mind raced ahead, already in the room with Edelgard, imagining the pain she must be enduring without him there. Guilt gnawed at him—he should have been with her from the beginning.

As they neared the palace, the gatekeeper stood at attention, his eyes widening in recognition. “My lord, welcome back,” he greeted, bowing deeply. “Lady Edelgard is in your chambers. She awaits you.”

Byleth didn’t waste another second. He nodded in thanks, dismounted quickly, and began sprinting toward the palace entrance, his legs numb with exhaustion but his will driving him forward. Behind him, Shez remained, watching with a mix of sympathy and respect as the imperial consort disappeared inside.

Byleth ran up the stairs two at a time, his breath labored, his heart feeling like it would burst. Every step felt like a lifetime, every second wasted gnawing at him. As he reached the hallway leading to their quarters, he spotted Dorothea standing with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Dorothea,” Byleth panted, barely able to form the words. “Has Edelgard… has she given birth yet?”

Dorothea’s lips curled into a soft smile, shaking her head. “No, not yet. But she’s been asking for you.” Her voice was teasing but kind, a small attempt to ease the tension.

They began walking toward the room, the tension between them palpable. “You really lost track of your pregnant wife, Byleth?” Dorothea asked, raising an eyebrow, though her tone held no malice.

He grimaced, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “I’m here now. That’s what matters.” His voice was quiet, almost pained.

“Ferdinand—has he returned with my daughter?” Byleth’s words came out in a rush, his concern flickering between his wife and child.

Dorothea nodded, a soft laugh escaping her. “Of course. They’re both here.”

As they approached the door, Byleth’s breath caught in his throat. His hand, trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear, reached for the handle and pushed it open.

Inside, the scene unfolded before him. His daughter, Clainsiia, sat at her mother’s bedside, her small hand resting gently on Edelgard’s. Hubert stood nearby, his sharp gaze focused on Byleth the moment he entered.

“Professor,” Hubert greeted, his voice low but respectful, nodding toward the man who had once led him in battle.

But it was Clainsiia who rushed forward, her eyes wide with concern. “Father! Is Mother going to be okay?” Her voice was small, trembling with fear, and it pierced Byleth’s heart.

He knelt down, his hands resting on her small shoulders, his eyes locking onto hers with all the reassurance he could muster. “Your mother will be just fine, Clainsiia. She’s strong, just like you.” His voice softened, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Go with Uncle Hubert and Aunt Dorothea. They’ll take care of you while I stay with El.”

Clainsiia hesitated, glancing back at her mother’s still form, but Dorothea stepped forward, taking the girl’s hand in hers. “Come on, sweetie,” she said gently. “Your mother needs some quiet right now.”

Reluctantly, Clainsiia followed Dorothea and Hubert out of the room, her eyes lingering on her parents as they disappeared through the door.

Once they were alone, Byleth finally allowed himself to exhale. He stood, his legs still trembling from the run, and walked slowly to the bed. There she was—Edelgard, her face pale but resolute, her breathing deep and steady as she lay back against the pillows. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his footsteps, and despite the pain, she managed a faint smile.

“I’m sorry I’m late El,” Byleth whispered, his voice cracking as he sank to his knees beside the bed, taking her hand in his.

Edelgard, her face pale and glistening with sweat, reached out, her hand trembling as she found his. “B-Byleth!” she gasped, her voice strained from both the pain and the immense relief of his presence. She squeezed his hand with surprising strength, the intensity of her grip causing a sharp sting in his palm, but Byleth barely noticed. The guilt of almost missing this moment gnawed at him, but being here now, with her, outweighed any discomfort.

The doors to the room clicked shut behind him, and the world outside seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them in this quiet, intimate space. But in the hall beyond, life continued. Dorothea, Clainsiia, and Hubert waited anxiously, listening to the muffled sounds of Edelgard’s labor. Clainsiia sat beside Dorothea, her small hands clenched into fists on her lap, her normally bright eyes clouded with worry.

A sharp cry echoed from the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of Edelgard’s labored breathing, and Clainsiia’s face crumpled. Her lip quivered, and tears began to spill down her cheeks. Dorothea noticed immediately, her heart aching at the sight of the little girl’s distress.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” Dorothea asked softly, brushing a strand of Clainsiia’s hair behind her ear. Her voice was gentle, but her own worry mirrored the child’s.

Clainsiia sniffled, her small frame shaking. “Mother… Mother’s in pain,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Is she… is she going to be okay?”

Dorothea smiled, though her own heart ached with concern. She reached out and gently wiped the tears from Clainsiia’s cheeks. “This is natural, sweetheart,” she explained, her voice soothing. “It’s hard, and it’s painful, but your mother is so strong. Everything’s going to be okay.” She leaned in closer, offering reassurance in the way only a motherly figure could. “I promise, when this is all over, you’re going to meet your little brother or sister, and your mama will be smiling again.”

Clainsiia, still sniffling, looked into Dorothea’s warm eyes, seeking comfort in her words. Slowly, she nodded and leaned into Dorothea’s arms, seeking the solace that only a familiar embrace could bring. Dorothea held her close, stroking her hair gently, and together they listened to the quiet chaos behind the doors.

In the hallway, Hubert stood tall, his gaze sharp but unreadable as he scanned the corridor. Always the vigilant protector, his mind worked through every contingency, every possible outcome, his loyalty unwavering. Yet, beneath his steely exterior, there was a flicker of concern—for his emperor, for his friend, for the new life soon to arrive.

Suddenly, the clatter of hurried footsteps filled the hall. Dorothea glanced up as the familiar faces of the Black Eagles appeared. Bernadetta, her eyes wide and nervous, trailed behind Caspar, who was practically bouncing with anxious energy. Ferdinand strode forward with his usual composed confidence, though even he seemed unsettled by the situation. Petra moved with her natural grace, her sharp eyes scanning the hallway for any sign of news, while Linhardt lagged behind, already looking exhausted from the emotional toll.

“Is the child born yet?” Petra asked, her accent heavy with urgency as her gaze darted from Hubert to Dorothea.

Before anyone could answer, another loud cry of pain echoed through the door, followed by the frantic murmurs of the healers inside. Linhardt sighed deeply, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he leaned against the wall, looking utterly unbothered by the growing tension. “I suppose that’s a no,” he muttered, his eyes half-closed. “This might be a good time to take a nap…”

Everyone looked at Linhardt, and Caspar, unable to hold back, turned to him with an incredulous expression. "Are you serious right now, Linhardt? At a time like this?"

Bernadetta, trembling slightly, tugged on Caspar’s sleeve, her voice wavering but full of concern. "E-Edelgard’s going to have her child any minute, and you’re talking about sleep?"

Hubert, standing stoically by the door, gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "I’m not surprised," he said, his voice as calm and cold as ever. "Especially coming from Linhardt."

Just as another scream pierced the tense silence, the room behind them fell quiet, so quiet that even the hall's usual bustling sounds seemed distant. Everyone froze, exchanging worried glances. The sudden stillness, after the chaotic sounds of labor, felt unnerving. Then, the faint, unmistakable sound of a newborn’s first cry echoed softly through the door.

Clainsiia, who had been sitting tensely by Dorothea, slowly stood up, her small hands trembling with anticipation. She hesitated for a moment, glancing at the others before timidly walking toward the door. Her heart raced as she reached out and gently pushed it open.

Inside, the dim light cast a soft glow over the room. Edelgard, pale and exhausted, lay on the bed, cradling a tiny, swaddled bundle in her arms. Byleth knelt beside her, his face wet with tears, a rare expression of raw emotion crossing his features. They both looked up as Clainsiia stepped into the room.

"Come here, Clainsiia, and say hello to your brother," Edelgard said softly, her voice tender and warm despite her evident fatigue.

Clainsiia hesitated for just a moment, her wide eyes flickering from her mother to the baby. Then, slowly, she climbed onto the bed and peered over her mother’s arm to look at the small face of her newborn brother. The baby’s skin was soft and pink, his eyes barely open, and his tiny hands curled into fists. But what caught her attention most was his hair—light brown, a stark contrast to her own and her mother’s pale strands.

"Why does he have brown hair?" Clainsiia asked, her voice filled with innocent curiosity.

Edelgard smiled weakly and glanced at Byleth, who nodded in silent support. She turned her gaze back to her daughter, her eyes soft but clouded with memories. "Do you remember when you asked me about my scars?" she asked gently.

Clainsiia nodded, her small face serious as she recalled that day, a shadow of worry passing over her innocent features.

Edelgard continued, her voice growing quieter, more strained. "When bad people did things to me... my hair changed because of it. It used to be brown, just like your brother’s. But those experiences left their mark on me."

Clainsiia's eyes grew wide as she absorbed her mother’s words, her gaze shifting from her mother’s face to her brother's peaceful expression. She nodded, understanding as much as a child her age could.

Byleth gently touched Edelgard's arm, sensing the weight of the moment and her exhaustion. "I can take him, El, so you can rest," he whispered softly.

Edelgard smiled at him, a weak but grateful smile, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. She carefully handed their son to Byleth, who held the small bundle with the same reverence he would have had for a precious treasure. "Thank you," Edelgard murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She closed her eyes, her body relaxing into the bed. "What will we name him?"

Byleth looked down at his son, his heart swelling with pride and love. He thought of the man who had shaped his life, the one who had taught him strength, honor, and love. "Jeralt," he whispered, looking at Edelgard, who nodded in approval.

"Jeralt von Sirius," she repeated softly, her lips curving into a faint smile. Naming their son after his father felt right, like a way to honor the past while embracing the future. Edelgard's eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, she drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Byleth, his heart full, stood there for a moment, staring down at his wife and their newborn son. He felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude, of wonder. His family had grown, and despite all the hardships they had faced, this moment felt like a blessing—a sign that their future was bright.

With Clainsiia by his side, Byleth turned and left the room, gently closing the door behind him. As they stepped into the hallway, the others gathered around, their anxious expressions giving way to curiosity and relief.

Byleth walked toward them, his eyes bright with pride, and gently presented his son for them all to see. "Say hello to Jeralt von Sirius," he announced softly.

Dorothea was the first to step forward, her hand delicately resting over her heart as she gazed down at the newborn. "Oh, Byleth," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "He's a beautiful boy. Just perfect." Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her usual vibrant energy softened into pure tenderness. She leaned in, smiling warmly at the child cradled in his father’s arms. "Edelgard and you must be so proud."

Caspar, unable to hold back his characteristic enthusiasm, let out a small laugh. "Look at him!" he exclaimed, his excitement bubbling over. "I can already tell, this kid’s going to be one tough fighter! Just wait until he’s old enough, we’ll get him into some training, right, Byleth?" His grin was wide, but there was a gentle affection behind his words, as if he was already imagining Jeralt growing up strong and brave.

Petra, standing beside Caspar, gave him a small shake of her head, though her expression remained soft. "Caspar," she said, her accent lending a musical quality to her words. "You are forgetting—Byleth's son is already having the blood of a strong fighter. He is bound to grow with much strength and wisdom." She gave Byleth a respectful nod, her eyes filled with sincerity. "Your son will make you both proud, I am believing this strongly."

As the group marveled at the newborn, Hubert, who had been standing stoically as ever, broke his silence with a rare, small smile. "I shall inform the kingdom," he said in his calm, measured tone, "by ringing the bell of the palace."

His statement carried a weight that settled over the group. They all knew the significance of the bell—it was only to be rung when both the Empress and her child had survived childbirth, a symbol of hope and continuity for the empire.

Ferdinand, standing nearby, glanced at Hubert, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. "Do you not wish to stay and enjoy this moment, Hubert? Surely even you can afford a few more minutes before your duties call you."

Hubert’s smile lingered for just a moment longer before fading into his usual composed expression. "I have already enjoyed this moment, Ferdinand. Now it is time for the people to share in the joy. The empire must know of the birth of its future."

Without another word, Hubert turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the door, his dark cape billowing behind him. As he left, Ferdinand sighed but smiled, understanding the sentiment behind Hubert's usual sense of duty.

Bernadetta, who had been standing nervously in the back, finally mustered the courage to approach. She looked up at Byleth, her hands fidgeting anxiously. "Um… Professor, I mean, Byleth… I… I have a question," she stammered, her voice wavering.

Byleth smiled gently down at her, his tone as patient and kind as ever. "What is it, Bernadetta?"

Taking a deep breath, Bernadetta finally blurted out, "Can I… can I make a stuffed bear for little Jeralt?"

For a moment, there was silence, and then Byleth chuckled softly, his heart warmed by her endearing request. "You don’t need my permission to make a gift, Bernie," he said with a soft laugh. "But I think Jeralt would love it."

Relief washed over Bernadetta’s face, and she let out a small, nervous laugh. "Oh… okay! I’ll make it really soft and… and huggable! For when he’s older!"

Linhardt, who had been observing the whole scene quietly, finally chimed in, his usual drowsy expression unchanged. "Has the baby shown any sign of a crest yet?" he asked, his curiosity piqued despite his sleepy demeanor.

Byleth shook his head slightly. "It’s too early to tell," he admitted. "Jeralt’s only just been born, after all. But maybe eventually we’ll find out."

As the conversation continued, the sudden toll of the bell echoed throughout the halls, deep and resonant. The sound seemed to carry with it a sense of joy and relief, ringing out over the city and signaling the empire that their Empress and her child had survived the birth.

Outside, the streets erupted into celebration. "Glory to our Emperor!" the people chanted, their voices rising together in harmony. The joyous shouts filled the air, their cheers carrying the weight of their hopes and dreams for the future.

Outside, the streets erupted into celebration. "Glory to our Emperor!" the people chanted, their voices rising together in harmony. The joyous shouts filled the air, their cheers carrying the weight of their hopes and dreams for the future.

Shez stood off to the side, watching the sea of jubilant faces, her own thoughts adrift in the current of emotion surrounding her.

She looked around, taking in the grandeur of the moment, the pure elation that swept through the capital. The people danced in the streets, their laughter filling the air as they embraced one another, rejoicing in the safe arrival of their new heir. The sight made Shez smile to herself, though there was a faint hint of melancholy hidden behind her eyes. "All of this… for a child. A future." Her thoughts were quiet, introspective, the weight of the celebration sinking deeper into her. "What a powerful thing… to be the hope of so many."

Suddenly, a voice broke through her musings, light and almost teasing. "You can say that again."

Shez’s eyes widened slightly, and she turned around, expecting to see someone standing nearby. But no one was close enough to have spoken to her, at least not with such clarity. Confused, she blinked, glancing over her shoulder again, but still, there was no one. Her gaze eventually fell on Byleth, who stood not far from her, holding his newborn son, Jeralt, in his arms.

“Well, what’s the child’s name?” she asked, her voice soft, almost uncertain as if still shaken by the strange voice she had just heard.

Byleth’s eyes brightened at the question, and he offered her a warm, proud smile. “His name is Jeralt.”

Shez returned the smile, though hers was gentler, touched by a quiet understanding. “Congratulations, Byleth. Truly. Edelgard and you… you’ve both made something special. But… it’s time for me to go,” she said, her voice trailing off as she prepared to take her leave. It had been a long day, and she felt the pull of the road once more.

Before she could turn, however, Byleth reached out, his words stopping her in her tracks. “Wait. Before you go… I’d like to invite you to a celebration. We’re holding it in a few days, and I owe you for helping me get back to the palace in time.” His offer was kind, sincere, a gesture of gratitude for all that had happened.

As Shez considered his invitation, the same voice from before echoed once more in her ears. "Who would decline an offer like that?"

Startled, Shez glanced behind her again, her heart quickening as she searched for the source. There it was again… that voice. But still, no one was close enough to have spoken so clearly. She forced a small laugh, shaking her head slightly as if trying to dismiss the odd sensation.

Byleth’s brow furrowed in mild concern. “Are you alright, Shez?”

She turned back to him quickly, giving a reassuring nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… hearing things, I guess. Everyone’s cheering so loudly, it’s hard to tell where anything’s coming from.” She let out a soft breath before smiling. “I’ll accept your invitation. It sounds… nice.”

Byleth smiled, relieved by her response. “Good. If you need a place to stay in the palace, there’s a room we can set up for you." 

Shez hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the room. I’m not far from Garreg Mach, and I’d rather ride out there when the time comes.”

“Garreg Mach?” Byleth asked, his tone brightening. “That’s where the celebration will be held.”

“Then I suppose I’ll see you there,” Shez replied, her lips quirking into a small smile. She nodded once more, turning toward her horse as the distant ringing of the palace bell echoed through the air once again, signaling the news of Jeralt’s birth to all corners of the empire.

Before she could mount, she cast one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes landing on Byleth once more. “Congratulations again, Byleth." 

He gave her a silent nod, his gaze steady, grateful. As Shez mounted her horse, ready to ride off into the night, a final whisper seemed to trail after her, playful and teasing. "Don’t be late for the celebration."

Shez’s heart skipped a beat, and this time, instead of looking back, she urged her horse forward, riding off into the darkened streets with a smile that hid a sliver of wonderment. The celebration still echoed behind her, the joy of the people reverberating through the quiet night as the empire rejoiced in the birth of its new heir. Shez, however, let the sounds fade into the distance as she rode through the winding roads, her mind lingering on the strange voice she had heard, the warmth of Byleth’s invitation, and the unexpected connection she felt to this moment in history.

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Hours passed, and the sky deepened into the velvet of night, stars twinkling like distant lanterns. By now, the news had spread far and wide—the prince had arrived, a new chapter for the empire had begun. 

In the quiet chambers of the palace, the day was finally coming to a close. Edelgard sat on the edge of the bed, cradling her newborn son, Jeralt, in her arms. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating, softened as she looked down at him. The future of the empire was so small, so fragile in her hands, but she could feel the strength in him already. She smiled, brushing a gentle kiss on his forehead, while beside her, Byleth stood at the window, gazing out over the kingdom he had helped shape. His reflection in the glass was pensive, the weight of his choices and the life he had carved out for himself settling into his bones.

Their daughter, Clainsiia, padded softly into the room, her sleepy eyes wide with curiosity. She climbed onto the bed and nestled between her parents, gazing at her baby brother with wonder. “I want to watch over him,” she declared with the sincerity only a child could possess, her small hand resting protectively near Jeralt. “I promised I would.”

Edelgard smiled down at her daughter, brushing a hand through her silvery hair. “You’ll be a wonderful big sister,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She knew Clainsiia would keep that promise, just as she and Byleth had promised to protect the empire for their children.

Clainsiia, still wide-eyed and curious, turned her gaze to her father. “What are you doing, Father?”

Byleth’s thoughts were pulled back from the view of his kingdom, and he turned to face his family, his heart swelling at the sight of them all together. His wife, his children—their future, safe and whole. He walked slowly to the bed and sat down beside them, a small, contented smile pulling at his lips. “Just thinking,” he said softly, resting a hand on Clainsiia’s head.

“About what?” she asked, her voice quiet but insistent.

He looked over at Edelgard, their unspoken connection palpable in the air between them. She met his gaze, and in that moment, they both understood the depth of what they had built together. Byleth leaned back onto the bed, pulling Clainsiia into his arms, and let out a soft sigh. “About how lucky I am,” he admitted, his voice heavy with gratitude. “To have chosen this path. To have all of this—your mother, you, your brother.” His words were thick with emotion, the weight of the past giving way to the beauty of the present.

Edelgard reached out, her fingers gentle as they traced the side of his face, resting her hand on his cheek. Her touch was warm, grounding him in this moment, and her voice, always so strong, was soft now, full of love. “In the end, it truly paid off,” she whispered, her gaze never leaving his. There was no need for grand speeches or declarations—their journey had led them here, to this quiet moment, and that was enough.

Byleth leaned into her touch, his heart full. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, a silent promise that he would always cherish what they had built. Jeralt stirred slightly in his mother’s arms, his tiny body relaxing back into sleep as Edelgard rose carefully from the bed. She cradled her son close as she walked over to the crib beside their bed, placing him down with the utmost care. Bending low, she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead, her heart swelling with love for this new life they had brought into the world.

Returning to the bed, Edelgard lay beside Byleth once more, her hand finding his in the darkness. “Now,” she said softly, “I suggest we get some sleep.” Her voice held a trace of amusement, but beneath it was the weariness of a long day well spent.

Byleth nodded, his hand squeezing hers gently in the shadows. The light of the candle flickered beside them, casting their faces in soft, golden hues before Edelgard leaned over and blew it out. Darkness enveloped the room, but it was not empty—it was full of warmth, of love, of the quiet promise that their future, though uncertain, was one they would face together.

In the peaceful stillness of the night, the sounds of the city’s celebration faded into the background, replaced by the soft breaths of their children, the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests a reminder of the life they had brought into the world. Byleth closed his eyes, pulling Edelgard closer, his heart full of everything that mattered most.

And as the world outside continued to celebrate, within these walls, a family—strong and steadfast—slept, holding onto the hope of tomorrow.

Chapter Text

The next few days saw Byleth and Edelgard in a horse-drawn carriage, their children nestled close as they made their way to a place of deep significance. The countryside blurred past them, golden fields giving way to dense forests as they approached Garreg Mach Monastery, the place where so many lives had once intersected, where decisions had been made that changed the course of history.

Byleth turned his gaze from the window, his hand resting on the small of Edelgard’s back. His eyes, always so steady, held a flicker of hesitation. “Are you sure about this?” he asked softly, glancing toward Clainsiia, who was busying herself with a small doll, and Jeralt, who slept peacefully in Edelgard’s arms. “Taking the children to the Goddess Tower?”

Edelgard’s expression softened at the question, her eyes glimmering with a mix of nostalgia and determination. “I’ve been planning this for so long,” she replied, her voice steady but thick with emotion. She looked down at Jeralt, then at Clainsiia, and smiled. “This is where you proposed to me, Byleth. Where everything started for us. I want them to see it, to understand the place where our future began. It’s important.”

Byleth nodded slowly, his heart heavy with memories. He understood Edelgard’s sentiment all too well. It had been years since they’d last stood at the tower—since they had been surrounded by the friends and allies who had fought with them, who had helped shape the world they lived in now. He thought of Ingrid, Ashe, Leonie, Ignatz, Lysithea, Shamir, and Yuri—all of them comrades, even Claude, who sought peace. Yet, alongside those memories came the weight of loss. He couldn’t help but wonder about the others—the ones who had fought against them. What had become of them? Could there be a way to gather everyone, to reunite before...before time claimed more lives? He and Edelgard both knew that loss was inevitable, but it didn’t make the sadness any easier to bear.

“You’re right,” he murmured, his voice low but filled with a quiet resolve. “It’s been so long...and yet, it feels like just yesterday.”

Edelgard placed her hand on his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll be staying for two weeks,” she reminded him. “It’ll be like old times. We’ll be able to see everyone, reflect on what’s passed, and show our children the place where it all began.”

Byleth smiled at her words, though there was a trace of sorrow in his eyes. The memories of those battles, of friends lost and paths crossed, still lingered in his mind. But for now, he was grateful—for the life they had built, for the family they had created together. He could only hope that this visit would bring some peace to their hearts.

After several hours, the carriage came to a halt, and the familiar sight of Garreg Mach Monastery loomed before them, still standing tall after all these years. The air was thick with the scent of the mountains, and the faint sounds of students training could be heard in the distance. It was still a place where young fighters honed their skills, where future leaders were molded.

Byleth stepped out first, lifting Clainsiia from the carriage, while Edelgard held Jeralt close. As they approached the monastery, a few knights trailed behind them, their armor glinting in the sunlight. Byleth reached for his daughter’s hand, and Edelgard glanced down at Jeralt, noticing his eyes fluttering open for the first time during their journey.

“I see you picked the perfect time to wake up, my son,” Edelgard whispered, smiling warmly at her baby’s curious gaze. His eyes, though still heavy with sleep, were fixated on the towering structure before them—the Goddess Tower.

Edelgard turned to the knights, her voice firm yet kind. “This is as far as you must go. It’ll just be the four of us from here.”

The knights bowed respectfully, stepping back as Byleth added, “Keep watch for the others who’ll be joining us. And be on the lookout for a mercenary named Shez—she’s a guest.”

The knight general, his armor gleaming in the late afternoon sun, nodded sharply. "Understood, my lord," he replied, his voice low and respectful. He turned to his men, motioning for them to follow. “Fall back. Let the Emperor and her family have their privacy.” With disciplined movements, the knights departed, their footsteps fading as Byleth turned his attention to the door of the Goddess Tower.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the heavy wooden doors, and the cool air of the ancient tower washed over them. A familiar, faint echo greeted them as the family made their way inside, the stone steps spiraling upwards into the quiet heights. Jeralt stirred in Edelgard's arms, his eyes fluttering as he shifted, while Clainsiia skipped ahead a few paces, her tiny feet barely making a sound.

As they climbed the narrow staircase, Byleth couldn’t help but feel the weight of history pressing in on them. So much had happened here—decisions that had shaped the very future they now walked in. But today wasn’t about reliving the past. It was about showing their children where everything had begun. When they finally reached the top, the air opened up around them. The highest point of the Goddess Tower was before them, with wide, arched windows offering a sweeping view of the monastery grounds and the lands beyond.

Clainsiia’s eyes widened as she rushed to the edge, peeking through the open stone arch. “Wow! We’re so high up!” she exclaimed, her voice echoing in the quiet space.

Byleth and Edelgard exchanged a glance, chuckling softly at their daughter’s excitement. Edelgard, her hand resting gently on Jeralt’s back, leaned down beside Clainsiia. “Yes, we are,” she said with a soft smile, her voice carrying a mix of warmth and nostalgia. “Not only can we see all the land from here, but this is also the very place where your father proposed to me.”

Clainsiia turned, her eyes wide and curious, “Did your parents get married here too?”

Edelgard smiled, a bittersweet expression crossing her face as she looked at her daughter. “Yes,” she answered softly. “This tower holds so many memories, not just for us, but for the generations that came before. One day, Clainsiia, if you find someone you love—whether they are a ruler of their own house or…” She paused, glancing at Byleth, her voice softening further. “…a mercenary—you could come to a place like this to confess your love.”

Byleth smiled at Edelgard’s words, his eyes glinting with affection. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Clainsiia’s shoulder. “We won’t arrange a marriage for you,” he said, his voice firm but kind. “You’ll have the choice of who you fall for, but when you’re older, of course.” With a warm laugh, he lifted Clainsiia up into his arms, letting her see the view from a better height. “Look out there, Clainsiia. This is the world you’ll grow up in. One day, you’ll make your own choices.”

Clainsiia giggled as she leaned forward, eyes bright as she took in the sprawling land below. “It’s so big!”

Byleth, holding her steady, looked out over the fields and forests in the distance. As his eyes scanned the horizon, he noticed movement—a few horses making their way toward the monastery, their banners unmistakable. His heart lifted as he recognized the figures—house leaders and mercenaries who had fought beside them all those years ago. The familiar colors of their houses stirred a deep sense of reunion in his chest.

“They’re coming,” he said quietly, mostly to himself, though Edelgard caught the words. “Old friends and allies. These next two weeks… they will be something to remember.”

Edelgard moved closer, resting her head on Byleth’s shoulder as she cradled Jeralt in her arms. The baby stirred but remained peacefully asleep, his small chest rising and falling in rhythm with his mother’s heartbeat. She smiled softly, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the stillness of the moment, the weight of Byleth’s presence beside her. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Two weeks to remember.”

For a long moment, they stood there in silence, the four of them—Byleth, Edelgard, Clainsiia, and Jeralt—looking out over the land they had once fought for, the place where so many memories lingered like whispers in the wind. 

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After some hours, it was night, and fireworks exploded across the sky, illuminating Garreg Mach in bright bursts of color. Laughter echoed in the cool night air as the people celebrated the Empire’s victory in the war seven years ago, the memory of triumph still fresh in their hearts. Music filled the courtyard, and couples twirled in time to the lively beat, their feet barely touching the ground as they spun in joy.

Edelgard and Byleth sat close together, watching the celebration unfold. Their children, Clainsiia and Jeralt, rested peacefully beside them, the excitement of the evening leaving them with bright, sleepy smiles. Every so often, Clainsiia would point toward the sky in awe at the cascading colors, her tiny voice filled with wonder. Jeralt, nestled in his mother’s arms, stirred occasionally, his small fingers clutching the edge of Edelgard’s cloak as the fireworks continued to dance in the sky.

Byleth's gaze swept over the crowd, his eyes soft with a quiet contentment. “They’re all so happy,” he murmured, leaning toward Edelgard. “It’s good to see that after everything, the people can celebrate like this.”

Edelgard’s hand gently brushed over Jeralt’s back as she gave a soft nod. “Yes,” she replied, her voice filled with the weight of reflection. “We’ve come so far… together.”

At that moment, a group of knights escorted someone toward them, a woman with striking violet hair tied into a messy ponytail, her confident yet humble stride catching Byleth’s eye. He smiled and rose from his seat, extending a hand toward her. “Shez,” he called out warmly. “I’m glad you could make it.”

Shez stepped forward, placing a hand on her chest and bowing low in front of Edelgard. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emperor Edelgard,” she said, her tone both respectful and sincere. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Edelgard smiled, her eyes glowing softly in the firelight. “The pleasure is mine, Shez,” she said, standing and offering her hand in return. “Especially since you helped Byleth make it on time to witness the birth of our son.”

Shez’s face softened with a modest smile. “It was nothing, really. I’m just glad I could help.” She glanced at Byleth, her usual easygoing demeanor tempered by the weight of the occasion. “I don’t usually attend events like this, but I’m happy to be here tonight.”

Byleth chuckled lightly. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. It’s been too long.”

As Shez glanced around, her eyes took in the familiar faces scattered throughout the celebration. She nodded toward the corner where Yuri and Shamir were quietly sipping wine, deep in conversation. Nearby, Bernadetta, Dorothea, and Leonie sat together at a table, with Bernadetta proudly presenting Leonie with some new clothes she had sewn herself. Ingrid and Ashe were talking animatedly about a recent book they had both read, sharing their favorite lines and moments. Ignatz sat a bit away from the group, completely absorbed in his book, while Linhardt, predictably, was sound asleep beside him.

At another table, Petra and Caspar were engaged in an arm-wrestling match, much to the delight of the onlookers. Petra’s victorious grin spread wide as she slammed Caspar’s hand down, her strength unmatched as the crowd cheered. Meanwhile, Lysithea stood at a food stand, unapologetically indulging in sweets, much to Ferdinand’s amused laughter as he teased her lightly.

Shez smiled softly at the scene before turning back to Byleth and Edelgard. “Seems like you know so many people here,” she remarked, her tone touched with awe.

Byleth nodded, his expression fond. “They were all my students once,” he said, a gentle pride lacing his words. “Each one of them has come so far since those days at the academy.”

Suddenly, Clainsiia, who had been quietly observing the newcomer, tugged at her father’s sleeve. Her wide eyes were fixed on Shez’s distinctive outfit. Byleth noticed the curious look on his daughter’s face and smiled. “Do you want to introduce yourself to Shez?” he asked gently, lowering himself to her eye level.

Clainsiia hesitated for a moment, her small hand gripping her father’s as she shyly stepped forward. “H-hello,” she said in a soft voice, her gaze flickering between Shez and the ground.

Shez knelt down, her warm smile putting the young girl at ease. “Well, hello there,” Shez said, her voice gentle and welcoming. “What’s your name?”

Clainsiia shifted nervously but quickly found her voice. “I’m Princess Clainsiia,” she said with a proud little nod, her tiny hands clasping together as she shook them up and down with excitement. “I like your clothes and your hair!” she added, her wide eyes gleaming with admiration.

Shez blinked, a bit taken aback by the compliment. “Oh, well, thank you,” she said, her cheeks warming slightly. “I don’t usually get compliments like that.” Her voice was humble, her tone touched by a gentle awkwardness as she brushed a stray lock of her violet hair behind her ear. For someone so used to the battlefield and the rigors of a mercenary’s life, such simple words of kindness felt unfamiliar but comforting.

Just as Shez was about to continue the conversation, she suddenly felt a presence looming behind her. Before she could turn around, a cold, unmistakable voice spoke up.

“Lady Edelgard.”

“Gah!” Shez jumped, her heart racing as she whirled around to face the tall, shadowy figure of Hubert, Edelgard’s ever-watchful vassal. His eyes gleamed beneath the moonlight, as unreadable as ever.

Edelgard sighed softly, placing a hand to her forehead. “Hubert, must you always sneak up like that?” she asked, her voice filled with a gentle reprimand, though it was clear she was accustomed to his ways. “At least say hello.”

“My apologies, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert said with a bow, his voice as smooth as ever, though it lacked any genuine remorse. His gaze flicked to the children. “However, it is time for the little ones to sleep. I fear you may have lost track of the time.”

Byleth chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “We really did lose track, didn’t we?” His gaze shifted toward the sky, where the last of the fireworks still lit up the night. “The evening just slipped away.”

Edelgard nodded, her expression softening as she glanced down at Jeralt, who was fast asleep in her arms, his small hand still clutching the edge of her cloak. “Yes, we did.” With a quiet sigh, she handed Jeralt over to Hubert, who accepted the child with his usual care. “Thank you, Hubert.”

Clainsiia, watching her baby brother being carried away, looked up at her mother with wide, sleepy eyes. “Mother, I’ll watch over Jeralt,” she said earnestly, her voice full of determination. “I’ll keep him safe.”

Edelgard smiled at her daughter’s sense of responsibility, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I know you will, my little princess,” she whispered. “You’ll be sleeping with him tonight, all right?”

Clainsiia nodded eagerly, wrapping her small arms around her mother in a tight hug before turning to her father and doing the same. “Goodnight, Father,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

“Goodnight, Clainsiia,” Byleth whispered, his hand resting atop her head. “Sleep well, and take care of your brother.”

As Clainsiia turned to leave with Hubert, she paused for a moment, looking back at Shez with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “I hope I get to see you again,” she said, her voice soft but filled with sincerity.

Shez, unaccustomed to such warmth and affection, felt a strange sense of warmth rise within her chest. She was so used to her life as a mercenary, to work and battle, but here, in the presence of this small family, she felt something different—something gentle. She smiled, raising her hand for a high-five. “I hope I see you again too, Princess Clainsiia.”

Clainsiia grinned brightly, giving Shez a small but enthusiastic high-five before following Hubert into the night.

Once they were gone, Shez stood there for a moment, a quiet smile lingering on her lips. She glanced back at Byleth and Edelgard, who now sat together, the weight of the day slowly catching up to them as the music and laughter began to fade in the distance.

“You’ve got a good family, Byleth,” Shez said quietly, her voice filled with a rare tenderness. “It’s… nice to see.”

Byleth exchanged a glance with Edelgard, their hands finding each other in the cool night air. He smiled, the quiet pride and love he felt for his family evident in his eyes. “I’m lucky,” he said softly, his voice steady. “To have them. To have her.” He squeezed Edelgard’s hand gently.

Edelgard’s gaze softened as she met his eyes, a warmth flickering in the depths of her usually intense gaze. After a quiet moment, she turned to Shez, her voice gentle but clear. “Shez, would you like to stay at the monastery for a couple of weeks? It’s been a long day, and it would give us a chance to know you better.”

Shez blinked, taken aback by the offer. "Me? Stay here?" Her eyes darted between Byleth and Edelgard. "I mean, we’ve only just met not too long ago. I’m not exactly the kind of person you’d invite into your home. Plus," she glanced at Byleth, "is this for your old students and family? Am I… really someone you’d want around for that?"

Byleth smiled gently, his expression calm and reassuring. “Well, why don’t we get to know each other then?” he said, his tone warm. “You’re not so different from us. There are other mercenaries here; we wouldn’t view you any differently.”

Edelgard nodded in agreement, her posture regal but her voice sincere. “Of course, if staying for two weeks is too much, we understand. But it’s late, and there are demonic beasts roaming around the outskirts. At least consider staying the night for your own safety.”

Shez rubbed the back of her neck, her violet hair falling slightly out of place as she processed the offer. “I suppose that makes sense,” she admitted, though there was a hesitant undertone to her voice. “But I’m after someone… someone I need to find.” Her voice grew quieter, almost as if she was speaking to herself.

Byleth’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity piqued. “Who are you looking for?”

For a moment, silence hung in the air as Shez wrestled with the memories that resurfaced—memories of clashing steel, of betrayal, of loss. “I used to run with a mercenary named Berling… and her group,” Shez finally admitted, her voice tight. “I’ve been searching for the one who took them down. But it’s been years… and I haven’t come close to finding them.”

Edelgard, ever the strategic thinker, leaned forward slightly. “If you need help, I could assign some of my knights to assist in your search. Perhaps we could find a name or a trail.”

Shez shook her head with a soft but resolute smile. “I appreciate the offer, but this is something I need to do on my own. It’s a personal quest… one I’ve carried with me for a long time.”

Edelgard nodded in understanding, her eyes reflecting empathy. "Very well. But since you’re here tonight, at least stay long enough to rest. You'll need your strength."

Shez let out a soft sigh of acceptance. “Alright, I’ll stay for tonight. But first, I need some water.” She gave a small nod of thanks before turning to walk toward the nearby water basin.

As she walked, lost in thought, Shez felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned, her violet eyes narrowing in confusion as a man stood before her. His smile was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze.

“Why, hello there. I don’t believe I’ve seen anyone quite like you before,” the man said with a playful grin, his tone casual but curious.

Shez tilted her head. “I’m a guest. Byleth invited me here,” she explained, eyeing him cautiously. “We actually ran into each other when Byleth was running late to see his son’s birth.”

The man’s eyes widened in shock, his jaw dropping slightly. “Wait… Teach was almost late? That’s… wow, that’s something!” His tone was filled with both surprise and amusement. “Good thing he made it in time, huh?”

Shez furrowed her brows. “Teach? You called him ‘Teach’? Why?”

The man chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, old habit, I guess. I’ve called him that ever since our days at the Officer’s Academy, even after the war. I’m Claude, by the way.”

Shez’s eyes widened as she processed the name. "Claude... as in the leader of the Leicester Alliance?"

Claude’s grin widened. “The one and only. Though, these days, I’m not so much a leader anymore. More of a wanderer, like you.”

 He tilted his head slightly, studying Shez with an inquisitive gleam in his eye. “So, what’s your name, stranger?”

“Shez,” she responded, her voice steady but still a little unsure in this unfamiliar place. “Just… Shez.”

Claude nodded, a playful glint still lingering in his gaze. “Shez, huh? Well, it’s nice to meet you.” He cast a glance over his shoulder, catching Byleth and Edelgard watching from a distance, their expressions a mixture of curiosity and subtle concern. “I’m guessing those two are hoping I don’t get too carried away with my charming self,” Claude said with a light laugh, his tone mischievous.

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed slightly as she observed Claude’s easygoing demeanor. She sighed, shaking her head. “He hasn’t changed,” she muttered, her voice low enough for only Byleth to hear. “I hope he’s not toying with her.”

Byleth, though watching Claude closely, seemed distracted. There was a distant look in his eyes as if something was tugging at his memory. Edelgard noticed immediately and turned to him, her voice softening with concern. “What’s on your mind?”

Byleth hesitated for a moment before he spoke, his voice quiet but laced with the weight of realization. “The name ‘Berling’… it sounds familiar. I think… I might have seen it in one of my father’s old books. Maybe he knew that mercenary group.”

Edelgard raised an eyebrow, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips. “You think your father kept records of every mercenary group he came across? What makes you think that?”

Byleth’s expression shifted into one of quiet contemplation, his gaze thoughtful. “Mercenaries tend to know other mercenaries, even from different groups. But… there were a few battles my father didn’t bring me to when I was younger. There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

Edelgard chuckled softly, her amusement clear in the way she looked at him. “You truly are your father’s son, aren’t you? Always with the curiosity.” She took a step closer, her hand brushing against his arm. “But for tonight… why don’t we just enjoy the time we have?”

Byleth’s expression softened, the warmth returning to his eyes as he nodded. “You’re right. There’s time to figure all of that out later. For now…” He gently took her hand, his touch firm yet tender, “we should enjoy tonight.”

A soft smile spread across Edelgard’s lips as she nodded in agreement. “We still need to dance.” She offered her hand more fully, her regal posture blending seamlessly with a rare moment of softness as she looked up at him.

Byleth took her hand, guiding her onto the dance floor. The violins began to play, the gentle melody weaving through the night air, serenading the couples who had gathered to dance under the starlit sky. Byleth and Edelgard moved to the middle of the floor, their movements graceful and synchronized, as if they had done this a hundred times before.

As they danced, Edelgard’s eyes found Byleth’s, her voice quiet but filled with nostalgia. “Do you remember when we danced at our wedding?”

Byleth smirked, a playful glint in his eyes. “Of course I do. And I remember what happened after the wedding too.”

A deep flush spread across Edelgard’s cheeks at his words, her usual composure faltering for a moment. She narrowed her eyes at him, her voice laced with mock indignation. “By… sometimes you can be so immature.” Though her tone was stern, a small smile betrayed her, and soon enough, a soft laugh escaped her lips.

Byleth chuckled as well, his own laughter warm and genuine. “Maybe,” he admitted, “but I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything.” His gaze softened, his hand tightening just slightly around hers. “The day we danced… it’s a memory I hope will be passed down for generations.”

Edelgard’s eyes shimmered with emotion, her voice gentling. “Yes… I hope so too.” She paused, a wistful look crossing her face as she envisioned the future. “Our children, their children… knowing the love and strength that brought us here.”

Byleth smiled, a quiet certainty in his expression. “I’m sure they will.”

The dance continued, their movements slow and intimate, as if the world around them had faded away. The violins played on, their melody weaving through the night, filling the air with a sense of peace and unity. And for that brief moment, the worries of the world seemed far away.

As the night wore on, one by one, everyone began to retire to their rooms. The castle grew quieter, the soft hum of conversation and laughter giving way to the tranquil sounds of the night. Byleth and Edelgard, along with their guests, retired to their chambers, the weight of the day slipping away as sleep beckoned.

But before the night was fully over, Edelgard cast one last glance at Byleth, her heart full of love and gratitude. “Goodnight, my love.”

Byleth smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Goodnight, El.” He kissed her forehead gently, his heart swelling with the quiet pride and love he always felt for her.

And as they lay together, the stars shining brightly outside their window, the world felt peaceful—for now. For tomorrow... everything changes. 

Chapter Text

The next day, Shez found herself nestled in the corner of the library, her fingers tracing the edge of an ancient tome. It was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages being turned. Linhardt, Ashe, Ingrid, and Ignatz were also present, each absorbed in their own studies. Yet, Shez couldn’t shake the strange pull of the book in her hands. It was an old and worn volume, its pages faded, titled The Rival of the Goddess. She had never come across anything like it before, and as her eyes skimmed the text, she read about a god named Epimenides.

Epimenides, according to the book, had sworn to kill Sothis, believing the Agarthans could ascend with the knowledge they’d acquired from the Nabateans. But what intrigued Shez most was the mention of a secret battle, one so ancient and mysterious that it had seemingly been erased from history. Epimenides had perished in that battle, yet this god had never been mentioned anywhere else, not in her training, nor in any other texts she’d come across in Fódlan.

Just as she turned the page, the voice in her head echoed softly, "That was a day I wish I could forget."

Shez’s heart stuttered, her eyes lifting from the page. She glanced around the room, her pulse quickening. That voice—familiar, yet distant. The voice within her… but more present than ever. She tried to compose herself, but her hands trembled slightly against the worn pages.

Ingrid, who had been sitting nearby, noticed the shift in Shez’s demeanor and quietly approached. “Are you alright?” Ingrid’s voice was soft but tinged with concern, her azure eyes scanning Shez's face.

Shez blinked, trying to shake off the strange sensation. “I… I think I’m just hearing things,” she admitted, her voice faltering.

Ingrid tilted her head thoughtfully. “Sometimes reading can make your imagination run wild. Especially when the subject is something unfamiliar,” she suggested, her tone light in an effort to soothe.

Shez considered Ingrid’s words, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I’ve never seen this book before today. It’s strange.” Her voice held a hint of unease as she glanced back at the text.

Ingrid’s curiosity piqued. “What book are you reading?” she asked, leaning in slightly to catch a glimpse of the title.

Shez turned the book toward her, showing her the cover. “It’s called The Rival of the Goddess.”

As if on cue, Linhardt, Ashe, and Ignatz, who had been absorbed in their own reading, overheard the conversation and made their way toward Shez’s table. Linhardt gave a polite nod, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Excuse the interruption,” he began, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. What’s this book you’re reading?”

Shez repeated the title for the group, her eyes flitting between their faces. “Do any of you know about it?”

They exchanged glances, shaking their heads. Ignatz frowned thoughtfully. “I’ve never come across anything like that. Maybe Byleth would know?” he suggested, his gentle voice filled with uncertainty.

Shez felt a slight pang at the mention of Byleth. She hadn’t seen him all day, and now, thinking back, it struck her as odd. She hesitated for a moment before asking, “Do any of you know where he is?”

Ingrid exchanged a brief glance with Ashe before answering. “He’s at his father’s resting place.”

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At the cemetery, Byleth knelt beside his father Jeralt’s resting place, his fingers brushing the cool stone of the tomb. The wind was soft, the faint rustling of the leaves the only sound that broke the silence. To Jeralt’s right stood his mother’s grave, marked with the same pink and white flowers his father used to bring her. Byleth wished, more than anything, that he had known his mother—she had died after giving birth to him. A quiet ache tugged at him every time he thought of her, a stranger bound to him by the most intimate connection, and yet, someone he never had the chance to love.

"It’s been a while," Byleth murmured, his voice rough but steady, his eyes fixed on Jeralt’s name etched into the stone. "Since we talked.” His fingers traced the letters slowly, as though touching them could bring some long-lost connection back to life. The wind stirred gently around him, carrying with it the familiar scent of the flowers his father had once placed by his mother’s grave—pink and white, their petals soft like whispered memories.

“I still had the ring,” Byleth continued, his hand instinctively moving to the simple silver band in his pocket. “The one you gave me. Told me to hold onto it... and give it to someone I loved.” His voice caught slightly, and for a moment, he let the silence stretch. It was the first time he had spoken these words aloud, the weight of them settling in his chest.

“Five years, and I finally did.” He allowed himself a faint smile, though his heart ached with the bittersweet admission. He glanced back at the small group standing behind him, his gaze lingering on Edelgard, his wife, and their two children who clung to her. Her silver hair glimmered in the soft sunlight, her eyes filled with both strength and tenderness. “Her name is Edelgard,” Byleth said, turning back to Jeralt’s grave. “We... we have a family now. Two children.” His voice softened at the mention, as though the words themselves were too precious to speak too loudly.

“I wish you were here,” he whispered, his hand trembling as it rested on the stone. “I don’t... show it much. But I miss you.” His shoulders tensed, his breath shaky, and though he fought it, a tear slipped down his cheek. It caught him by surprise, the emotion he so often kept buried rising to the surface. He had never told his father how grateful he was, how much Jeralt had meant to him, how desperately he wished they had more time.

Edelgard moved beside him then, her touch gentle as she wiped the tear from his face. “He would be so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice steady yet filled with warmth. She gave him a small, encouraging smile, her eyes shimmering with understanding. She knew the depth of his pain, the sorrow he carried beneath his calm exterior.

Byleth nodded, his gaze returning to the grave. “I never told you,” he began again, his voice quieter now, as if speaking directly to Jeralt’s spirit. “How much it meant... having you as my father. I didn’t say it enough. But I’m grateful for everything. I always will be. And I... I love you.” The words were foreign on his tongue, but they were true, each one laden with the weight of all the moments he wished he could’ve shared with Jeralt.

With a heavy breath, Byleth placed the flowers—those same pink and white blooms his father had once given his mother—beside Jeralt’s resting place. They were fresh, vibrant against the cold stone, carrying a sense of life and remembrance in their delicate petals.

The moment was still, and for a while, Byleth just sat there, the grief settling into something softer, something more bearable.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps reached them, and Byleth turned to see Leonie approaching. She held a bouquet of orange flowers, her usual confident stride softened by the solemnity of the place. Her vibrant hair caught the light as she stepped closer, her expression one of deep reverence.

“Leonie,” Byleth said, standing to greet her. “You came to pay your respects?”

Leonie nodded, her expression softened with emotion. “Of course,” she replied, her voice steady yet laced with sadness. “After all, he was my mentor… he felt like a father to me.” She held out the bouquet of orange flowers, the same vibrant hue as her hair, and knelt beside Jeralt’s grave, gently placing them next to the ones Byleth had already laid down. Her fingers lingered on the petals, as if the gesture alone could bring her closer to the man she so deeply admired.

“I can’t believe it’s been so long,” Leonie said, her voice barely a whisper. “It feels like just yesterday I was learning everything from him. It’s… hard to believe he’s really gone.”

Edelgard, standing quietly beside Byleth, nodded in agreement. “Time does pass quickly for us all,” she murmured, her tone soft. “But know that Jeralt would be proud of you, Leonie. Just as he is of Byleth.”

Leonie offered a small, sad smile. “True,” she agreed. “But he’d be especially proud of his son.” Her gaze drifted to Byleth, a warmth in her eyes that spoke of the deep bond they shared. “He’d be so proud of you, Byleth. Everything you’ve done, the man you’ve become.”

Byleth gave her a grateful smile, though it didn’t reach the depths of his sorrow. “Thank you, Leonie,” he said softly.

Leonie cleared her throat, shifting slightly as if to steady herself. “Do you mind if I say a few words? Just me and the captain, for a moment?”

Byleth nodded. “Of course,” he said, stepping back to give her space. Edelgard placed a gentle hand on his arm, guiding their children with her as they ascended the small set of stone steps nearby, leaving Leonie alone with Jeralt.

As they walked away, Byleth glanced back, his chest tightening. “I’m glad I met her,” he admitted quietly, his voice filled with a mix of gratitude and melancholy.

Edelgard chuckled softly, her eyes tender as she looked at him. “You and Leonie cared for Jeralt so much,” she said. “She made a promise to him, didn’t she? To help you.”

Byleth nodded, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. “She did.”

For a moment, the silence between them was filled only with the soft sound of the wind rustling through the trees. Byleth glanced down at his two children, Clainsiia and her younger brother, their wide eyes looking up at him with curiosity. He smiled faintly, his heart full as he imagined his father’s reaction.

“What’s on your mind, Father?” Clainsiia asked, her small voice breaking through his thoughts.

Byleth hesitated, then chuckled, shaking his head. “I was just thinking about how your grandfather would react if he knew he had grandchildren.”

Clainsiia giggled, the sound light and innocent, and Byleth’s heart swelled with affection. “He’d probably be just as proud of us as he was of you,” she said with confidence.

As they continued walking, Byleth’s attention was caught by the sound of familiar voices approaching. Shez, Ingrid, Ignatz, Ashe, and Linhardt were heading their way, their expressions warm as they greeted them.

“Hello, Byleth. Edelgard,” Ingrid said, offering a small smile.

Edelgard smiled back. “It’s good to see all of you. What brings you here?”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed Shez was holding a book—an old, weathered tome that looked out of place in the solemn setting. Linhardt stepped forward, his gaze thoughtful. “We were hoping to borrow you for a bit, Byleth,” he said, his tone carrying an unusual weight of seriousness.

“We were hoping to borrow you for a bit, Byleth,” he said, his tone carrying an unusual weight of seriousness.

Byleth’s gaze drifted toward the book in Shez’s hands. The worn, leather-bound cover and the faint, dust-covered edges triggered something in the back of his mind, a flicker of recognition that didn’t quite settle. “That book,” he muttered, his voice low. “Does it have anything to do with... what I think it does?”

Shez tilted his head slightly, his expression curious. “You recognize it?” he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

Byleth’s fingers twitched, an old habit from his days as a professor, when books were more familiar companions than anything else. He shook his head slowly. “I don’t. But it feels... strange. I’ve spent countless hours in the library, and yet I’ve never seen this.”

Edelgard, standing at his side, leaned in to examine the tome more closely. Her eyes traced the faded letters on the cover, and she read aloud, “The Rival of the Goddess.”

Her brow furrowed, and she glanced up at Shez. “Where did you find this?”

Shez shifted uncomfortably. “It was… next to the globe. You know, the one in the middle of the library.”

Byleth’s eyes sharpened at this revelation. That spot was an odd place to find any book, let alone one he’d never seen before. As he took the book from Shez’s hands, something on the spine caught his attention—a small red mark, barely noticeable unless one knew to look. His heart skipped a beat, a strange sense of foreboding settling in.

Ashe, who had been standing quietly until now, stepped closer and asked, “Do you find that suspicious?”

Byleth’s fingers ran over the mark. “How often do we come across a book with a mark like this?” he mused aloud, his mind racing with possibilities. Something was definitely off, and the red mark seemed more than just an oddity. He looked up at Edelgard, his expression thoughtful but serious. “I need to look into this. I’ll be back.”

Edelgard’s eyes met his, concern flashing in their depths, but she nodded. “Be careful,” she murmured before turning to the others. “Keep an eye on him.”

Shez gave a small salute, his usual playfulness absent. “Sure thing.”

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The group made their way to the library, where the familiar scent of old parchment and ink hung in the air. Byleth moved swiftly to the shelves, his eyes scanning the rows. Everything appeared to be in its place, alphabetical, orderly—except for one shelf in the ‘A’ section. It was incomplete, missing several books.

Byleth paused, a frown deepening on his face. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.

Ignatz, standing nearby, tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“Every shelf is full, except this one,” Byleth explained, pointing toward the gap. “And more than that, look here—” he gestured toward a faint red mark on the wall behind the shelf, matching the one on the book. “Why is there a mark here?”

He slid the mysterious book back into the gap, pushing it as far as it would go. A low, rumbling sound echoed through the room as the entire shelf began to move sideways, revealing a hidden door. Everyone froze, the air suddenly charged with tension.

Linhardt, wide-eyed, muttered, “This keeps getting weirder.”

Byleth’s expression darkened, his mind recalling the secrets Rhea had kept from them, one after another. “Rhea always had more secrets than we thought,” he said quietly, before stepping forward and opening the door.

The others followed, their footsteps hesitant as they entered a hidden room. The air inside felt cooler, almost unnaturally so, and the flicker of candlelight illuminated banners bearing the logo of Seiros, hanging on the walls like silent witnesses to the unknown history hidden within. In the center of the room stood a lone stand, and atop it rested a single book, ancient and ominous.

Byleth approached the stand, his heart pounding in his chest as if warning him of something far deeper than he could comprehend. His fingers hovered over the cover, before carefully opening the book. Dust scattered into the air, and the faint glow of the room seemed to dim.

Linhardt, his voice barely above a whisper, asked, “What… is that?”

Byleth’s hand trembled as he opened the ancient book, revealing row upon row of names. His eyes moved over the unfamiliar letters, though something about them felt disturbingly familiar. His heart tightened with every turn of the page. Too many names, too many stories, all bound by one haunting similarity: beside each name were the words "failure" and "death."

A cold shiver ran down his spine, and Byleth felt the familiar presence of Sothis stirring in his mind. Sothis... what do you make of this? he asked silently, his thoughts tense. He hoped for her calm guidance, a tether in the swirling storm of emotions rising within him.

Sothis appeared in his mind, her voice unusually soft, almost hesitant. These names… I do not know them, but there’s a strange echo within me as I read them. It’s as if I should recognize them… She trailed off, her ancient wisdom clouded with uncertainty. It reminds me of someone… someone I once knew. There was a rival… but that was so long ago… Sothis's voice grew quieter, tinged with an emotion Byleth couldn’t place. These names though, they feel like more than just… coincidences.

As he flipped through the pages, each name weighed heavier than the last. Then his eyes froze on one particular entry—different from the others. One name stood out, not for the words "failure" or "death," but for a slight variation. “Survived… but failed.”

"Kazamir?" Byleth whispered aloud, feeling a strange pull toward that name, as though it was connected to him by some invisible thread. There were more notes about Kazamir than anyone else on the list. More writing, more anguish. Byleth’s brow furrowed as he scanned the notes. This person was different, not like the others who had simply failed and died. Kazamir had been… something more.

This is strange, Sothis muttered, her voice laced with unease. Why do I feel like I should know who this Kazamir is?

Byleth’s heart nearly stopped when he turned to the next page and saw his own name.

Why… why is your name here? Sothis's voice grew sharper, her confusion bleeding into fear. Byleth’s fingers trembled as he read through the details. Next to his name, the words “just another failure” appeared, identical to Kazamir’s.

A heavy silence settled over him as the realization struck. The names, the notes… these weren’t just ordinary people. They were people who, like him, had carried Sothis’s crest. They were all potential vessels, all chosen by Rhea—only to be deemed failures in the end.

Byleth’s breath hitched, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He remembered Rhea’s cryptic words from so long ago, her endless secrets. Everything she had ever kept from him, everything she had ever hidden.

Shez, sensing the tension, stepped closer, her expression clouded with concern. "Byleth… are you okay?" she asked softly.

He exhaled shakily, his voice barely above a whisper. "I wish… I wish I knew who these people were." He closed the book, his mind racing. "This… this is a list of those Rhea had as her failures. People who carried Sothis’s crest… and all of them… they’ve died, except me… and maybe… maybe one other."

Ashe, standing nearby, looked puzzled. "What do you mean, 'one other'?" he asked cautiously, stepping forward.

Byleth pointed to Kazamir’s name. "This… Kazamir. There are more notes on him than anyone else." His fingers brushed over the ink, his voice faltering. "It says he survived, but he… failed. Just like me."

He flipped back to the notes, his eyes scanning the page until he found Rhea’s final words about Kazamir. Slowly, he began to read aloud:

"‘Kazamir was one who I once thought was worthy to have held the goddess Sothis within him and wield the Sword of the Creator. Sadly, the poor child, whom I even called my son, has changed for the worse. Not just of mind, but also body. For all I can think of as to why he changed… it must be because Sothis rejected him. If I had to say why… perhaps it was his heart—blinded by anger. I promised him so many things, even to make him the ruler of Fódlan, but I must break that promise. The more he became angry, the more he became a beast than man. For that, we had to send him to a prison on top of Helheim mountain, where no one can be harmed by him. Though I wish the goddess finds him peace, the one who was supposed to finally be the true successor has become… just another failure.’”

The room fell into a deathly silence. No one dared to speak, the weight of Rhea’s words hanging heavily in the air. It felt as though the walls themselves held their breath, waiting for the next revelation.

Ingrid, her voice quiet yet firm, finally broke the silence. "Do you think Seteth knows about this? Or even Hanneman?"

Byleth shook his head slowly, his mind racing. "I doubt it," he admitted, his voice thick with disbelief. "Rhea… she always kept the deepest secrets from her closest allies."

Ignatz, standing a bit further back, furrowed his brow in confusion. "Why would Rhea keep a name like this secret? Kazamir… Why hide him?" His voice was tinged with curiosity, but there was also an undercurrent of fear. The unknown gnawed at him.

Byleth met Ignatz’s questioning gaze, his own uncertainty reflected back at him. "I’ve been wondering the same thing," he confessed softly. He glanced back down at the notes, fingers tracing the faded ink. "These notes about Kazamir… they’re from eleven fifty-nine… thirty-five years ago. And he was sent to Helheim Mountain."

"Helheim Mountain?" Shez, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly spoke up, her eyes widening. "Kazamir would have to be dead by now."

Everyone turned to her, confusion written on their faces. Byleth narrowed his eyes slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Why do you say that?"

Shez hesitated, glancing between the others before speaking again, her voice low and somber. "Helheim Mountain… it’s not just any place. It’s the nesting ground of demonic beasts. It’s the coldest region in all of Fódlan. Even if someone survived the beasts, the cold would kill you in two days—if not sooner."

A silence heavier than before fell over the room, the weight of Shez's words lingering in the air. Byleth nodded slowly. "That makes sense," he murmured, a chill running through him as he considered the impossibility of survival in such a place.

"We should leave," he said suddenly, shaking himself from his thoughts. He pushed away the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him and turned to the others. "We can’t stay here."

The group began to file out of the secret room, Byleth taking one last look around before he closed the hidden shelf behind him. He carefully locked the book they had found and placed it on a nearby table, its contents now a burden on his mind.

As they walked down the hallway, Ashe cleared his throat. "Will you tell Edelgard?" he asked, his voice soft but determined.

Byleth paused for a moment, his gaze distant. "I might," he replied after a beat. "Rhea was hiding something… something important." His eyes flickered with a storm of unresolved thoughts.

Shez opened her mouth, about to speak, but froze as a voice—sharp, almost mocking—cut through her mind once again. "That was a good call. Can’t leave the wife unnoticed, now, can we?"

Shez visibly tensed, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for the source of the voice. It was the second time she had heard it, and it unsettled her to her core. Was she losing her mind? She felt Byleth’s gaze on her, and when she looked up, concern was etched into his expression.

"Shez, are you okay?" His question was soft, but laced with worry.

She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. "Honestly, I don’t know," she admitted. "It’s… just… I keep hearing a voice in my head. If I told anyone, they’d think I’m crazy. Maybe I just need to blow off some steam." She managed a weak smile. "Training might help distract me."

Without waiting for a response, Shez turned and left the library, her footsteps echoing down the empty hall.

Sothis’s voice hummed in the back of Byleth’s mind. "There’s something off about her. She’s been acting strange since we entered that room."

Byleth responded in his thoughts, his brow furrowing slightly. "We haven’t known her for long. Maybe she’s just overwhelmed."

"Perhaps," Sothis mused, though her tone remained suspicious. "But she acts as if someone is talking to her when she looks around. I’ve seen this before. Keep an eye on her. Something feels… strong about her."

Byleth didn’t respond immediately, his thoughts tangled in knots. Shez’s sudden behavior, Sothis’s warnings, the weight of the revelations from the book—it was all too much.

The cold air of the monastery’s stone walls seemed to wrap around him tighter, suffocating him with unanswered questions.

As the group exited the library, the silence lingered, heavy and tense. But in the far corner of the room, hidden by the shadows cast by towering shelves, a figure stood motionless, eyes fixated on the book Byleth had just locked away. The woman watched as the last person left, and with quiet precision, she made her move.

Dressed in dark robes, her every step was calculated, silent, predatory. Her eyes glinted as she opened the book, flipping through its pages with urgent hands. When she reached the section about Kazamir, her gaze lingered. "Helheim Mountain…" she whispered, her lips curling into a sinister smile. "This one has the most notes… Maybe, just maybe." Her finger traced the faded ink, her mind racing with the possibilities. "But how will I get out of here without being killed by a knight?"

Just then, a soft giggle echoed behind her. The woman stiffened, her heart skipping a beat. She turned sharply, her eyes landing on a small figure. A young girl stood there, barely eight years old, her eyes wide with curiosity and innocence. It was Clainsiia, a princess known for wandering the monastery grounds when no one was watching.

The woman’s mind whirled, and an idea began to take shape. "Perhaps…" she murmured, her voice like silk. She approached the girl, crouching down to her level. "You look lost, little one. How about we play a game? I’ll take you to where you need to go."

Clainsiia’s eyes sparkled with interest, unaware of the danger. The woman’s smile widened as she reached out, gently taking Clainsiia’s hand. She had her plan now.

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Meanwhile, at the training grounds of the Officers Academy, the clashing sound of weapons rang through the air. Shez stood at the entrance, watching Edelgard and Petra engaged in an intense sparring match. Swords and axes collided, sparks flying as both women exchanged blows with fierce determination. Petra’s breath came in heavy gasps, but there was admiration in her voice as she admitted, "You are still very strong, Edelgard."

Edelgard, equally winded, smiled faintly as she wiped the sweat from her brow. "And you’ve only grown stronger, Petra."

Shez hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt, but curiosity got the better of her. "Am I… interrupting something?"

Both women turned to her, and Edelgard, still catching her breath, shook her head. "Not at all. After you and the others left with Byleth, Petra and I decided to get in some training. It’s been a while since we sparred like this."

Shez took a few steps closer, her curiosity piqued. "Does everyone train this hard around here?"

Petra smiled, her exhaustion evident but still radiating energy. "Not like we did seven years ago. But today… it is needed."

Shez grinned, feeling the itch to join them. "Mind if I take a swing with you two?"

Edelgard chuckled softly. "I wouldn’t mind, but I could use a moment to catch my breath." But before they could discuss further, the sound of bells pierced the air, urgent and alarming.

A knight came sprinting toward the training grounds, panic in his voice. "A thief has the princess at the front gate!" he shouted, his words sending a shockwave through the group. He repeated it again, louder. "A thief has the princess at the front gate!"

Edelgard’s eyes widened, fear and anger flashing across her face. Without hesitation, she bolted from the training grounds, sprinting toward the gate. Shez followed close behind, her heart pounding in her chest. As they ran, they collided with Byleth, who was also rushing toward the commotion.

"Edelgard!" Byleth shouted, his eyes wild with worry. "A thief got into the academy grounds—how?"

"I don’t know!" Edelgard’s voice was sharp, filled with urgency. "But we have to stop them before they hurt Clainsiia."

They reached the front gate just in time to see a standoff. Several knights stood with their weapons drawn, and Shamir and Bernadetta had their bows trained on the thief. Hubert and Ferdinand were standing at the front, their weapons ready, but their faces grim with tension.

The thief—her cloaked figure with cold, calculating eyes—held Clainsiia tightly, a knife pressed to her neck. The little girl trembled, her wide eyes filled with terror.

Ferdinand stepped forward, his voice steady but filled with urgency. “Let the princess go. There’s no need for this.”

Hubert’s eyes narrowed, his tone far more menacing. “Release her now, or I will ensure these streets are soaked with your blood!"

The thief's lips curled into a cruel smile. “I’ll make you a deal,” she said, her voice smooth and deliberate. “You let me walk away, and I’ll let the princess go. Simple as that.”

Shez and Petra arrived just in time, panting from their sprint. Edelgard, her face pale with fear but her eyes burning with anger, couldn’t tear her gaze from the woman. As the thief’s cloak shifted, Edelgard caught a glimpse of something familiar on her garments—symbols hidden beneath the folds of fabric. Her heart froze as recognition dawned.

“How many of you are left?” Edelgard’s voice cut through the tension, sharp as the blade the thief held to her daughter’s throat. “How many of you from those who slither in the dark?”

The thief’s smile faltered for a moment before she spoke softly, “I am the last one. I just want to leave. You have my word that the girl will remain unharmed.”

Shez narrowed her eyes, stepping closer. “No one leaves without a reason. What’s yours?”

The thief’s grip tightened on Clainsiia for a moment before relaxing, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “I have my own reasons,” she replied coldly. “But you have my word. Let me go, and she’ll be safe.”

Edelgard glanced at Byleth, their eyes meeting in a moment of silent understanding. They knew this could not be allowed to happen, but every second the knife stayed near Clainsiia’s neck was a second too long. As they pondered their next move, a glimmer caught Byleth’s eye—a small dagger, its blade gleaming in the sunlight. Yuri stood silently behind the thief, his expression unreadable but his intentions clear.

Byleth’s voice was low but firm as he took a step forward. “Let her go. Then you can walk away.”

The thief hesitated for a moment, sensing the shift in the air. She smiled, a dangerous glint in her eye, and gently pushed Clainsiia forward. “Run along, little one.”

Clainsiia stumbled but quickly regained her footing, her small legs carrying her as fast as they could toward Edelgard, who dropped to her knees, arms wide. Clainsiia threw herself into her mother’s embrace, hiding behind her as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

“Now, Yuri!” Byleth commanded, his voice sharp.

Yuri didn’t hesitate. His blade pierced the thief’s leg from behind, a quick and precise strike. The thief gasped, her body recoiling from the pain, but before Yuri could finish her off, she vanished, disappearing in a flash of light.

Shamir cursed under her breath, lowering her bow. “Damn it, she got away.”

Bernadetta, still trembling, exhaled shakily. “At least… Clainsiia is safe… That’s what matters.”

Edelgard cradled her daughter, kneeling down to inspect her. “Are you hurt?” she asked gently, her voice soft and trembling with emotion.

Clainsiia sniffled, clutching her mother tightly. “I’m okay, Mother…”

Edelgard held her close, her heart pounding in her chest as she whispered words of comfort, stroking her daughter’s hair. Her mind raced. Why had a thief come all the way here? What were they after?

Byleth, standing nearby, was trying to piece it together. He walked up to Yuri, who was staring at the bloodstained ground where the thief had stood moments before.

“Did you notice anything about her?” Byleth asked, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Yuri sheathed his dagger, his brow furrowed. “She had a bag, but I couldn’t see what was inside. It could be important.”

Byleth nodded. “You did all you could.”

Shez, still catching her breath, approached them. “Shouldn’t someone go after her?”

Byleth sighed, frustration etched across his face. “I would, but we don’t know where she’s heading now.”

His eyes shifted to his wife, Edelgard, who still held Clainsiia close, her arms trembling slightly from the residual fear of nearly losing their daughter. He took a breath, the weight of what had just happened settling in. Clainsiia’s small body fit snugly in Edelgard’s protective embrace, her cheeks flushed with the remnants of tears.

Byleth walked over, his steps deliberate, his gaze softening as he reached for Edelgard’s shoulder. “I’ll put the monastery on high alert,” he said quietly, his voice steady but filled with unspoken concern. His eyes flickered down to Clainsiia, and he knelt in front of his daughter, his hands gently resting on her shoulders. “Clainsiia, can you tell me where you first saw the thief?”

The little girl hesitated, her small fingers clenching the fabric of her mother’s dress before speaking, her voice small but clear. “In the library… there was a shelf… it—it was a door. She came out of there.”

Edelgard stiffened at her daughter’s words, her eyes narrowing as she glanced sharply at Byleth. “A secret door in the library? You didn’t think to tell me about this?”

Byleth sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was going to, but I also found a journal. It belonged to Rhea. It… had a list of names of people like me.”

Edelgard’s eyes widened, her voice low with urgency. “People like you? What do you mean?”

Byleth’s gaze darkened as he stood up, folding his arms. “It was a list of those who once bore the Crest of Flames. But there was one name that had more notes than anyone else.”

Edelgard’s mind raced, piecing together what Byleth was implying. “A list of those who held the Crest of Flames…” She looked up at him, searching his face for answers. “And what was this name?”

“Kazamir,” Byleth replied, his tone somber. “Thirty-five years ago, he was sent to Helheim Mountain… by Rhea.”

The mention of the infamous, treacherous mountain sent a shiver through Edelgard. She furrowed her brow, her thoughts turning to the thief. “Do you think… she’s heading there?”

Byleth glanced down at Clainsiia again, his eyes softening as he knelt, taking her small hands into his. He wanted to ease the tension in Edelgard’s body, to let her know they were safe—at least for the moment. “Clainsiia,” he asked gently, “did you see the thief holding a book?”

Clainsiia nodded slowly, her grip tightening on her father’s hands. “She had a book with her, Father. I-I didn’t see which one.”

Byleth exchanged a knowing look with Edelgard. “If she has that journal… it might explain where she is heading." 

Edelgard’s expression darkened. “If she’s heading to Helheim Mountain, she’ll be lucky to survive the beasts or the cold.” Her voice was grim, and though relief washed over her knowing Clainsiia was safe, the weight of what might come still hung heavy.

Clainsiia’s small form trembled again, and Edelgard tightened her hold on her, pressing a soft kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Stay close to your father, alright?” she whispered, trying to smile but failing to hide the concern in her voice. She stood, turning her attention back to Byleth. “I can’t keep Dorothea waiting too long. She’s been watching over Jeralt while I’ve been training.”

Byleth nodded, understanding. “Go to her. Clainsiia and I will be fine.”

As Edelgard began to walk away, her back straight but her heart still heavy, Byleth and Clainsiia followed closely behind. She glanced back one last time, her eyes meeting Byleth’s with a shared understanding. She trusted him to handle things, but that didn’t ease the worry gnawing at her.

Meanwhile, Shez stood with Yuri, watching as Byleth and Edelgard disappeared down the corridor. Shez folded her arms, her eyes thoughtful. “Do you think… nothing bad will happen?”

Yuri shrugged, his usual confident smirk absent. “I’m not sure. If the thief’s heading to those mountains, she’ll need more than just luck to survive.” His voice trailed off, his gaze distant as he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Shez to ponder the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

Shez stood there, her thoughts swirling. She was no stranger to dangerous missions, but something about this thief and Helheim Mountain unsettled her. As she stared after Yuri, she heard it again.

“Everyone seems confident in that.”

That same voice. Again. A small huff of annoyance escaped her lips, and she found herself clenching her fists. The voice had been creeping in, more and more frequently, and it was starting to wear on her patience.

“Alright, who the hell are you? Just show yourself!” Shez snapped, turning on her heels, eyes darting around the room.

Silence.

A few people nearby stared at her, their faces a mix of confusion and concern. No one had spoken, she realized. Embarrassment began to crawl up her spine. She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly when she caught sight of Hubert, who was watching her intently, his expression calm yet calculating. He began to approach, his boots clicking on the stone floor, and Shez felt an odd unease as he neared.

“No one was talking, Shez,” Hubert said, his voice smooth but with a slight tinge of amusement. “I’m afraid it’s only you.”

Shez rolled her eyes, trying to mask her frustration with a shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s probably just me hearing things. Maybe it’ll stop if I wish hard enough.”

A soft chuckle escaped Hubert’s lips—rare for the ever-serious strategist. His eyes glinted with an unusual warmth. “This reminds me of something Byleth once confided in us after the war,” he said, his voice softening ever so slightly.

Shez quirked a brow. “Byleth? What do you mean?”

“During his time as our professor, he told us about a voice he constantly heard… the goddess, Sothis. Only he could hear her.” Hubert’s eyes glimmered with the memory. “It was strange to think about, a voice speaking only to him, guiding his actions. It’s almost nostalgic, hearing you speak about voices now.”

Shez blinked, confused by the sudden shift in Hubert’s demeanor. He was usually sharp, critical, and didn’t share much unless it served a tactical purpose. She opened her mouth to respond, but Hubert continued.

“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting you have a goddess whispering in your ear. But it does remind me of how Byleth’s strength grew—how his connection with Sothis shaped him.” His expression grew contemplative, the shadows beneath his eyes deepening. “He and I… we weren’t close at first. To me, Byleth was simply a tool for Lady Edelgard’s goals. But over time… I saw something more.”

Shez tilted her head. “What changed?”

Hubert paused, his gaze flickering toward the distant halls as if recalling something long buried. “Compassion. Byleth wasn’t just a mercenary or a tool. He cared deeply for his students, for Lady Edelgard… for all of us. He showed that even in war, compassion could exist.” His lips curled into a faint smirk. “I admit, it took time for me to see him as anything other than an obstacle. Yet, when he came to me one evening and said he would marry Lady Edelgard… that was the moment I realized how much he meant to us.”

There was a weight in Hubert’s voice now, something vulnerable that Shez hadn’t expected. He continued, his tone dropping into a murmur. “I once threatened him, you know. If it ever came to it, I would sacrifice him for Lady Edelgard’s sake. But later… I told him if I had two lives, one would be for her, and the other for him.”

Shez blinked, her brain processing the strange intimacy in Hubert’s confession. “Wow… so, you do have a soft spot after all,” she teased lightly, a mischievous grin pulling at her lips.

Hubert’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Without a word, he turned, his cloak swishing as he walked away, leaving Shez standing there, amused but also thoughtful.

She looked toward the gate, the path leading out toward the unknown, where the thief was surely heading. Her stomach twisted as she wondered if that voice, whoever it belonged to, was trying to tell her something about what was to come. Would the thief really die in the frozen wastes of Helheim Mountain, or was something much darker waiting for them all? The cold truth of uncertainty gripped her heart, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

The thief warped in the snow, her body trembling from the biting cold as the relentless snowstorm raged around her. She felt disoriented, her vision blurry, and her limbs numb. Every breath was a painful gasp as she crawled out of the snowbank, shaking the frost from her cloak. When her eyes adjusted to the swirling white, she saw it—the massive rock formation looming ahead, shaped like the twisted head of some ancient monster. Its jagged features seemed to watch her, mocking her frailty. She reached into her pack and pulled out the crumpled notes, her fingers trembling from the cold as she tried to make sense of them. Where could a man like him be hidden away?

She trudged forward, her legs heavy, her body weighed down by exhaustion and cold. Every step was agony, her boots sinking into the deep snow. The storm howled around her, the wind tearing at her cloak. Then, as if out of nowhere, a low rumble pierced the storm, a noise that sent a shiver down her spine—different from the cold, something primal. She stopped, her breath catching in her throat.

A giant bird appeared from the snow’s haze, its massive talons sinking into the ground as it searched for prey, its sharp eyes scanning the area. But before she could react, a giant crawler—a grotesque, worm-like creature—erupted from beneath the snow, its segmented body twisting as it lunged at the bird. The two beasts collided in a flurry of feathers, talons, and fangs. The thief's heart raced. Run.

Without thinking, she bolted, her legs carrying her faster than she thought possible. The cold air stung her lungs as she pushed through the snow, her boots slipping, her body nearly collapsing from exhaustion. She didn’t dare look back, not when the sounds of the monstrous battle grew fainter behind her. She had to survive. She had to find shelter.

But fate was cruel.

She stumbled, her legs giving way, sending her sprawling into the snow. The notes scattered around her, sinking into the white abyss. Desperation clawed at her as she scrambled to gather them, her hands numb, barely functioning. But then, there was another sound—this one far too close. A low, guttural growl, the unmistakable sound of something dangerous, something hungry.

She turned slowly, her eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest. A demonic beast stood not far from her, its glowing red eyes fixed on her. Its breath came out in heavy puffs, mist swirling around its snarling maw. She felt her entire body freeze, not from the cold, but from the terror that gripped her. The beast took a step forward, its claws digging into the snow, its gaze locked on her as though savoring its next meal.

She scrambled to her feet and sprinted, her legs barely able to carry her as she stumbled through the snow. Her heart pounded in her ears, her breath ragged. She could hear the beast behind her, its growls growing closer, its footsteps heavy, gaining on her. She slipped again, crashing into the snow, her body shaking as she crawled backward, too exhausted to stand.

But the beast... stopped.

She watched in disbelief as the creature suddenly recoiled, its ears flattening, eyes wide with terror as it turned and bolted in the opposite direction, disappearing into the storm. Confusion washed over her as she lay there, trembling. Why had it run? What could scare a demonic beast like that?

With what little strength she had left, she pushed herself up and limped toward a nearby cave. The entrance loomed ahead, dark and foreboding, but she had no other choice. She needed shelter. She needed to rest. Her body was at its limit. As she entered the cave, the cold air slowly began to fade, replaced by an eerie stillness. She held out her hand, summoning a small flame to light the way, the fireball hovering just above her palm.

That’s when she saw it.

Something was frozen within the ice at the far end of the cave. She approached slowly, her heart pounding in her chest. At first, it seemed like a shadow, a trick of the dim light. But as she drew closer, she realized it was a figure—encased in ice, its body covered in dark dragon-like scales. Black, jagged scales shimmered faintly in the firelight, but they weren’t the only thing that stood out. The figure had human-like hands, but they ended in sharp claws, deadly and precise. And its hair... long, wild, and deep crimson, cascaded down its back, frozen in place.

The thief’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t a beast—it was something else, something far more dangerous. The figure’s eyes, though closed, seemed to burn behind the ice, as if they could open at any moment. She took a step back, her heart racing, but nothing happened. The cave remained silent except for the faint crackling of the flame hovering in her palm. She swallowed hard, her gaze locked on the frozen figure.

Despite the palpable fear gripping her, there was a strange fascination that drew her closer, as if the creature encased in the ice held some forgotten secret. Her eyes roamed over its jagged, dragon-like scales and its unnerving, crimson hair, frozen mid-flow like a wave of blood cascading down its back. She could feel a pull, an energy—ancient, powerful—radiating from the creature, even in its dormant state. This was no ordinary being. No mere beast.

"Why... why would Rhea trap someone like you here?" she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible against the low howl of wind outside the cave. She shook her head, wrapping her arms tighter around herself as the cold gnawed at her bones. There was only one way out of the cave, and too many beasts lurked beyond. Her options were grim. The storm had already claimed enough of her strength. She wouldn’t survive another encounter.

She turned back toward the creature, her pulse quickening again. If this thing was locked in the ice, it must have been for a reason. But right now... her survival depended on risk. She needed warmth, and the thought of using magic to free the creature flickered in her mind. Was it madness to even consider it? Probably. But she had no other choice.

Her trembling fingers flexed, magic swirling at her fingertips as she summoned a stronger fire. The heat from her spell crackled, and with a deep breath, she aimed it directly at the creature. Flames burst from her palm, licking against the ice, melting it slowly. She watched in horrified awe as the figure began to emerge, slipping from its frozen prison, its form sliding to the cave floor with a heavy thud.

Just as she was about to send another blast of fire to incinerate the creature’s body, something caught her eye—a twitch. Her heart skipped. Its hand moved. Panic surged through her, and before she could react, the creature’s clawed fist slammed into the ground, punching through the snow-covered cave floor with a force that shook the earth beneath her.

She stumbled backward, her legs collapsing beneath her as she scrambled to crawl as far back as she could. Her mind screamed at her to run, but terror had locked her in place. The creature slowly rose, its massive, scaled body stretching, cracking the last remnants of ice clinging to its skin. The beast’s head turned toward her, and its eyes opened.

They didn’t open like a human’s—no. The eyes opened sideways, revealing an eerie black-and-orange glow, a swirling vortex of rage and hunger. It let out a deafening roar that reverberated through the cave, shaking snow from the walls. The roar carried into the storm outside, and she could hear the distant howls and screeches of beasts retreating in fear, scattering away from whatever this thing was.

“By the goddess! What the hell are you?!” she screamed, her voice cracking as her body trembled with adrenaline.

The creature turned to her, its eyes narrowing. She could feel its gaze pierce through her, as though it was sizing her up, deciding her fate. Then, to her shock, it spoke.

“Who... are you?” The voice was deep, grating like stones grinding together, yet there was a strange intelligence behind it. It spoke like a human, but the tone—there was something monstrous about it, something primal and feral. The thief’s chest tightened as fear and disbelief warred within her.

She couldn’t move, her breath caught in her throat as she stared up at the towering figure. How was it possible that this... thing could speak? Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the surreal situation, but nothing in her years of survival had prepared her for this.

"I... I’m just a thief," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I didn’t—"

The creature’s gaze flickered toward her bag, and its eyes—those black-and-orange, otherworldly eyes—narrowed dangerously. A sharp intake of breath from the beast, and then it saw it. The insignia. The crest of the Knights of Seiros embroidered on her pack, barely visible through the snow and grime.

His eyes widened, not in surprise, but in fury.

"Did Rhea send you?" the creature growled, its voice shaking the very air, reverberating with unbridled rage. His claws clenched into fists, shaking with a power that seemed barely contained. The thief could feel the storm of emotions building inside him, the pressure mounting with every second.

Before she could answer, a roar erupted from him, so loud it rattled the icicles above. In one swift, terrifying movement, the creature lunged at her, grabbing her by the neck, lifting her effortlessly off the ground as if she weighed nothing. She gasped, hands clawing at his scaled arm, but his grip was like iron, unyielding.

“Answer me!” the creature snarled, dragging her through the snow, her body scraping against the frozen earth as he pulled her out of the cave and into the open. The storm hit her like a wall, snow biting at her skin, the cold air stinging her face. She could barely breathe as the creature finally stopped, its burning eyes locking onto hers.

"You will send Rhea a message," it hissed, inches from her face, the heat from its breath melting the snowflakes around them. "Tell her I still live. Tell her I have not forgotten. Tell her that I will—"

"Rhea is dead!" The words tore out of the thief before she could stop herself, her voice shrill with desperation. "She’s been dead for seven years!"

The creature froze, its eyes widening in disbelief. For a moment, the world stood still. His grip on her loosened, and he stared at her, his breath heavy and ragged.

"Liar," he growled, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his voice. His face twisted in anger, and his mouth opened wide—wider than any human jaw should. The bottom half of his jaw split apart, revealing rows of jagged teeth. A deep, fiery glow began to form in his throat, an orb of heat and destruction, growing brighter with each passing second.

The thief’s heart raced. She knew what was coming—she could see the death in his eyes, feel the heat of the fire building inside him.

"Rhea is dead!" she screamed again, her voice shaking with panic. "It’s the truth! She was killed by a man—a man who wielded the power of the goddess Sothis!"

The name. The moment the word "Sothis" left her lips, the creature’s eyes widened in shock. The fire, once ready to consume her, flickered and dimmed, retreating back into his throat as he staggered backward, dropping her into the snow. He stood there, silent, his chest rising and falling with deep, labored breaths.

The thief gasped, clutching her throat where his hand had nearly crushed her windpipe. She scrambled backward, putting distance between herself and the beast as he processed what she had said. His towering frame loomed over her, a dark silhouette against the swirling snowstorm. Then, without warning, the creature roared in frustration, his fist slamming into the frozen ground with such force it cracked beneath him, sending tremors through the earth. Snow cascaded from the cliffs above, and the icy landscape seemed to shudder under his fury.

He ground his teeth, the sound sharp and grating, like stone on metal. His lips curled back, revealing those rows of jagged teeth again as he growled, low and venomous. "Damn her... Damn Rhea! She was supposed to die by my hand!" His voice rumbled with the weight of his hatred, his body trembling with rage that had festered for so long.

The beast dropped to his knees, the snow melting around him from the heat radiating off his scaled body. His hands clenched into fists, claws digging into the ground as he struggled to control the storm within him. The wind howled around them, but he seemed oblivious to the cold, his focus narrowing on the turmoil inside. His voice cracked when he spoke again, softer this time, like a man confessing his broken dreams. "It was supposed to be mine... All of it. Fódlan. The people. The throne." His head hung low, a shadow of defeat crossing his monstrous features. "I mastered every class... every spell. I became invincible... and even smart enough to forge a copy of the Crest of Flames."

The thief, still gasping for breath, watched as the creature seemed to descend into some dark, personal hell. His anger turned inward, and his eyes burned with the memories of a past he could never reclaim.

"I had it inside me," he continued, a bitter smile curling at the edge of his monstrous mouth. "The Crest of Flames... my heart once carried its power. But Rhea—she ripped it from me. She stole my destiny and left me with nothing but... this." He gestured to his grotesque form, his once human body warped into the terrifying beast that stood before her.

The air grew colder around them, yet the heat radiating from his body melted the snow at his feet, turning it to steam. His once-human eyes, now glowing with an eerie light, locked onto the thief's. There was a moment of silence, a suffocating pause where his fury and anguish seemed to collide in a whirlwind of emotion. Then, his voice, barely above a whisper, broke the stillness.

"Even without the Crest," he admitted, his tone almost resigned, "Rhea's blood... Sitri's blood... they made it possible." His clawed hand trembled as it reached toward his chest, as though he could still feel the remnants of that power coursing through him. "The blood of Sothis... flows in me."

His words lingered in the storm, bitter as the snowflakes that clung to the air. Slowly, he got to his feet, towering over the thief once more. His eyes darkened, swirling with a mix of rage and curiosity as they focused on her.

"What has happened?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, like a predator waiting for prey to reveal its next move. "What has happened over these seven long years?"

The thief, still struggling to catch her breath, hesitated. But there was no escape now. She had to speak, or face whatever wrath still simmered beneath his monstrous exterior.

"Rhea... she’s gone," she began, her voice trembling with both fear and reverence. "She was defeated... by a man named Byleth, and his wife... Edelgard von Hresvelg, the emperor of the Adrestian Empire." She swallowed hard, knowing the weight of her words would only stoke the flames of his hatred. "After Rhea's death, they... they ruled over Fódlan."

His eyes flickered, processing the information with the intensity of a storm gathering power. He stepped closer, the ground beneath him trembling with his every movement. His breath, hot and ragged, clouded the air between them. But there was a need for more—he needed to know everything.

"And Byleth?" he growled, his voice sharper now. "What of him?"

The thief nodded, her hands shaking as she continued. "Byleth... he held the power of the goddess for five years. But during that time... he disappeared. No one knew where he went. But when he returned... he crushed all of Seiros, all of the Kingdom of Faerghus. He defeated them all."

For a moment, the beast said nothing, the only sound was the wind howling around them. Then, with a guttural growl, he asked, "And this... Byleth, what else?"

"Byleth..." she hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's the son of Jeralt Reus Eisner. He was a mercenary... known as the Ashen Demon for his skills in battle, his swordsmanship. They say he never showed emotion, not until his father was killed. He shed his first tear for Jeralt." She paused, her voice catching. "He wields the Sword of the Creator. He killed all those who slither in the dark."

The beast's glowing eyes narrowed, absorbing each word. His breath grew heavier, more labored, as if the weight of the past seven years was sinking into his very bones. But he wasn't done yet.

"And where is he now?" His voice was a dangerous whisper.

"At Garreg Mach's Monastery," the thief answered, her voice barely audible. "He has... two children."

The beast clenched his fists, his claws digging into the frozen earth as the snowstorm raged around him. His mind was a maelstrom, each new piece of information sparking fresh hatred and fury. But still, he needed to know more.

"And Edelgard?" he asked, the name slipping from his lips like poison.

The thief hesitated again, but she knew there was no hiding the truth. "Edelgard... she was a test subject. Those who slither in the dark... they experimented on her. And her ten siblings. She was the only one who survived. They wanted her to bear the Crest of Flames, to carry a minor Crest of Seiros." Her voice dropped, haunted by the tale. "After the war with the Church, they tried to wipe her memories... but before they could strike, Byleth acted first."

The beast's eyes widened in surprise, but the thief pressed on, her words spilling out like confessions. "Byleth used the full might of the Adrestian Empire’s army to wipe out those who slithered in the dark. He slaughtered them... for her."

For a moment, there was only silence.

The Beast stood motionless, the weight of the thief's words sinking into him like daggers. His mind raced as he connected the pieces. Jeralt—Rhea’s favored knight—had always been a lucky bastard, a survivor. He had escaped death once, thanks to Rhea's intervention, her blood used to save him after a mortal wound. And Sitri, Jeralt's wife... She carried the heart of Sothis herself, the very goddess that Rhea had spent centuries trying to resurrect. All along, the Crest of Flames, the power he had once been destined to bear, had been handed to another, one forged from Rhea's desperation to recreate the goddess.

Byleth.

A man created from Rhea’s meddling, a child born not just of Sitri and Jeralt, but of Sothis herself. Byleth, the one who now wielded the Sword of the Creator. The one who had taken the power that should have been his. The Beast’s blood boiled with rage, a seething fire burning deep in his veins. He clenched his fists, trembling as the truth clawed its way through him.

He was nothing but a discarded relic of Rhea's twisted designs, a failed experiment in her endless quest to restore Sothis. And now, someone she had made—her own creation—was ruling in his place, taking what was his by right.

"Jeralt..." he growled under his breath, his monstrous voice carrying through the storm. "You lucky dastard... to have lived long enough to see this." His eyes, glowing with fury, bore into the thief. His thoughts returned to Byleth, the so-called Ashen Demon. But to him, Byleth was something else. A replacement. A tool that Rhea had used, just as she had tried to use him so many years ago.

"Where?" he asked again, his voice low, yet filled with venom. "Where is this... Byleth?"

The thief flinched under his gaze, but she managed to whisper the words, "Garreg Mach... he's at Garreg Mach Monastery."

The Beast’s breath became ragged, the cold air mixing with the heat radiating from his body. Snow fell heavier now, swirling around them, but the Beast’s fury turned the snowflakes to steam as soon as they touched his skin. His claws crackled with electricity, sparks dancing between his fingers. His gaze darkened further, consumed by thoughts of revenge.

"What are you going to do?" the thief dared to ask, her voice trembling.

He didn’t respond at first, only turning his back to her as his hands crackled with lightning. Without warning, he raised his clawed hand and shot a bolt of lightning at a massive rock nearby. The force shattered it into pieces, sending fragments flying through the air. The Beast walked toward the remnants, his footfalls heavy, like the weight of his destiny crushing the ground beneath him.

He stopped at the broken shards, his monstrous frame towering over them. With a wave of his hand, he pointed at the thief, commanding her to follow. She did so without hesitation, her heart pounding in her chest. As she approached, the Beast raised his arms once more, and the fragments of the rock began to levitate, swirling around him. The thief watched in awe as the shards, under his command, started to fuse together, their edges glowing hot with the fire he breathed upon them.

Lightning arced through the air, binding the fragments together, forming something... familiar. Slowly, the rock melted into metal, transforming under his power. The shape became clearer—a blade. No, two blades. The thief’s eyes widened as she realized what he was forging.

"Who... who are you?" she asked, her voice barely audible, her fear now mixed with curiosity.

The Beast paused, his glowing eyes narrowing as he considered her question. It had been so long since anyone had asked him that, so long since he had even thought of his name. His voice rumbled like a distant storm as he finally spoke.

"Kazamir," he admitted, the name feeling foreign on his monstrous tongue. "I was once a human... sent away by Rhea. Frozen. Forgotten."

The thief’s eyes widened in shock, the truth settling over her like a heavy shroud. She should have known. Kazamir... the one Rhea cast out.

But Kazamir—the man—was gone. He had been replaced by something darker, something more driven. His gaze hardened as he thought of Byleth, the so-called Ashen Demon. If Byleth no longer bore that name, then neither would he.

"No," he growled, his voice echoing through the storm. "I will no longer be Kazamir. From now on, I am the Ashen God of Revenge."

As he raised his arms, a black mist began to seep from his body, swirling around him like a cloak of darkness. It twisted and coiled, forming into the shape of a blade—a new weapon, forged from his own fury. The mist fused with the metal of the shattered rock, spinning and merging until it took shape. A double-bladed sword, its edges gleaming with malice. Each side stretched to an imposing length of hundred thirty two centimeters, a monstrous weapon for a monstrous being.

Kazamir—now Ashen—reached out with his right hand, grasping the middle of the sword. He pulled it apart, splitting the weapon into two distinct blades. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he reconnected them, their power thrumming in his hands. The air around him crackled with dark energy as he examined his new creation. A storm brewed not only in the sky but within his very being, the culmination of years of abandonment, betrayal, and fury finding form in this monstrous weapon.

But as he stared at the blades, a strange thought passed through him, one he had not felt in what seemed like centuries. He longed for something he had never admitted before—a symbol, a promise.

"A ring," Ashen muttered, his voice barely a whisper above the howling wind. "I wish I had a ring."

The thief, trembling, caught his words. Her eyes, wide with fear but now tinged with something softer—perhaps pity, or curiosity—darted toward her bag. With shaking hands, she reached inside and pulled out a small silver ring. The metal gleamed, cold and untouched by the storm that raged around them.

"I... I have one," she stammered, stepping forward cautiously, her hands outstretched, offering the ring to him.

Ashen turned to her, his glowing eyes narrowing as he considered the gesture. For a moment, something human flickered behind those monstrous eyes, a brief remembrance of the man he had once been. Slowly, he took the ring from her hand. As soon as his fingers touched it, the ring began to float, shimmering with energy as his electricity intertwined with the simple metal band.

He raised his claws, letting the power flow through him, connecting the ring to his weapon. Sparks flew, the air thick with the scent of burning ozone. But as the two forces merged, something unexpected happened. The sword disappeared, vanishing into thin air, leaving only the ring behind, floating between his fingers.

Ashen’s lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. As he clasped the ring, it expanded, growing wider until it fit perfectly on his finger. The silver metal gleamed against his darkened skin, a symbol of his new purpose, his new power.

The thief gasped, her eyes wide in awe. "That... that was incredible," she whispered, barely able to find her voice.

Ashen’s smile faded into something darker as he lowered his gaze to her. "Incredible, perhaps," he said, his voice low and cold. "But now you claim I owe you, do you not?"

The thief hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest as Ashen’s piercing gaze bore into her. She nodded slowly, trying to gather her courage. "Yes... yes, you do," she said, her voice shaking. "You owe me for the ring. But more than that... you owe me for something greater."

Ashen tilted his head, intrigued but unmoved. "And what might that be?" he asked, his tone dangerous.

The thief swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I... I need your help to avenge those who were part of my family... those who slithered in the dark. They were killed by Byleth and Edelgard. My family... they were slaughtered, and now, all I want is to see them suffer, to make them pay for taking everything from me."

Ashen’s expression darkened as he stepped toward her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her trembling form. "You expect me to avenge you?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I do not listen to mortals, nor do I concern myself with their petty grievances."

The thief stumbled back, fear filling her eyes as Ashen continued to approach. "P-please... I—"

Her words were cut off by a sharp cry of pain as Ashen's claws pierced her side, the metallic taste of blood filling the air. She gasped, her eyes wide in shock as his grip tightened, the life slowly draining from her. But before she could collapse, something shifted in Ashen—an intense pain shot through his back, as if his very body was tearing itself apart.

With a roar of agony, Ashen's form erupted in a blinding burst of light. Dark, skeletal wings tore through his back, stretching out into the stormy sky. The thief watched, barely conscious, as he rose into the air, his monstrous transformation complete. His wings crackled with energy, the sky itself responding to his rage.

Below them, the ground began to tremble. A massive creature, the Giant Crawler, surfaced from the depths, its grotesque form writhing as it opened its maw. The thief, still clinging to life, looked up at Ashen in terror.

"Please," she begged, her voice a weak whisper. "Don't drop me!"

Ashen’s lips twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes gleaming with malice. Without a word, he released her. Her scream echoed through the air as she plummeted toward the Giant Crawler below. The beast opened its massive jaws, catching her mid-fall before disappearing back underground, the earth swallowing them whole.

Ashen watched it all with cold indifference before turning his gaze to the horizon. Garreg Mach lay in the distance, a place that had long haunted him. Now, it would be the stage for his revenge. His wings beat against the storm as he flew toward it, the ring on his finger glowing faintly with power.

He didn’t need his sword—yet. But when the time came, it would be ready, just as he was.

Chapter Text

After hours since the thief had escaped the monastery and headed towards Helheim Mountain, the night had fallen silent. The tension from earlier still lingered in the air, but within the private quarters of the emperor, a small sense of peace had been restored. Clainsiia lay snuggled beneath the blankets of a spare bed in Edelgard's and Byleth's room. Edelgard had insisted she stay with them tonight, her protective instincts overwhelming after what had happened.

The soft flicker of a single candle danced on the bedside table, casting gentle shadows across the room. Edelgard sat in a chair beside the crib, her face softened in the dim light as she watched Clainsiia sleep peacefully. It was a stark contrast to the fierce worry that had gripped her heart earlier. She exhaled quietly, knowing the threat wasn’t entirely over.

The door creaked slightly, and Byleth walked in. His expression was calm, but there was a glint of tension in his eyes. As he approached, he removed his gauntlets with slow, deliberate movements, setting them on a nearby table before turning his gaze to his wife. "All the knights are on high alert tonight," he murmured. "I made sure of it."

Edelgard nodded, but her thoughts were darker. She feared the worst had already come to pass. The image of the thief’s escape haunted her, and the idea that her children could be in danger struck a chord too deep to shake. She couldn’t help the unease that tightened her chest.

Byleth headed towards the closet, pulling out a simple shirt and trousers to change into. His movements were quiet and careful, trying not to disturb the calm that had settled over the room. Once dressed, he walked over to the bed, slipping under the covers beside Edelgard. He reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles over her skin. His brow furrowed as if struggling with the weight of his own thoughts. "I hope it’s enough," he finally whispered, his voice betraying a tremor of fear. "But just the thought of our children being—"

He cut himself off, his words lost in the tension between them. Edelgard’s grip on his hand tightened. She turned her head to look at him, her violet eyes filled with a fierce determination. "If anyone were to take our children, Byleth," she said softly, but with an edge to her tone, "I would never stop searching for them. No matter how long it takes, no matter what sacrifices we have to make. I would burn the world to the ground if I had to."

Byleth’s heart ached at her words. He could see the fire in her eyes, the unwavering resolve that made her such a formidable leader. But he also saw the fear, the vulnerability she only ever showed in the quiet moments when it was just the two of them. He squeezed her hand, unable to put his feelings into words but hoping his touch would reassure her.

Edelgard stood up, gently lifting Jerelt from his crib. The tiny baby cooed softly, his little hands reaching out, grasping a lock of his mother’s long, white hair. Edelgard’s lips curled into a soft, tired smile. "Do you like playing with Mama’s hair?" she whispered, laughing softly as Jerelt’s innocent giggles filled the room.

She kissed his forehead, the warmth of her love wrapping around her like a shield against the darkness that threatened to creep back in. Gently, she rocked him in her arms until his tiny eyelids began to droop. She continued to hum softly, rocking the crib for a while longer until Jerelt was sound asleep.

From the other side of the room, Clainsiia stirred and lifted her head. Her small, sleepy voice carried across the room, "Mother, when can I hold Jerelt?" Her pouty face was adorable, causing a small laugh to escape Edelgard’s lips.

"Tomorrow, my love," Edelgard promised, her heart softening at her daughter's sweet expression. She brushed a hand through Clainsiia’s hair. "You’ll get your chance then."

Clainsiia’s eyes widened with sparkles, and she sat up, excitement filling her small frame. "Really, Mother?" she asked, her voice full of hope.

Edelgard smiled warmly and nodded. "I promise."

Byleth, lying beside her, watched the tender exchange between his wife and daughter. A quiet peace had returned to the room, and he felt some of the tension begin to melt away. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" he asked quietly, his voice full of concern. He looked at her with a softness he only reserved for moments like these. "El?"

Edelgard nodded again, returning to bed beside him. "I'm sure," she murmured, resting her head on the pillow. "It's been a long day... We need rest now." She could feel the weight of exhaustion tugging at her, both physically and emotionally.'

As they began to settle into the quiet of the night, Byleth closed his eyes, hoping that sleep would come soon. But just as the room fell into a deeper silence, a familiar voice echoed in his mind.

"Byleth," Sothis whispered, her voice soft but urgent. "I sense something... A presence."

Byleth, his body already weary from the day’s events, blinked in confusion. He spoke in his mind, keeping his tone calm despite the unease that stirred in him. "What do you mean?"

Sothis appeared within the recesses of his mind, her small figure standing before the window of his consciousness, gazing out into the night. Her emerald eyes were troubled, casting a shadow of uncertainty he hadn’t seen in her before. "It’s faint, but unmistakable... the presence of another god." Her voice trailed off, as if the weight of her words brought with it an ancient, deep-rooted fear.

Byleth’s brow furrowed. He had known Sothis long enough to recognize when something truly bothered her. "Another god?" He echoed, his thoughts swirling. "Are you... feeling lonely?"

Sothis turned abruptly, her glare fierce, and though her voice remained in his mind, it carried the sting of her sharp words. "You child!" she snapped, her small fists clenched. "It’s not loneliness!" Her irritation bubbled up, her voice rising in a shout that only Byleth could hear. "You’re lucky no one else can hear me, or you would have woken Jerelt!"

Byleth held back a chuckle, grateful his son remained blissfully unaware in his crib. Clainsiia, too, was still sleeping soundly, curled up beneath the blankets. He cleared his throat in his mind, trying to ease the tension. "Alright, alright, my mistake. Then... what is it?"

Sothis, her irritation still simmering, exhaled heavily, folding her arms as she turned back towards the window. "It’s not just any presence... It’s one I haven’t felt in a long time." Her voice softened, taking on an edge of something far deeper than annoyance—concern, perhaps even fear. "I thought it was gone forever, that I had vanquished it long ago."

Byleth’s confusion deepened. He had never seen Sothis so unsettled. "Since... the story of the book?"

There was a pause, the silence heavy between them. Sothis nodded slowly, her expression distant, lost in memories older than time itself. "Yes. It’s tied to him—Epimenides." The name fell from her lips like a curse, filled with loathing. "When I fought him, when he tried to consume Fódlan, I believed I had destroyed him completely. It was the final stand... my last act of defiance before I merged with you. I felt his presence fade, I was certain of it."

Byleth’s heartbeat quickened at her words. "But you feel something now?"

She closed her eyes, her small figure trembling ever so slightly as if recalling the weight of that ancient battle. "It’s faint... but it’s there. Someone, or something, that carries his presence. It’s like a shadow lingering after the light has gone out."

Byleth was about to respond, to press her for more information, when the exhaustion of the day’s events began to weigh him down. His eyes grew heavy, his mind slowing, and before he could ask more, sleep crept in. His body surrendered, sinking deeper into the embrace of the night’s silence.

Sothis, realizing Byleth had fallen asleep, huffed in exasperation. "Even your daughter has more sense than you," she muttered under her breath. "Falling asleep in the middle of such an important conversation."

She stood there in his mind, hands on her hips, her expression a mix of annoyance and fondness. But as the quiet of the night enveloped them both, her stern gaze softened. She looked down at him, now peacefully resting beside his family, and sighed.

"Another day, then," she whispered to herself. The flickering candlelight from Byleth's consciousness dimmed, and she too felt the pull of sleep.
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That same night, as the moonlight reflected off the still surface of the pond, Shez found herself sitting alone on the dock, her fishing rod resting lazily in her hand. The usual sense of calm that came with being alone in the quiet of night felt strange tonight. There was an itch in her mind, a feeling she couldn’t quite shake. For weeks now, a voice had been whispering in her thoughts—a voice that sounded distant, almost dreamlike. She had always ignored it, chalking it up to exhaustion or stress from the day’s battles. But tonight… it felt closer, clearer.

Shez let out a quiet sigh, adjusting her grip on the rod. "I can hear you, you know," she muttered, almost testing the waters of her own sanity. Her voice broke the silence, blending into the night’s breeze.

The voice responded instantly, soft but laced with excitement. "Can you hear me? Truly?"

Her heart skipped a beat. She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She was alone. No one was supposed to be here with her. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she hesitated for a moment before replying, "Y-yeah… I can hear you."

"Oh, yes! Yes! At last!" the voice exclaimed, brimming with joy, as if it had waited forever to hear someone answer.

Shez’s pulse quickened. Her mind raced, and for a brief moment, she wondered if she was losing it. Had the exhaustion of battle finally cracked her mind? She shook her head, trying to ground herself in the present. "Show yourself," she demanded, her voice more confident than she felt. "Even if you’re hiding behind me, just get it over with."

There was a pause, a pregnant silence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Then, the voice asked, almost playfully, "Are you sure that’s okay?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just… get it over with," Shez replied, her nerves frayed.

The voice’s tone shifted, becoming more serious but still gentle. "Then… look behind you."

Shez hesitated for a moment, her heart thundering in her chest. Slowly, she turned her head, her eyes darting behind her. What she saw nearly made her heart stop. There, hovering just above the dock, was a figure—human-like but ethereal. His white hair framed a face marked with strange, intricate white patterns. His eyes, a piercing red, glowed faintly in the dim light, and his clothes—white with armor-like pieces—were adorned with an orange symbol in the center. Orange triangular earrings dangled from his ears, swaying slightly as he hovered.

“Hello,” the figure said with a smile, his hand raised in a casual wave.

Shez’s body reacted before her mind could process. She let out a startled yelp, stumbling backward and falling straight into the pond with a loud splash. The cold water shocked her senses as she flailed, spluttering as she swam back up and desperately climbed onto the dock. Gasping for breath, she lay on her back, staring up at the night sky, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’m losing it… I’ve completely lost it."

From above her, the figure hovered closer, his expression a mix of amusement and concern. "You’re not losing it," he reassured, his voice gentle but with a hint of childish impatience. He floated in a slow circle, his hands moving in the air in a way that reminded Shez of a kid trying to explain something. "I’m just… Oh, what are those words called again… Ah! Yes! Calm down, please."

Shez sat up, blinking water from her eyes. The absurdity of the situation hit her, and she couldn’t help but stare at the strange, floating figure in front of her. His voice… it didn’t match his appearance at all. He sounded young, almost like a kid. "Uhh… okay?" Shez managed, still trying to wrap her mind around what was happening. "Who… who are you?"

At this, the figure’s face lit up with pure excitement, his red eyes sparkling as he grinned from ear to ear. "Finally! Someone asked me! I’ve been waiting thousands of years to do this!" He floated higher, spinning gracefully in the air before striking a dramatic pose. With his back arched halfway and one leg crossed over the other, he extended his arm upward, his face the picture of triumphant joy.

"My name is Arval," he declared, his voice booming with pride. "And I am a god!"

Shez stared at him, wide-eyed and dripping wet, utterly speechless. Her brain struggled to catch up with the bizarre, almost surreal scene unfolding before her. This kid-like, floating… god? She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

but the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“So, uh… what are you doing here?” Shez asked, still catching her breath from her unexpected swim.

Arval's excited expression faltered, his brow furrowing slightly. He hovered closer, tilting his head as if genuinely hurt. “What? Did that not impress you? I've been working on that for years!” His voice carried a hint of wounded pride, as if Shez had just criticized his life's work.

Shez winced, realizing how her words had come out. “I’m sorry! It’s not that! I just… I’m confused, okay? I don’t really know what’s happening right now.” She pushed her wet hair out of her face, looking at him with an apologetic frown. “You said you’re a god, right? I just—” She hesitated, unsure of how to word it. “Are you really a god?”

Arval’s eyes widened, a bit of that excitement returning as he floated upward slightly, crossing his arms. “Of course I’m a god! Do you not see me floating? Do you not see how different I am from any human you've met?” He gestured to his glowing eyes and the strange patterns on his skin, as if those were the obvious marks of divinity.

Shez, despite everything, couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle. “I mean, yeah, I can see that. But… shouldn’t a god act more mature?”

At her words, Arval froze, his arms dropping to his sides. His glowing red eyes blinked in rapid succession, and he looked genuinely baffled. “Mature?” he repeated in disbelief. “I am mature! I’m thousands of years old!”

Shez raised an eyebrow, still not quite sure if she was supposed to take this seriously or not. “You sure don’t sound like it,” she teased gently, her lips quirking into a half-smile. “You talk like a kid.”

For a long, pregnant moment, Arval was silent. He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, with a heavy sigh, he dropped his head, muttering under his breath. “I wish my voice would change already…”

Shez blinked, surprised. “Wait… what? Are you saying you're—”

“Look,” Arval interrupted, floating back a bit, his voice quieter now, tinged with something almost… vulnerable. “I know I sound young. I am young, technically. At least for a god. But it’s been so long since anyone has talked to me. Since anyone could hear me. I guess…” He paused, glancing at her, almost sheepishly. “I guess I just never really grew up.”

Shez’s heart softened at that. Despite how strange and confusing this whole situation was, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for him. She sat up a little straighter, dripping pond water, but her eyes were softer now as she looked at him. “How long have you been… around me? Just being a voice in my head?”

Arval fidgeted, his floating form dipping a little lower. “A long time…” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I was… shy, I guess. I didn’t know how to talk to you. Or anyone.” He shrugged, as if trying to downplay the weight of his words. “It’s kinda hard to be a god when you’re too scared to even talk to a human.”

Shez couldn’t suppress her laughter this time, but it wasn’t cruel. It was soft, kind. “A god being shy to talk to a human? Kinda funny, to be honest.”

Arval's face flushed slightly, though whether from embarrassment or something else, Shez couldn’t quite tell. He crossed his arms again, looking away as if annoyed, but there was a small, almost bashful smile on his lips. “Well, it’s not just that,” he murmured. “I’m… hiding. From another god.”

That made Shez sit up straight, her curiosity piqued. “Hiding? From who?”

Arval shifted, looking a little uncomfortable before glancing back at her. “Have you ever read the book Rival of the Goddess?”

Shez frowned, thinking for a moment. “Yeah, actually. I remember reading it at the library… wait, why?” Her eyes widened slightly as she began to connect the dots. “Are you saying… those people who fought against the goddess in the book… were your people?”

Arval’s face lit up again, and he nodded eagerly. “You nailed it! Those were my followers. Well, my father’s, technically. He was the leader. His name was Epimenides. He led the war against Sothis, the goddess.” He sighed deeply, his excitement fading as a shadow of sadness crossed his face. “I… refused to fight. And now…” He glanced down at the ground, his once-gleaming red eyes dimming. “Now I don’t have anyone.”

Shez felt her chest tighten at the sight of his forlorn expression. He looked so… lost. “So… you’ve been alone all this time?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arval nodded, not meeting her gaze. “For thousands of years,” he said quietly. “But then… I found you.” His eyes flicked up to hers, his voice trembling just a little. “You were the first person who could hear me.”

Shez didn’t know what to say for a moment. Her mind raced with a flood of emotions, feeling a mixture of pity, surprise, and curiosity. She shifted, her drenched clothes still clinging to her as she finally asked, “Why me? Why did you choose me?”

At her question, Arval’s face grew pink, a faint blush spreading across his pale skin. His glowing eyes flickered briefly as he fidgeted in the air. Shez noticed the change immediately and couldn’t help but smile, her arms crossing over her chest. “Wait a second… why are you blushing?” she teased gently, her tone laced with amusement.

Arval’s blush deepened, and he quickly looked away, his gaze darting to the side. “It’s just… I mean… well…” His voice wavered, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Your skills with two swords… they're incredible. You’re fearless… and, uh… you’re very pretty.”

Shez’s laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, the sound of it filling the quiet air around them. She shook her head, still laughing softly. “Seriously? You’re basically a god, and you’re shy like this? What, do I have that effect on kids or something?”

Arval’s embarrassment only deepened, and his voice dropped to a near mumble. “It’s true…” He glanced at her, still avoiding her direct gaze, his expression one of pure mortification. “I just… I never thought you’d actually hear me.”

Shez smiled, her laughter fading into a softer, more sincere expression. “Well, I’m here now. I can hear you, and I’m not going anywhere.” Her words were steady and reassuring, as if she were speaking to a nervous child. She tilted her head, her curiosity growing. “So… can you actually give me any powers?”

Arval’s expression brightened instantly, a spark of excitement lighting up his face. “Oh, I can give you many things!” he said, his tone filled with enthusiasm.

Shez raised an eyebrow, intrigued by his sudden eagerness. “Like what?” she asked, the playful tone returning to her voice. “Can you give me the power to fly?”

Arval’s excitement faltered, and he hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “No, not that.”

Shez grinned mischievously, undeterred. “How about making me live forever?”

“No…”

“Hmm, okay. How about powers like fire or lightning?”

The silence that followed was telling, and Shez couldn’t help but laugh again. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Arval looked almost guilty, floating a little lower as if he had disappointed her. “It’s… not that simple,” he admitted. “You would need to accept something first.”

Shez leaned forward, intrigued by the shift in his tone. “Accept what?”

Arval floated a little closer, his glowing eyes serious now. “You would need to accept me as your one and only partner in destiny.”

Shez blinked, her confusion evident on her face. “Partner in destiny? What does that even mean?”

Arval’s voice softened, and there was a vulnerability in his tone that Shez hadn’t heard before. “It means… you and I would be connected. Our fates would be intertwined. My power would be yours, and we would walk the same path.”

Shez hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. She couldn’t help but feel curious, though. What would his power feel like? What would it mean to have a godlike being at her side? She looked at him, her eyes filled with both doubt and intrigue. “Alright,” she said slowly. “I accept you as my partner in destiny.”

Arval’s face lit up with joy, his earlier embarrassment melting away in an instant. “Really? You mean it?”

Shez nodded, smiling at his excitement. “Yeah, why not? Let’s see what this whole ‘destiny’ thing is all about.”

“Okay! Hold out your hand!” Arval said eagerly.

Shez did as she was told, holding her hand out toward him. Arval floated closer, reaching out to gently grasp her hand. As soon as his fingers touched her skin, a purple glow enveloped them both, a soft hum filling the air. Shez felt a strange warmth flow through her, like a current of energy that coursed through her veins.

The glow intensified for a moment, then slowly faded, leaving behind a soft light hovering over Shez’s palm. She looked down to see a symbol floating just above her hand, glowing faintly. It wasn’t a crest, but something more intricate, more powerful.

“This isn’t a crest,” Arval explained softly, his voice reverent. “It’s the power of a god. It’s the symbol you see in the middle of my outfit.” He pointed to the glowing emblem on his own chest, matching the one floating above Shez’s hand.

Shez stared at the symbol, fascinated. “How does it work?” she asked, still staring at the glowing mark.

“I’ll teach you later,” Arval replied, his tone suddenly serious. “For now… someone’s coming.”

Shez turned around just in time to see Claude approaching, his usual confident grin on his face. She quickly glanced at Arval, who had retreated slightly, floating behind her. She realized with a start that Claude couldn’t see him.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Claude called out as he approached. “Shez, you look like you just swam through the pond.”

Shez gave a nervous laugh, quickly hiding her glowing hand behind her back. “Uh, something like that.”

Arval, still invisible to Claude, whispered softly in her ear, “Don’t worry… he can’t see me. Only you can.”

Shez’s heart fluttered at the warmth in Arval’s voice, but she was quickly snapped out of her thoughts as Claude’s brow quirked, his grin widening in curiosity.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked, his voice playfully suspicious, though there was a softness in his tone. It was as though he could sense something deeper, something unspoken.

Shez hesitated for a brief moment, her mind racing for a plausible answer. Her gaze flickered toward Claude before she shrugged, a casual smile forming on her lips. “Just… an old friend,” she said, her voice barely above a murmur, though her heart clenched at the weight of those words. The faint glow from the symbol on her hand faded further behind her back.

Claude’s playful expression dimmed, the grin slowly slipping from his face. His silence hung in the air, heavy with unspoken thoughts, and he finally let out a quiet sigh. “An old friend, huh?” he echoed, his voice tinged with understanding. “I know that feeling.”

Shez blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. She tilted her head slightly, curiosity brimming in her chest. “You do?” she asked gently.

Claude’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the hilt of his sword. “Her name was Hilda,” he began, his voice unusually subdued. “She was… well, we were close. We fought the Empire together, side by side, and I counted on her. I asked her to retreat when things got bad, but… she stayed to fight. And after the battle…” His voice wavered, a brief pause settling between them. He looked up, meeting Shez’s eyes with a flicker of pain. “She never came back.”

A heavy silence followed, and Shez felt a pang of sorrow in her chest. She could see it—the way the weight of Hilda’s memory still clung to Claude like a shadow. She nodded slowly, her own emotions stirring within her. “War… it affects too many people,” Shez whispered, her voice soft but resolute. “On either side, even those who didn’t fight are left to pick up the pieces. But we keep going, we move on, and in the end, we become stronger for it.”

Claude’s lips twitched upward, a faint smile appearing amidst the sadness in his eyes. “You know… I like hearing that,” he admitted, his tone lighter, but there was a deeper sincerity in his words. “You’ve got a good pair of eyes, Shez. You see things for what they are.”

From the shadows, Arval stirred, a strange sensation stirring in his chest. “Something tells me that Claude’s teasing you,” Arval whispered, his voice almost bemused.

Shez blinked, her cheeks flushing faintly as she caught the glimmer in Claude’s gaze. She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. “Do you always tease people?” she asked, her tone playful but carrying a hint of challenge.

Claude chuckled, the light returning to his eyes as he met her gaze with a smirk. “Sometimes. But if it’s a beautiful lady, then sure,” he teased, the mischief in his voice unmistakable.

Shez’s blush deepened, and she let out an exasperated sigh, turning her head away slightly. “You’re impossible. Stop teasing me,” she muttered, though there was no bite in her words. “I’m heading to bed.”

Claude raised his hands in mock surrender, the smirk still firmly in place. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop… for now,” he added with a wink. “Goodnight, Shez.”

Shez rolled her eyes, but a soft smile tugged at her lips. “Goodnight, Claude,” she replied, turning on her heel and walking away toward her tent, her heart still racing from the brief exchange.

As she walked, Arval floated close behind her, his presence warm and steady. “That was… interesting,” he murmured, his voice thoughtful. “Claude seems… fond of you.”

Shez huffed softly, her blush lingering as she smiled to herself. “He’s just teasing. It’s how he is.”

From a distance, Claude watched her go, his playful demeanor fading into something more thoughtful. He crossed his arms, leaning against a nearby post as he muttered quietly to himself, “Well, this is going to be fun.”

With that, he pushed off the post and headed toward his own quarters, the night settling around them with a heavy sense of both anticipation and uncertainty.

Chapter Text

The next day, the air was filled with excitement, the crowd cheering as they gathered for a special performance. On stage, Dorothea stood tall, gracefully taking on the role of herself, while Edelgard, regal in her presence, joined her for a story that had captured the hearts of many—the tale of how they had become best friends. The bond between them, forged in the fires of war and personal trials, had deepened over the years, and now it was being shared with the people they ruled.

As the play unfolded, Clainsiia sat among the spectators, her small body shifting with a sense of restlessness. Her eyes, however, weren’t focused on the stage like everyone else’s; instead, they were locked onto her baby brother, Jerelt, who was comfortably nestled in Hubert’s arms. His tiny fingers curled around a strand of Hubert's dark robe, the innocence of his presence a stark contrast to the seriousness of the man holding him. Clainsiia watched him intently, her young heart swelling with an unfamiliar yearning.

“Is something troubling you, Princess?” Hubert asked in his usual low, measured tone, his sharp gaze shifting to her as he noticed her prolonged stare.

Clainsiia hesitated before answering, her small voice barely audible over the crowd's applause. “I want to hold Jerelt… but I have to wait until Mother and Dorothea are finished,” she admitted, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The thought of holding her baby brother for the first time filled her with both anticipation and nervousness. She was only seven, after all, and the weight of responsibility seemed so much greater with a tiny life in her hands.

Nearby, Byleth, who had been listening quietly, turned to his daughter with a soft smile. The warmth in his eyes made Clainsiia relax, even just a little. He knelt down beside her, his voice gentle as he asked, “Do you really want to hold him that badly?”

Clainsiia’s wide eyes met her father’s as she nodded quickly, her excitement growing despite her anxiety. Byleth looked over to Hubert, who was already anticipating what was about to happen. With a knowing glance, Hubert carefully handed Jerelt over to Byleth, his movements precise and protective, as if passing on the most delicate treasure in the world.

Byleth then turned back to his daughter. “Cradle your arms like this,” he instructed, demonstrating with Jerelt. Clainsiia mimicked his movements, her tiny arms curving gently as she prepared herself. Byleth, his hands still supporting Jerelt, slowly placed the baby in her waiting arms, though he kept his hands around hers, just in case.

Clainsiia’s breath hitched as Jerelt settled into her embrace. He was so much smaller than she had imagined. His tiny breaths, his soft skin, the way his weight felt in her arms—it was overwhelming, but in the best possible way. Her heart fluttered as she looked down at him, taking in every detail. “He feels so small,” she whispered, her voice full of wonder and reverence, as though she had been entrusted with something sacred.

Byleth’s smile deepened, his chest swelling with pride at the sight of his daughter’s careful handling of her brother. “You’re doing a great job,” he assured her quietly, his heart warming at the tenderness in Clainsiia’s eyes.

For a long moment, she just stared at Jerelt, mesmerized by the way his tiny fingers twitched and the softness of his breath. Then, in a voice barely louder than a breath, she whispered to him, “I’ll protect you, Jerelt. I promise.”

The weight of that promise lingered between them, and Byleth’s heart clenched at the sincerity in his daughter’s words. He could already see the beginnings of a fierce bond between the two siblings, one that would only grow stronger with time.

Meanwhile, the crowd erupted into applause once more as the play drew to a close, signaling the end of Dorothea and Edelgard’s performance. The actors retreated backstage, their voices light and relaxed after the intense emotional display they had just put on.

“Edie, you really do know how to act,” Dorothea teased with a playful smirk as they stepped away from the curtain, the casual nickname slipping out naturally, like it always did when they were alone.

Edelgard chuckled softly, her usually serious demeanor softening. “Reliving the past has its charms,” she admitted, her violet eyes gleaming with fondness as she thought back on their early days. “It was… nice to walk through those memories again. How we first met, how far we've come.”

Dorothea winked, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Maybe we should do it again someday. The people loved it, after all. And it’s not every day they get to see their Emperor on stage.” She gave Edelgard a light nudge, her laughter warm and infectious.

Edelgard, ever the picture of composure, smiled despite herself. “Perhaps. But only if you promise not to upstage me next time.”

“Deal,” Dorothea replied with a grin, her voice light with amusement. As the two women turned around, they were met by the familiar faces of their friends—each of them wearing expressions of joy, pride, and nostalgia after witnessing the performance that had captured not just a moment in time but a piece of their shared history.

Clainsiia, her small face glowing with excitement, broke free from her father’s gentle hold and hurried to Edelgard and Dorothea. Her wide eyes sparkled as she exclaimed, “Mother, Dorothea! You were amazing! The play was perfect!” Her hands clutched at the edge of her dress as she bounced on her toes, her innocent joy bringing warmth to Edelgard’s heart.

Edelgard knelt to her daughter’s level, smoothing a hand through Clainsiia’s hair. “Thank you, my dear. It means the world to hear that from you.” She pressed a soft kiss to her daughter’s forehead, and Clainsiia giggled, leaning into her mother’s touch.

Linhardt, leaning lazily against a pillar nearby, yawned, but his eyes were soft. “I must admit,” he began, “this play was... quite nice to see. It made me think about everything we went through. And considering how much I avoid getting involved in things, that’s saying something.” His nonchalance was met with a smirk from Dorothea.

Petra, always sharp and direct, stepped forward, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. “It is a gladness to see everyone coming together for this moment. We have fought, and we have survived. I am feeling the strength of our bonds still.” Her words, though simple, were filled with the weight of their shared experiences, and her accent lilted through her speech in a way that always brought smiles to their faces.

Even Bernadetta, who had been nervously standing near the back, gave a rare smile. “I-I’m glad I came out to see the play,” she admitted, her voice trembling at first, but then growing steadier. “It reminded me how much we had each other’s backs during the war... How we never left anyone behind.” Her wide eyes darted around the group, but when they landed on Dorothea and Edelgard, they softened. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

Caspar, his usual fiery energy brimming within him, cleared his throat, his voice carrying an unexpected weight of emotion. “I gotta admit,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “hearing how much Edelgard missed Byleth during those five years... it kinda... well, it got to me.” His eyes misted over slightly, and he quickly wiped them. “I know it wasn’t easy for you... for either of you.” He glanced between Edelgard and Byleth, his usually brash nature softened by the gravity of his words.

Ferdinand, ever the nobleman, sighed dramatically. “Did you really have to make fun of me that much during the play?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, though his voice held no real malice. His words prompted a round of laughter from everyone, easing the emotional weight that had settled over the group.

Byleth, standing nearby, cradled Jerelt carefully in his arms before he made his way over to Edelgard. The baby, still peaceful and unaware of the weight of the world surrounding him, gurgled happily as he was passed to his mother. Edelgard’s heart swelled with warmth as she held her son close, her hands resting protectively on his small form. It felt like a precious, fleeting moment of peace.

“How about we head to the mess hall?” Edelgard suggested, her voice filled with the hope of continuing this moment of camaraderie over a shared meal.

Everyone agreed, nodding and murmuring their approval, eager to extend this reunion and meet up with others who had helped them during the war. But just as they stepped outside, their faces were met with an unusual sight—clouds, dark and ominous, gathering above them, though moments earlier the sky had been clear.

Ingrid, ever the sharp observer, was the first to speak. “Where did these clouds come from?” she asked, her brow furrowed with concern as her eyes scanned the darkening sky.

Claude, standing nearby, shrugged, his usually playful demeanor dimmed by the unease creeping into the air. “I’m not sure. This doesn’t feel natural.”

Before anyone could respond, Shez approached the group, her eyes clouded with uncertainty. Beside her, the faint form of Arval materialized, speaking quietly into her mind. “Something is coming,” Arval said, their voice steady but tense.

Shez's brow furrowed as she communicated with Arval in her thoughts. "Is it a storm?"

Arval’s voice hesitated for a moment before replying, "I hope it’s just a storm."

Suddenly, Hubert stepped forward, his sharp gaze fixated on the sky. He moved quickly to Edelgard’s side, his voice low and urgent. “Lady Edelgard, shall I take the children to safety?”

Edelgard glanced between her children and the swirling clouds overhead, her heart tightening. She nodded firmly, handing Jerelt back to Hubert. “Yes. Stay close to them and don’t let them out of your sight.”

Clainsiia, seeing her baby brother being taken away, followed quickly, her small hands reaching for Hubert’s sleeve, her steps hurried as she trailed him.

Byleth, standing beside Edelgard, sensed her tension and took her hand in his, their fingers intertwining as they exchanged a knowing glance. “What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly.

Edelgard’s eyes remained on the sky, her voice barely above a whisper. “A violent storm… something unnatural.” She tightened her grip on Byleth’s hand, a shiver running down her spine as unease settled deep in her bones.

Suddenly, chaos erupted as they began heading toward the mess hall. A piercing scream echoed through the courtyard.

“It came from the sky! What kind of beast is that?!”

Panic spread like wildfire. People ran, bumping into one another in a desperate scramble for safety. The air buzzed with fear as cries of “Everyone for themselves!” filled the air.

The Gatekeeper, always steadfast, rushed forward, spotting Byleth and Edelgard among the terrified masses. His voice broke through the chaos, “Your Majesties! We have a situation!”

Byleth, still holding Edelgard’s hand, turned, his voice steady but urgent. “What’s happening?!”

Before the Gatekeeper could finish his report, a shadow descended from the storm above. “There’s a beast outside! It came out of no—!” His sentence was cut short as something heavy and dark crashed from the sky, crushing him beneath its weight. A cloud of dust exploded into the air, obscuring everything.

The air stilled in the wake of the sudden impact, and for a moment, silence reigned. As the dust began to clear, the sound of beating wings echoed ominously through the courtyard. Slowly, a figure emerged from the haze—a beast, human-sized, with dark, leathery wings that fanned the remaining dust away. The figure was Ashen.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching over the Gatekeeper’s body, the once proud sentinel now lying barely alive beneath his weight. Without hesitation, Ashen pressed his foot down, and the sickening sound of bone crushing echoed through the courtyard. Gasps of horror rose from the crowd, but no one dared move.

Ashen’s eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the group before him, lingering on Byleth and Edelgard. His voice was calm, but laced with menace. “I’m looking for the one named Byleth.”

Weapons were immediately drawn, the clang of metal filling the air as everyone stood ready to protect their leaders. Swords and spears pointed at Ashen, but he remained unfazed, his eyes cold and calculating.

Reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder, Ashen slowly pulled something out. His voice carried a strange, twisted amusement as he held up a bottle. “For I have wine.”

Edelgard stepped forward, her voice filled with command. “Who are you, and what do you want with Byleth?”

Ashen’s gaze swept over her, sharp and penetrating. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the tension build. Then, he sighed, almost lazily. “I would like to talk. It’s been years since I’ve been awakened.”

Byleth exchanged a glance with Edelgard, unease flickering in his eyes. He stepped forward, his hand still holding Edelgard’s. “Where do you want to talk?”

Ashen didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his height matching Byleth’s, his eyes locking with Byleth’s in a silent challenge. After a moment, he turned, heading toward the mess hall. “This place hasn’t changed in years.”

With growing tension in their hearts, Edelgard and Byleth followed him, their steps slow and deliberate. Ashen led them to a table in the center of the mess hall, his presence casting a heavy shadow over the room. They sat across from him, the distance between them feeling both too close and too far.

Ashen glanced around before asking, “Any glasses?”

Ashe, one of the few who hadn’t moved far from the group, stepped forward and retrieved three glasses, handing one to each of them. Ashen opened the wine bottle with a flick of his clawed fingers, pouring the deep red liquid into the glasses until they were half-full. He grabbed his own glass and brought it to his nose, inhaling the scent with a deep, deliberate breath. Byleth and Edelgard, still seated opposite him, didn’t touch theirs, their eyes fixed warily on the creature before them.

Ashen raised an eyebrow, his lip curling into a sly smirk. "They’re pomace, if you’re worried," he said with a low, almost amused chuckle. "Here, I’ll prove it."

He took a long sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving theirs as he swallowed. “Satisfied?”

The tension in the air was palpable, the sound of the storm outside a distant murmur against the heavy silence in the room. Byleth glanced at Edelgard before leaning forward, his voice steady but filled with a deep curiosity. “Who are you?”

Ashen’s smirk faded slightly, replaced with a cold, almost irritated look. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that question .” He let out a sigh, as if the answer weighed on him. “A thief from yesterday freed me… well, she's dead now.”

A collective murmur passed through the room. It was clear that everyone understood now—the thief from yesterday, the one who escaped, was gone and paid the price. Edelgard’s eyes narrowed, her grip on the armrest tightening as Ashen’s gaze swept over the room, his expression one of mild amusement at their reactions.

“You all knew her, didn’t you?” Ashen mused, his voice low, his eyes glinting with a cold curiosity as he studied their reactions. His gaze was sharp, as though daring them to answer, but he continued before they could. “I was once someone who held the goddess Sothis' Crest of Flames... thirty-something years ago,” he added, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Byleth's eyes widened, the color draining from his face. The name sprang from his lips before he even realized it, his voice shaky, filled with both recognition and disbelief. “Kazamir?”

Ashen’s smirk grew cold as he shook his head, the weight of his past settling over him like a stormcloud. “That name died a long time ago,” he admitted, the wine staining his fingers as he dipped them into the glass and trailed them across the tablecloth, leaving a dark, indelible mark. He looked at both Byleth and Edelgard, his eyes narrowing. “Now, I am Ashen.”

He paused, his tone shifting to something almost appreciative. “You both seem like smart, reasonable leaders,” he said, then added sharply, “Are you?” He fixed his eyes on Byleth, a challenge simmering within them.

The room seemed to freeze as Byleth and Edelgard stared back, their expressions darkening. Edelgard clenched her teeth, her voice steady but cold. “What is it that you want, Ashen?”

Ashen drained his glass, savoring the taste for a moment before setting it down with a soft clink. He looked at her, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Rulership.”

Byleth blinked, startled. “What?”

Ashen leaned forward, his gaze boring into Byleth’s. “Way before you or anyone else here was born,” he began, his voice holding a note of nostalgia, “when I was with Rhea, she promised me rulership of Fódlan. It was my right, something that should have belonged to me.”

Suddenly, a voice echoed within Byleth's mind—Sothis, her tone incredulous. “Is he mad?”

Ashen’s smile twisted, an edge of cruelty to it as he looked directly at Byleth. Though no one else could see her, he spoke through his mind, reaching to Byleth’s thoughts. “Ah, of course… she's still with you, isn’t she?”

Byleth stiffened, his eyes widening. “You can hear her?” he asked silently through his mind, his heart pounding in his chest.

Ashen nodded slightly, his eyes narrowing. “I can. Though I doubt she remembers me… After all, she did this to me.” His voice held bitterness, his tone dark as he continued, “She made me see who I truly was— as she struck me down, telling me I was doomed to fail.”

As these words echoed through the heavy air of the mess hall, a subtle shift occurred. Sothis, unseen by all but Byleth, materialized before them. Her expression was pained, her hand pressing against her temple as distant echoes of a man's defiant shouting filled her mind. "I won't fail anyone again!" the voice declared from the past. Her eyes, clouded with the burden of forgotten memories, finally locked onto Ashen's. Recognition dawned, a gasp escaping her as she whispered, "Dear god, it's you... child."

Ashen's gaze softened for a moment as he looked at Sothis. "Hello again," he murmured, almost tenderly. Then, turning to Byleth with a hardened expression, he continued, "Let's return to the matter at hand. I'm asking for what was promised to me—my rightful rulership. Your family deserve peace. Do you want that for your children, for your future?"

His words hung heavily in the room, his resentment clear. "You killed Rhea, and knowing you held the Crest of Flames... it makes me feel replaced. But I can't fault you entirely; you did what you believed was right. So, what do you say to this deal? A chance for a new life, for peace?" Ashen's gaze swept across those gathered, his eyes finally settling on Byleth and his wife, who sat with a grave expression.

Byleth stood up, the tension palpable as he walked to the end of the long table. Every eye followed him, the clinking of his armor a stark contrast to the thick silence enveloping the room. He paused, his gaze locking with Ashen's, the air thick with unspoken words.

"No…" Byleth's voice was a low growl, barely louder than a whisper but resonant with finality.

The silence stretched, a heavy cloak, before Ashen's chair scraped against the stone floor as he stood. Disappointment colored his tone, a harsh edge to his usual calm. "I see..."

He strode towards the door, his path bringing him unsettlingly close to Byleth on the right side of the mess hall. In a swift, unexpected motion, Ashen's hand shot out, grasping Byleth's arm. His wings unfurled majestically, dark and ominous, as he pulled Byleth with him, soaring out of the door. Below, Edelgard's hand reached out futilely, her voice a distant echo, "Byleth!"

High above the ground, the wind howled around them. Ashen's eyes gleamed with a mix of anger and determination. "I've been waiting for this moment," he hissed, his grip tightening. "Let me show you what a real god, a true ruler, can do." With a powerful thrust, he flung Byleth towards an abandoned mercenary base below.

Byleth crashed through the dilapidated roof, dust and debris swirling around him as he landed with a thunderous impact. Miraculously, he found his footing, his breath ragged but determined.

Scanning the shadowy interior, Byleth's hand closed around the hilt of a sword stashed in a nearby barrel. His fingers brushed a shield propped against the crumbling wall. Armed and braced, he kicked open the door to face Ashen once more.

"Now show why you were called the Ashen Demon!" Ashen roared, his double-bladed sword igniting with a sinister energy as he charged.

The clash of metal rang through the air as Byleth raised his shield, barely blocking the ferocious attack. He countered with a swift thrust towards Ashen's side, but Ashen adeptly split his sword in two, parrying with precision. "I was hoping to see the Sword of the Creator in your hands, Byleth!" Ashen taunted, retreating momentarily to unleash a stream of fire from above.

Rolling to his right, Byleth dodged the fiery onslaught, dust kicking up under his boots. Ashen dove down, sword poised to strike, but Byleth met him blade for blade, their weapons locked in a fierce stalemate.

"What creation did Rhea make in you, Byleth? What did your father, Jeralt, do to forge you into the man you are today?" Ashen hissed, his voice laden with bitterness.

"Allow me to demonstrate!" Byleth retorted, shoving Ashen back with surprising force. Conjuring a burst of fire magic, he launched it at Ashen, who sliced through most of the flames. However, one slipped through, engulfing Ashen in smoke and embers.

Then, Ashen, his form silhouetted against the fiery haze, unfurled dark, expansive wings, and with a powerful thrust, he soared towards Byleth, grabbing him tightly. Ashen's laugh, sinister and echoing, filled the air as they ascended rapidly. Byleth struggled against the iron grip, managing to free one hand to land a punch on Ashen's face. The impact startled Ashen, causing them both to spiral out of control, crashing into a grand statue of Rhea, shattering it into rubble.

"To think I called you my moth—" Ashen's voice broke off as a surge of lightning streaked close, forcing him to duck and cover. He glared up at Byleth, seething with a mixture of pain and betrayal. "You want to fight dirty, huh?" Ashen slammed his fist into the ground, sending a network of cracks racing towards Byleth, the earth splitting beneath his feet.

Byleth darted forward, dodging both the collapsing ground and the bursts of electricity Ashen hurled from his hands. "Kazamir!" he shouted, the name cutting through the chaos. "I would have never join Rhea. My father warned me about her. I chose to stand by my wife, to protect her because I believe in her!"

Ashen roared, his voice a mixture of fury and disdain. "I don't care!" he bellowed, hurling a massive boulder at Byleth. Byleth countered with another fire spell, shattering the rock into harmless fragments.

Ashen lunged forward, wings beating furiously, but Byleth dodged, slicing his sword across Ashen’s arm. Ashen covered the wound, which healed almost instantly, his rage intensifying. He charged again, slamming Byleth against a tree, pummeling him repeatedly. But Byleth fought back, landing punches to Ashen’s gut and face. In retaliation, Ashen summoned his double-bladed sword, aiming a deadly strike. Byleth rolled away just in time, the sword slicing the tree instead, causing it to topple.

"Why didn't you warn me Sothis ?" Ashen cried out, his voice laced with desperation. "What does she see in you?"

Sothis appeared, her form ethereal and calm. "Ashen, your heart chose a path of power over peace. You sought control, not understanding."

"I didn't want to be a failure!" Ashen's voice cracked, his figure silhouetted against the fires and the night sky. "I was nothing until Rhea took me in after I lost everything. I did everything to be worthy of her, to not fail those I loved!" His voice was thick with emotion as he recounted the roots of his allegiance, the fires casting his face in an almost demonic glow.

Despite the intensity of his attacks, Byleth remained defensively postured, parrying and dodging, allowing Ashen's fury to expend itself against the shield of his calm. Ashen's eyes glimmered with tears of rage as he hurled himself at Byleth again. "I was just a child in my village when they called me a failure, cast me out because I couldn't save my parents from the fire!" he spat bitterly. "Rhea took me in, made me feel chosen, special. Every day, I trained, learned, absorbed all I could about the goddess. The day I met Rhea, it felt like everything was finally aligning. I couldn't—wouldn't let myself fail her or anyone again!"

He roared, a guttural, primal sound that split the night. Byleth, sensing an opening, thrust his shield forward, striking Ashen and sending him staggering back. But the man recovered quickly, grabbing Byleth's arm and hurling him with terrifying strength. As Byleth hit the ground hard, Ashen towered over him, his silhouette menacing against the fiery backdrop.

"How did Rhea die, Byleth? Was it just luck? Did she fall to someone's mere chance?" Ashen's voice was thick with scorn, his face twisted in anguish as he leaped high into the air, aiming to bring his wrath down upon Byleth in one fatal strike.

Byleth blocked the attack, steel meeting steel with a clang that echoed across the battlefield. "No life ends simply by chance, Ashen. Not even Rhea's," he replied, his voice steady despite the chaos.

"You think you can just step into her shoes? Become a ruler, a husband, a father, and have a good life after killing her? That's not how it works!" Ashen spat, breaking the clash with a powerful swing of his sword's backside that struck Byleth, halting his heart for a terrifying moment.

"It's not over until I say it's over!" Ashen's hands sparked as he delivered a shock to Byleth's chest, reviving him from the brink.Rising to his feet, the air crackled with raw energy as Ashen discarded his swords, revealing formidable dragon-like claws. With a growl, he lunged at Byleth, who managed to block one clawed strike with his shield. The clash was fierce, the sheer malevolence in Ashen's eyes something Byleth had never faced before—it was as if he were combating a god of pure evil.

As another claw swiped through the air, Byleth's sword flashed, severing the limbs. But Ashen was relentless; his claws regrew, and with a powerful kick, he sent Byleth flying. Staring at his regenerating hands, Ashen taunted, "This is the man who shed his first tear when his father died!?" Anger ignited within Byleth, fueling his charge towards Ashen, who met him in the air, grabbing him and soaring towards a nearby base, marked by the flag of the Adrestrian Empire.

Ashen hurled Byleth into a tent with such force that it collapsed. "This is the man who killed all of those who slithered in the dark!?" he shouted, turning just in time to see knights rushing towards them. With a fearsome roar, Ashen opened his mouth and unleashed a torrent of fire, reducing the knights to ashes.

Byleth, grappling with both the physical pain and the weight of Ashen's accusations, stood shakily, his vision blurred with a mix of determination and unshed tears. As the smoke cleared, the clash of their wills intensified. Suddenly, Byleth lunged forward, his movements almost a blur as he grabbed another sword he carried, and struck Ashen's back with the Sword of the Creator. The weapon, gleaming with an ethereal light, pierced through Ashen's flesh, causing him to roar in agony—a sound that echoed with the torment of the gods.

Ashen spun around, his eyes now pools of betrayal and pain, locking with Byleth's steady gaze. "So, it is about time you showed that sword," he gasped, his voice laced with a mix of relief and despair, acknowledging the fatal power Byleth wielded.

With a grim nod, Byleth watched as Ashen’s wounds resisted healing, the divine magic of the Sword of the Creator thwarting the natural regeneration of his god-like adversary. Ashen, with a grunt of frustration, summoned his double-bladed sword, its edges crackling with electric energy. He leapt into the air, hurling bolts of electricity at Byleth, who parried with his sword, sparks flying as the two powers collided.

Byleth dropped back to the ground, stance wide, as he and Ashen charged again, their swords clashing with a sound like thunder, the blades glowing orange from the heat of their battle. Byleth's voice broke through the cacophony, "You can stop this, change your path. Don't let jealousy and anger consume you, Kazamir. It will destroy you."

Ashen laughed bitterly, the sound cutting through the clamor of their fight. "A professor giving advice?" he mocked, his voice dripping with scorn. "I care nothing for your counsel. I want to see what makes you so revered, what makes you worthy of everything that should have been mine!"

Byleth’s expression hardened, resolve etching his features. "Fine then. No hesitation!" He declared. As Ashen expelled another fierce blast of fire from his maw, Byleth raised the Sword of the Creator. The blade shimmered with a protective aura, effortlessly blocking the inferno.

Their swords met again, the impact sending them both skidding backward. As they regained their footing, the ground beneath them cracked, testament to the ferocity of their duel. Byleth's heart ached—not just from the fight, but from the sorrow of confronting a friend turned foe, a brother in arms who had lost his way.

"Kazamir," Byleth called out, his voice a mix of stern command and pleading, "look around you! See what your anger has wrought! Is this the legacy you wish to leave?"

But Ashen, eyes alight with unyielding fire and pain, sneered, preparing for another strike. "My legacy will be written over yours. Prepare yourself!" With a ferocious growl, he unleashed a torrent of fire at Byleth, who stood firm, the Sword of the Creator raised in defense. The sword shimmered brilliantly, blocking the inferno as Byleth gritted his teeth, knowing the battle’s fate now rested solely on this divine blade.

Ashen ceased his fiery assault and, with a cunning gleam in his eyes, summoned his sword. The double-bladed weapon split into two once again, sparks dancing along his arms and igniting the blades with a fearsome, fiery aura. Pointing the swords at Byleth, he unleashed a beam of fiery energy. Byleth, with the Sword of the Creator, met the beam head-on, the ancient weapon absorbing and deflecting the onslaught.

“This is the man who those who feared him called the Ashen Demon, because he didn't show emotions!?” Ashen taunted as the beam subsided. Byleth, channeling his resolve, broke through the diminishing light of the beam, the Sword stretching forth like a serpent to grasp Ashen’s arm. With a swift left spin, Ashen was hurled into the stone facade of a nearby building, the impact echoing through the battlefield.

Without pause, Byleth summoned the sword back to his grip and launched Ashen into the air. Mid-flight, the Sword of the Creator extended once again, grabbing Ashen and slamming him mercilessly against the ground. Ashen, however, laughed it off, his resilience chilling. As he lay on the ground, he grabbed the end of the sword, his voice dripping with venom. "This is the man who helped the Adrestian Empire defeat the Church of Seiros!?” Sparks of electricity traveled up the blade, jolting Byleth with a painful shock. “Where is that power Sothis gave you!?”

In a desperate move, Byleth commanded the sword to release Ashen, who fell to his knees, panting. But swiftly, he rose and lunged forward, seizing Byleth by the throat. Just as his grip tightened, a shimmer in the air heralded the use of divine pulse by Sothis, rewinding time just moments before Ashen's chokehold could be secured.

Byleth, with a glance to Sothis, his eyes pleading for guidance, whispered urgently, “How can I beat him?”

Sothis, her expression grave and uncertain, replied softly, “This anger... it's like nothing I’ve seen. I don’t know, Byleth.” The weight of her words hung heavily in the air, and just as Byleth sought to find comfort in her presence, a series of sharp cracks resonated through the battlefield. Time rewound, snapping back to the moments when Ashen had seized Byleth by the throat, a cosmic pulse echoing through the ether.

In an instant, Ashen broke free from the divine pulse, a triumphant sneer curling his lips as he regained his composure. “You really think that trick will work on me? I can simple break it for we have the same power.” he taunted, his voice oozing malice. Byleth's heart raced as he remembered Rhea’s notes—the cryptic references to Ashen’s past. The crest of flames that he had once, the very powers Byleth himself wielded, danced mockingly in his mind.

Ashen’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight as he leaned closer, his smile revealing sharp teeth. "Now I know why Rhea fell to you, even without the goddess’s power?” he hissed, relishing the moment. “But I am not like any enemy you have faced before. I will ensure that your family's blood stains my hands.”

Byleth's heart thundered in his chest, fury surging like a tide within him. In a blur of motion, he thrust the Sword of the Creator into Ashen's shoulder, pulling it out with a visceral scream that echoed across the battlefield. Ashen staggered back, his laughter turning into a chilling chuckle as he regained his balance, the wound closing slightly under his unholy power.

“You think this will finish me?” Ashen challenged, his voice dripping with contempt. With a sudden leap, he sprang back, putting distance between them. Byleth’s breath was heavy, his resolve unwavering as he glared at his nemesis. The air between them crackled with tension, and Ashen’s smirk remained, even as blood dripped from his wound.

“It’s interesting,” Ashen mused, rising to his feet with a predatory grace, “that you don’t get angry, Byleth. What will truly reach your full power?” His gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity flickering in his eyes.

Byleth remained silent, fury simmering beneath the surface, when Ashen’s next words struck him like a blade. “I heard you have two kids. How quaint.”

At that moment, Byleth’s heart sank, dread coiling within him. The image of Ashen approaching his children, a dark specter looming over their innocent lives, ignited a primal fear. “No!” Byleth shouted, his voice a desperate plea as he imagined the horror of Ashen’s intentions.

With a flourish, Ashen spread his wings, dark and magnificent, ascending into the air with a powerful thrust. “I should meet them,” he called down, his voice mocking as he soared higher. Byleth reached desperately with the Sword of the Creator, but Ashen was already too far away.

Realizing he needed to act swiftly, Byleth scanned the ground for a horse, his mind racing with thoughts of his family. He spotted a few steeds tethered nearby, their breath misting in the cold air. Without hesitation, he sprinted towards them, mounting one with a sense of urgency. The horse galloped forward, carrying Byleth back towards Garreg Mach, each beat of the hooves matching the frantic thump of his heart.
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Back at the monastery, Edelgard stood at the front gate, her eyes scanning the horizon, every breath heavy with the weight of her worry. She had waited for hours, her thoughts clouded with dread for Byleth’s safety. Just when she closed her eyes, trying to calm the storm within her, Shez approached. Avral’s voice whispered softly in her mind, a presence both familiar and eerie. “Edelgard is going to need comfort.”

Shez nodded to herself, agreeing with the sentiment. As she walked toward Edelgard, she tried to muster the right words. “He’s fine, you know. Byleth always comes back. Well from the stories I heard he does.”

Edelgard turned to Shez, her expression a mixture of hope and anxiety. “I hope so,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. The sky above them darkened ominously as if echoing her fears. Suddenly, both women’s gazes snapped upward, their hearts sinking at the sight of Ashen, dark and magnificent, soaring through the air.

“He’s coming back!” Edelgard shouted, her heart racing. But as Ashen’s wings spread wide, a cold dread gripped her soul. She watched in horror as he veered toward the building, the one where her children were nestled safely, or so she hoped.

“My children!” Edelgard cried, sprinting toward the structure, her boots pounding against the cobblestones, desperation fueling her every stride. Shez hurried after her, the urgency of the moment igniting a fierce determination within her.

Inside the monastery, Ashen glided through the hallways, his presence a chilling shadow among the warm, sunlit stones. He paused momentarily, sensing the faint heartbeat of two innocents beyond a door. With a malicious smile, he approached the entrance, his fingers curling around the handle just as a radiant shield barrier sprang to life.

“You will not take the children!” a voice boomed.

Ashen turned to see Hubert, standing resolute, his eyes aflame with defiance. “Do you think you can stop me?” Ashen taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. “I am beyond your mortal understanding.”

Hubert squared his shoulders, a fire igniting within him. “You think you're some sort of god. All I truly see is a failure of a man who lost his humanity!”

The air crackled with tension as Ashen's anger ignited. He roared, a terrifying sound that reverberated through the hall, and charged toward Hubert with an intensity that threatened to consume everything in its path.

Hubert stood his ground, his determination unyielding. He unleashed a volley of Miasma, dark tendrils of magic swirling towards Ashen. With a powerful swipe of his claws, Ashen deflected the blasts, eyes narrowed in fury. He unleashed a breath of fire, but Hubert countered with a surge of electricity, illuminating the hallway with fierce energy.

As Ashen drew closer, he brandished his sword, its blade glinting ominously in the dim light. Hubert conjured a shield barrier just in time, but Ashen’s strikes were relentless.

“You really want to know what failure truly is!?” Hubert shouted, a fierce resolve in his voice. He split his double-bladed sword into two separate blades, wielding one in each hand. With a dance of steel, he struck left and right, the blades moving in a furious blur as he aimed to break through Ashen’s defenses.

Ashen snarled, his patience waning, and with a powerful lunge, he used both blades to break through Hubert’s barrier. With one final, devastating blow, he pierced Hubert through the abdomen, a brutal act that echoed through the hall like a death knell. Hubert gasped, trying to pull the blades away, but Ashen yanked them out violently, connecting his swords back together in a swift motion.

Hubert collapsed to the ground, a look of disbelief on his face as Ashen towered over him. “You have failed your promise…and now you know what failure truly looks like.”

With that, Ashen turned toward the door, kicking it in with a fierce determination. Inside, he found Clainsiia, clutching a small spear in trembling hands. He easily seized the weapon, snapping it in half with a mere flick of his wrist, then grabbed both Clainsiia and Jerelt with a predatory grin.

As Ashen exited the room, he was met with the sight of Edelgard and Shez running toward him, eyes wide with terror. In one fluid motion, he spread his wings, ready to take flight.

“Nooo!” Edelgard screamed, despair ripping through her as she realized she was too late. Rain began to pour from the darkened sky, droplets mingling with her tears as she turned to see Hubert collapsing, blood staining the floor beneath him.

“Hubert…” Edelgard whispered, falling to her knees, heart shattering at the sight of her loyal friend lying in agony. The rain cascaded down in heavy sheets, the world around her blurring, but all she could see was Hubert's ashen face, blood pooling around him. His breathing was shallow, each ragged breath a painful reminder of how close he was to death. She reached out to him, trembling, unable to comprehend the loss that loomed so close.

“I… have failed you… Lady Edelgard…” Hubert rasped, his voice barely more than a breath, each word laced with regret. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were now soft, clouded with pain and something else — an apology.

“No,” Edelgard’s voice cracked as she fought to hold back her tears. She gripped his hand, trying to steady herself, trying to be strong, but her heart was breaking. “You could never fail me, Hubert. Never.”

Hubert, ever her stalwart protector, managed the faintest of smiles despite the torment wracking his body. His hand, cold and weak, shakily lifted to her shoulder. “El…” he whispered, his voice a breath against the roaring storm around them.

The sound of that name, a name he had never called her, broke through the fragile dam of her emotions. Edelgard’s eyes widened in shock as the tears she had tried so desperately to contain flowed freely, streaming down her pale cheeks. He had never been so informal, never dared cross the boundary of formality that they had always maintained. But now, in this moment, it was as though all the barriers between them had dissolved.

“Right now… you need to save the children,” Hubert continued, his voice fading. His grip on her shoulder weakened. “Focus on that, El… for they… need—”

His voice trailed off, and Edelgard’s heart froze. His eyes, once so fierce with loyalty, remained open, but they no longer saw her. The light in them was gone.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, shaking her head as if she could deny the inevitable. Her hands trembled as she gently closed his eyes, her fingers lingering on his lifeless face. “Hubert…” she sobbed, his name a desperate cry from her broken soul. She pulled his limp body into her arms, hugging him tightly, refusing to let him go. “Hubert, no… please…”

Shez, who had been standing nearby, looked on in disbelief. Everything had fallen apart so quickly, and now… Hubert, the indomitable shadow of the Empire, was gone. The weight of the loss crashed down on her, but before she could fully process it, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. She turned sharply, her hand instinctively going to her weapon.

Byleth appeared, breathless, eyes scanning the scene. When his gaze fell on Edelgard, clutching Hubert’s body, the color drained from his face. He rushed forward, kneeling beside his wife as she looked up at him, her face drenched with rain and tears.

“He’s gone,” Edelgard choked, clutching Byleth’s tunic as if he were the last solid thing in a world that was crumbling around her. “Hubert’s gone… and the children… Ashen took our children!” Her voice broke, the anguish tearing through her.

Byleth’s arms enveloped her, pulling her close. His heart thundered in his chest, fury and grief swirling inside him like a tempest. Ashen. That name twisted in his gut, burning with hatred. He looked down at Hubert, his friend, his comrade, and the rage inside him deepened. Ashen had taken everything. “We’ll get them back, El,” Byleth whispered fiercely, his voice a solemn promise. “I swear… we’ll bring them back.”

A few knights arrived, their faces pale as they took in the scene. One stepped forward, clearly shaken but resolute. “Sir Byleth, what are your orders?”

Byleth stood, his expression hardening into the stoic determination of a man ready for battle. “Get the army ready. The children have been taken by Ashen,” he ordered, his voice cold with authority. The knight general bowed and rushed off, gathering as many forces as he could.

Turning back to Shez, Byleth’s gaze softened. “I know this wasn’t your plan to—”

“I’m in,” Shez cut him off, her voice steady. She had seen too much already, and there was no way she could walk away from this now. “And don’t worry about the payment. This one’s on me.”

Byleth gave a slight nod, gratitude in his eyes. He had no words left for the weight of everything that had transpired.

As the others began to gather, the realization of Hubert’s death washed over the group. Shock and sorrow rippled through them, but Byleth stood firm, his voice cutting through their grief. “We must stay strong,” he said, his tone unyielding. “We’ll mourn Hubert, but right now, our focus is on stopping Ashen and rescuing the children.”

Determination flared in the eyes of the knights and allies who gathered around him. There was no time for weakness. Not now. Not when so much was at stake.

After a while, Byleth slipped away to pack his things for the impending journey. His hands worked quickly, but his mind raced. He couldn’t shake the image of Edelgard’s tear-streaked face, the feel of her trembling in his arms. He needed to be strong for her, for their family. As he rummaged through his belongings, his hand brushed against an old, weathered journal. His father’s journal.

He paused, the familiar leather-bound book in his hands. He hadn’t looked at it in years. Something compelled him to open it, and as he did, he noticed a page had been marked. A faint chill crept up his spine. His fingers hesitated before he turned to the marked page.

The handwriting, rough but steady, was unmistakably his father’s. His heart tightened as he began to read:

"Today was one of the hardest jobs of my life. It was too hard, I couldn’t bring myself to show my emotions, not in front of my own kid. I was hired to kill another band of mercenaries, and among them was one of the good ones… a man named Berling, someone I called a friend. But it’s part of the job to earn money. I knew this job would never be easy, but that day… we wiped out everyone, and I had to kill Berling to get… the money. And yet, there was one who survived… a child.

She couldn’t have been much older than you, Byleth. I couldn’t finish her off. She looked at me with the same eyes that I imagined my own kid would have if the roles were reversed. How could I? What if my own son saw the person who killed me? How would he handle it?

I don’t blame that kid if she wanted revenge. But revenge… it’s a poison. It’ll corrupt one’s mind until there’s nothing human left. All I can do now is hope that she finds peace and that you, Byleth, never have to go through that… never have to kill someone you would call a friend."

Byleth’s hand trembled as he read the final words. His father, the man he had admired for his strength and unflinching resolve, had carried such a burden. A pang of guilt welled up inside him — guilt that he never knew, guilt that his father had lived with this pain and regret. Byleth closed the book, unable to read any more, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Byleth quickly tucked the journal away and tried to compose himself. “Come in.”

Shez entered, her eyes scanning him before narrowing with concern. “Everyone’s ready,” she said softly, sensing something was off. Her eyes flicked to the journal in his hand, but she didn’t pry. “We’ll get the kids back, Byleth. I promise.”

Byleth nodded but couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. The words from the journal echoed in his mind, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Shez… if the one you had a grudge against was dead, how would you handle it?”

Shez blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

Byleth clenched his fists, struggling to voice what weighed on his heart. “I… if you could never avenge the one who raised you like a daughter… do you think you’d find peace? Or would the desire for revenge consume you?”

Shez’s expression darkened, her usual confidence wavering as she thought. “I don’t know. I’ve wanted revenge for so long… sometimes I wonder if it’s all that’s left of me. But… would it bring peace?” She paused, then looked at him curiously. “Why are you asking me this, Byleth? Have you…?”

Byleth’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he couldn’t find his voice. But the truth was heavy on his heart, and he knew he needed to let it out. “After the war… Edelgard and I hunted down those who slithered in the dark. And when it was over, I stood over her uncle. The man who… because of him, I couldn’t save my father. He was on his knees, and I had the chance to kill him.”

Shez’s breath hitched, her eyes wide. “You… did it?”

“I did,” Byleth whispered, his voice hollow. “I killed him. I cut his head off, thinking it would bring me peace. But… it didn’t. Not for a long time. The darkness stayed, even after his death. I thought I’d feel relief, but all I felt was emptiness.” He looked away, his jaw tight. “It was Edelgard who helped me through it, who stayed by my side while I tried to find my way back. Vengeance didn’t heal anything. It only made me feel more lost.”

Shez stared at him, the weight of his words settling between them. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence thick with unspoken emotions. Then, Shez nodded slowly. “I don’t know if I’ll feel the same, but… I’ll try not to let vengeance consume me. I owe that to myself… and to those I’ve lost.”

Byleth gave her a faint, grateful smile. “That’s all you can do. Don’t let it turn you into something you’re not.”

There was another pause, heavy with the understanding between them. Finally, Shez turned toward the door. “I’ll see you when you’re ready,” she said softly, and then she was gone.

As the door closed behind her, Sothis’s voice echoed in his mind, soft and knowing. “You’ll have to tell her the whole truth one day.”

“I know,” Byleth whispered, his eyes on the door. “But not today.”

He sat back, the journal resting heavily in his lap, the weight of his father’s words and his own memories mingling in his mind. So much loss, so much pain, and yet… he had to keep moving forward.
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Ashen held both children tightly as he descended to Ailell, the Ashen Wolf’s eerie grin curling on his lips. The barren wasteland of flame and ash stretched out before him, remnants of a forgotten war. His footsteps echoed against the cracked earth as he surveyed the land with cold, calculating eyes. Jerelt squirmed in his arms, his tiny fists flailing as he let out a wail. Clainsiia, far more spirited, was already struggling against his grip, her small fist pounding against his arm.

"Let me and Jerelt go!" she demanded, her voice fierce for a child so young.

Ashen smirked, the edge of cruelty sharp in his expression. He let her go, watching as she immediately reached for her brother. The moment she cradled Jerelt, his cries ceased, replaced by soft whimpers, as if her mere presence offered him comfort. Ashen's eyes narrowed, his lips twisting into something darker.

"Good, the baby shut up," he muttered, more to himself than to them.

He stepped forward, the wind carrying ash and embers around them. Abandoned, decrepit buildings loomed in the distance, relics of a once-thriving civilization. Ashen raised his arms, his magic flowing from his fingertips like a river of darkness. The earth trembled beneath his feet as the buildings reformed, rising from their ruined states into new, imposing structures. His lips curled into a satisfied grin.

"This place will be a base for now," he said, glancing back at the children with an indifferent gaze.

Turning away from them, Ashen conjured stone and steel, forming a crude yet imposing throne that mirrored the grandeur of Sothis’s ancient seat. But it wasn’t enough. His eyes flickered with malice as he formed a cage beside the throne. The bars twisted, black as night, enclosing a spacious prison fit for two small mortals.

"Step into your cage, little mortals," Ashen commanded, his voice dripping with venom as he summoned his sword, the dark blade gleaming under the blood-red sky.

Clainsiia stared back at him, defiance burning in her young eyes. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cower—she simply looked at him, unafraid. Ashen’s smirk faded for a moment, his brow raising in mild surprise.

"Impressive... you don't fear a god," he remarked, half to himself.

Clainsiia narrowed her eyes. "You're not a god," she said, her voice sharp, "just a big bully."

Ashen barked a laugh, a cold, hollow sound that echoed through the air. "I might as well be the biggest bully of them all then," he said, waving a hand dismissively as he turned his back on them.

But Jerelt’s cries pierced the air again, his small voice trembling with fear. Clainsiia rocked him, trying to soothe her brother, her young hands moving gently against his back. Ashen growled, his patience thin.

"Can you tell that little runt to shut up!" he snarled, his voice booming as he shot a glare toward the cage.

Clainsiia stuck out her tongue at him defiantly, a childish gesture that only made Ashen's temper flare. His grip on his sword tightened as he stepped forward, towering over the cage like a vengeful god. For a moment, he considered silencing Jerelt himself, but something held him back—perhaps it was the fire in Clainsiia’s eyes, or perhaps it was the flicker of something deeper, buried beneath layers of cruelty.

Ashen turned away, ascending the steps to his throne, where he sat, his mind churning with thoughts of conquest. He needed an army—an unstoppable force that would bend to his will. Resources, weapons, power—it all loomed before him like a distant dream, but the path ahead was unclear.

His eyes caught movement in the distance. A giant wolf prowled toward the cage, its fur bristling and eyes gleaming with hunger. Ashen stood, his interest piqued, as the beast approached the children.

The wolf stopped at the cage, its massive head lowering to sniff the bars. Ashen’s eyes glinted with amusement as he stepped down from his throne and approached the creature.

"Hmm," he mused, his voice low. "You seem like you need a master."

Without warning, the wolf lunged at him, its jaws wide, ready to devour him whole. Ashen’s hand shot forward, gripping the beast’s maw with an iron hold. The wolf snarled and thrashed, but Ashen’s grip only tightened, his dark magic swirling around him like a storm. Black mist coiled from his body, engulfing the wolf as it let out a bone-chilling howl.

The beast’s form began to change, shrinking, its fur dissolving into the mist as its body twisted into something more human. Its snout shortened, its limbs straightened, and when the mist cleared, a humanoid creature knelt before Ashen, its eyes still glowing with the feral intensity of the wolf it once was.

Ashen laughed, his voice filled with wicked glee. "Now... let’s see how big of an army we can have."

The beast, now bound to his will, bowed its head in submission. Ashen knew, with this newfound power, he could create an army of loyal, transformed beasts—an unstoppable force that would ravage the land in his name.

As he returned to his throne, his mind buzzed with dark anticipation. Clainsiia watched from her cage, holding Jerelt close, her eyes locked on Ashen’s towering form.

"You’re not a god," she whispered to herself, her voice steady. "You’re just a bully."

And though Ashen couldn’t hear her, the words hung in the air like a curse, a truth that neither of them could escape.

Chapter Text

Over the past month, every house had been tirelessly searching for Ashen and the children. An army of knights crossed the Bridge of Myrddin, their armor gleaming in the waning sunlight. Byleth, Shez, and Edelgard led the front line, mounted on powerful horses, their expressions hard with purpose. Edelgard, draped in her gold and red armor, carried her massive weapon Aymr across her back, and her shield shone like a beacon of determination. But it wasn’t the weapon or the armor that mattered most to her—it was the grim determination on her face, fueled by the desperate need to save their children.

Byleth glanced at his wife as their horses trotted side by side, his voice soft yet resolute. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes searching hers for any sign of vulnerability.

Edelgard’s face remained fierce, her gaze locked ahead. “I will be, once we save the children,” she replied, her voice steady but heavy with emotion.

Byleth nodded, a quiet understanding passing between them. “We will find them,” he assured her, his tone unyielding. “I’ve already sent some of our friends to other locations. We’ll cover more ground this way.”

Edelgard’s brow furrowed slightly as she turned to him. “Who did you send?”

“Shamir, Leonie, and Petra went to Ailell,” Byleth explained. “Caspar, Linhardt, Yuri, and Ashe were sent to Hyrm, and Ingrid and Claude have taken to the skies. We have everyone else here, including Shez.”

Edelgard gave a brief nod, processing the information before a question formed. “Did any of the groups take knights with them?”

Byleth hesitated for a moment. “Shamir’s group didn’t. I offered them knights, but they seemed confident enough without them.”

Shez, riding just behind them, chimed in. “Something tells me that’s a big mistake,” she remarked, her voice edged with concern.

Byleth was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he considered Shez’s words. “I trust them,” he said finally. “Shamir is a sniper, after all.”

Shez still wasn’t convinced. “Even so... they should’ve taken some knights.”

Byleth said nothing more, but his eyes were drawn upward as he caught sight of movement in the sky. Claude’s wyvern dragon and Ingrid’s Pegasus descended from above, their riders landing gracefully beside the group. Claude’s usual playful demeanor was replaced with one of grim seriousness.

“There’s a village under attack,” Claude reported, his tone urgent.

Edelgard and Byleth exchanged a glance, the weight of the news sinking in quickly.

“Show us,” Edelgard demanded, her voice sharp with command.

Ingrid nodded, her expression equally grave. “It’s not far from here.”

Without hesitation, they urged their horses forward, racing toward the village. As they neared, the smell of burning wood and ash filled the air. When they finally arrived, the village was engulfed in flames, the roar of fire mingling with the distant screams of the remaining villagers.

Shez, scanning the surroundings, frowned. “Where are all the people?” she wondered aloud.

Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream split the air. “Help me! Please, I beg you! Gaaaaahhh!”

The sound cut through the village’s burning chaos, and without hesitation, everyone turned toward the source of the desperate cry. Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez led the charge, their horses kicking up ash as they galloped through the scorched remains of what had once been a peaceful settlement.

When they arrived at the scene, a monstrous sight awaited them. A beast the size of a human, but with scales like a dragon, crouched over a helpless villager. Its claws tore through flesh with ease, and blood dripped from its maw as it feasted on its victim. The beast’s black scales shimmered in the firelight, making it look like a nightmarish predator from another realm. Edelgard’s heart tightened in her chest as she took in the gruesome sight, her hand instinctively moving to Aymr on her back.

"What in the world is this thing?" Edelgard muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, though her tone was laced with steely resolve. It wasn't Ashen—it wasn't her child. But it was something far more sinister.

The beast, hearing her voice, slowly raised its head, blood staining its jagged teeth. Its eyes were a sickly yellow, glowing with malice. And then, something even more horrifying happened—it spoke.

"My lord sent me here," the creature growled, its voice guttural and broken, yet unmistakably intelligent.

A ripple of shock passed through the group. A beast that could speak? They exchanged uneasy glances. Byleth narrowed his eyes, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter. "Your lord?" he asked cautiously, his voice calm but dangerous. "Is Ashen your lord?"

The beast chuckled, a wet, snarling sound that made Shez’s stomach turn. "Ashen... yes," it said, its lips curling into a cruel grin. "But you are too late."

Before they could react, the creature threw back its head and let out a thunderous roar, so loud it seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. The sky above darkened as the roar echoed through the valley, and in response, more shapes began to emerge from the shadows—more of the man-like beasts, their grotesque forms rushing toward them in a wave of death.

"Teach, on your left!" Claude shouted, his voice sharp with urgency.

Byleth barely had time to turn when a beast lunged at him, its claws ready to tear into him. But before it could reach him, Edelgard was there. Her Aymr swung with brutal precision, the blade slicing cleanly through the creature’s neck. Its head fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

"If you want my husband," Edelgard growled, her voice filled with fury, "you’ll have to get past me first."

The beasts snarled in response, their eyes filled with bloodlust. Byleth raised his hand, giving the signal to his army. "CHARGE!" he shouted, his voice carrying over the battlefield. A general knight echoed the cry, "FOR THE ADRESTIAN EMPIRE!" And with that, the two forces collided in a violent clash of steel and claws.

As the battle raged on, more beasts descended from the skies—bird-like monsters that swooped down, talons extended. They snatched soldiers off the ground, only to drop them from terrifying heights. From the rear of the formation, Ferdinand's voice rose above the din. “Bernadetta, the archers are ready!”

Bernadetta, standing with her bow at the ready, stuttered for a moment, fear flashing in her wide eyes. But when she saw the monstrous creatures closing in, her hands steadied. “Fire!” she cried, and a volley of arrows darkened the sky, striking down several of the winged beasts.
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Claude and Shez fought side by side, their weapons cutting through the horde of beast-soldiers that surrounded them. Claude, always quick with his wit even in battle, grinned through the chaos. "Ever thought you'd be in a situation like this?" he asked, dodging a clawed strike with ease.

"Not in a million years!" Shez shouted back, her twin swords flashing in the firelight as she cleaved through another beast.

Claude’s eyes sparkled with mischief even now. "Show me what you've got then!"

Shez laughed despite herself. "I hope you can keep up!" And with that, she charged forward, her blades moving in a deadly dance, cutting down beasts left and right. Claude called out to his wyvern, which descended from the sky with a fearsome roar, sweeping several beasts aside with its powerful tail. As the creatures regrouped for another assault, Claude pulled out Failnaught, his Relic bow, and with deadly precision, shot down the beasts that were leaping onto Shez from behind.

Shez turned, breathless but alive. "Thanks!"

"Don’t mention it," Claude replied with a wink, nocking another arrow as more beasts swarmed toward them.
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In the skies above, Ingrid darted on her Pegasus, her eyes narrowing as she weaved through the chaos. Dorothea rode behind her, her hands crackling with magical energy as she summoned her Thunder spell, sending jolts of electricity crashing into the winged beasts. Lightning struck true, and several creatures fell from the sky, their charred forms spiraling down into the melee below.

Ingrid glanced over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You're getting good shots in!"

"Thanks!" Dorothea replied, her voice a little strained as she summoned another Thunderbolt. "I didn’t think I’d be doing this again—"

Suddenly, Dorothea cut herself off, her eyes going wide. "Ingrid, look out!"

A hulking, bird-like beast with talons outstretched came swooping toward them. Dorothea reacted quickly, sending a powerful Thoron bolt into its chest, the energy tearing through the creature. It let out a horrible screech, twisting midair as it fell, but more of the winged monstrosities followed, their vicious eyes fixed on the two women.

Ingrid tugged the reins of her Pegasus, dodging as fast as she could. “There’s too many!” she shouted over the rush of wind. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to let fear control her. She looked ahead, scanning the chaos when something caught her eye.

Far off, through the smoke and haze, a creature stood tall, clad in ruby-like armor that gleamed unnaturally against the flames below. It wasn’t like the other man-like beasts—it was bigger, its stance more deliberate, calculated, as though it were studying them.

"Dorothea," Ingrid called over her shoulder, her voice sharp. "Do you see that?"

Dorothea squinted in the direction Ingrid was pointing, her breath catching. "What is that? Is it just me, or does it look like a commander?"

Before they could speculate further, the armored creature suddenly moved, charging toward them with alarming speed. Its wings cut through the air with a terrifying whoosh, and its eyes locked onto them with murderous intent.

“It’s coming back!” Ingrid yelled as she pulled her Pegasus into a sharp dive, but the creature was relentless. It followed with unnatural speed, its claws extended as if ready to tear them apart. Ingrid swerved, trying to escape, but it was too fast—closing the distance between them in a heartbeat.

Dorothea clung to Ingrid, her knuckles white, as she tried to summon another spell. But the moment she channeled the energy, the beast made its move. With a powerful lunge, it swiped at them, and the impact knocked Dorothea clean off the Pegasus.

“No!” Ingrid screamed, her heart lurching as she saw Dorothea tumbling through the air, her arms flailing as she plummeted toward the ground below.

Without hesitation, Ingrid dove after her, her Pegasus diving faster than she thought possible. The wind whipped at her face, her pulse thundering in her ears. She stretched out her hand, the ground rushing up at them.

Dorothea, her wide eyes filled with fear, reached back toward Ingrid, their hands just inches apart. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed like they wouldn’t make it. But just before Dorothea hit the ground, Ingrid’s fingers closed around hers, pulling her up onto the saddle.

“Are you okay?!” Ingrid gasped, her chest heaving from the adrenaline.

Dorothea nodded shakily, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'm... I'm okay. Thanks to you."

The relief in Ingrid’s chest was short-lived. The armored beast was circling back, its ruby-plated form gleaming ominously as it locked eyes on them again. There was something malicious in its gaze—intelligent, calculating. And worst of all, it was determined.

"It's coming back!" Dorothea cried, fear creeping into her voice.

Ingrid pulled her Pegasus into a hard turn, trying to shake the beast, but it was faster, more agile than anything she had faced before. The creature lunged again, its claws slicing through the air with lethal precision. Ingrid barely dodged, the edge of its talons scraping against the Pegasus’ side.

“We can’t outrun it!” Ingrid shouted. Her mind raced for a solution, but the beast wasn’t giving them a moment to think.

Suddenly, a burst of fire erupted from below. A soldier on a dragon had fired a bolt directly at the creature, the impact knocking it back. The soldier nodded at them, a brief moment of victory flashing in his eyes, but just as quickly, one of the bird-like monsters grabbed him by the waist, dragging him down into the flames below.

Ingrid gritted her teeth, the sight fueling her determination. She turned to Dorothea, who was still holding on tightly. “Can you keep up?”

Dorothea nodded, her fear giving way to resolve. “Yeah... let’s end this.”

They turned toward the beast, its glowing eyes locking onto them once more. It screeched, diving toward them with renewed fury. Ingrid readied her lance, her muscles tensing as she prepared for the impact. Dorothea, summoning all her remaining strength, began to weave a powerful spell.
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Back on the ground, Lysithea and Ignatz fought alongside a few horsemen soldiers, their blades and spells cutting through the air as the monstrous soldiers surrounded them. The battlefield was a cacophony of clashing steel, the cries of men, and the growls of beasts, but amidst the chaos, Ignatz couldn't help but let his artistic mind wander.

"Wouldn't this make an incredible painting?" he said breathlessly, swinging his bow as he aimed another arrow at the nearest enemy. "The colors, the tension... there's something almost—"

"Now's not the time to be thinking about your art!" Lysithea snapped, her voice strained as she threw up a shimmering magical shield just in time to block a barrage of dark spikes from one of the beast soldiers. The dark energy clashed against her shield with an eerie hiss, sending tremors through her body. Her violet eyes widened in shock. "They're using magic?"

Ignatz fired another arrow, his face tense with concentration. "Looks like it! What else are these things capable of?"

Lysithea, teeth clenched, was already scanning the battlefield. "Where are Edelgard and Byleth?" she muttered under her breath, her worry spiking. Her gaze darted across the battle, and then she saw them—Edelgard and Byleth, back to back, fighting off the beasts with fierce determination. Lysithea could hear Byleth’s voice through the din of battle, his tone almost... nostalgic.

"Does this bring back memories?" Byleth asked, his sword cutting through the air in a brilliant arc, dispatching another enemy.

Edelgard, her axe dripping with the blood of their foes, gave a short, grim nod. "Yes... but this time, I won’t lose you again."

A flicker of something softer crossed her face for just a heartbeat, but then her sharp gaze caught movement to her right. There, beyond the battlefield, she saw a group of civilians—wounded, scared, and desperately trying to flee the carnage.

“Byleth!” Edelgard shouted, pointing toward the huddled group. “There are still civilians trying to get out of here.”

Without hesitation, Byleth’s eyes followed her gaze. “I’m on it!” he yelled back, calling out to a nearby group of knights. “With me!” he commanded, and the knights obeyed, moving to protect the remaining survivors.

Byleth reached the civilians just as a winged beast began to descend upon them. He lunged forward, his sword flashing, severing the creature’s wings with one clean strike. "Get them out of the village!" he barked to the knights, his voice unyielding.

The civilians, pale and trembling, were quickly escorted to safety, the knights guiding them away from the fray. Byleth turned back to the battlefield, sprinting toward Edelgard. The air around him seemed to pulse with intensity, his focus sharpening.

“We need to get out of here!” Byleth urged, skidding to a halt beside her. “This was clearly a trap!”

Edelgard, breathing heavily but resolute, nodded her head. "I agree." She spotted one of their generals amidst the chaos and called out to him. “Sound the retreat! Pull the soldiers back!”

The general reached for his horn, ready to signal the withdrawal, but before he could blow it, something strange happened. The beast soldiers—who had been so relentless in their assault—suddenly stopped. Every single one of them froze mid-action, their dark eyes glazing over as though they had been commanded to halt.

“What the…?” Claude, sprinting up to Edelgard and Byleth with Shez at his side, skidded to a stop, his voice filled with confusion. “Why did they stop?”

Shez, wiping the sweat from his brow, looked just as baffled. “They were giving us hell, and now they’re just... stopping?”

Everyone held their breath, the battlefield eerily still, with only the crackle of burning buildings and the groans of the wounded breaking the silence. And then, one of the beast generals, clad in dark armor and wielding a blood-stained lance, stepped forward. His voice rumbled like distant thunder as he spoke, his words echoing across the field.

"We have done what we came to do," the beast general announced, his voice cold and detached. “It is time for us to return to our lord.”

With that, the monstrous soldiers turned as one and began retreating, their movements deliberate, almost mechanical. It was as if the battle had been nothing more than a chore to them, something they could turn on and off at will. The humans, still in shock, could only watch as their enemies disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a battlefield littered with bodies and smoldering ruins.

Edelgard clenched her fists, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "This... doesn't feel right. What are they planning?"

Byleth stepped beside her, his gaze distant but troubled. "They could’ve wiped us out, but they chose not to. It’s almost like..."

"...like they wanted to test us... or Ashen showing us what he's capable of" Edelgard finished, her voice low, a grim understanding settling over her. She turned to look at Claude and Shez, her eyes hardening. “Well... All we can do now is help the wounded. Hopefully the others don’t have as hard a time as we did.”
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After hours and hours of checking every soldier, making sure the wounded were stable, and the dead had been honored, the camp had finally quieted down. The fire in the center flickered, casting long shadows over the worn-out soldiers, their exhaustion evident in their slouched forms. Despite the eerie calm, a deep tension hung in the air, as if the battle from earlier still lingered in their minds. Shez, though drained like the rest, couldn’t bring herself to fully relax. She sat close to the fire, staring into the embers, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t shake.

Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy, and before she knew it, sleep claimed her.

When Shez opened her eyes again, she wasn’t in the camp anymore. Instead, she found herself floating in a vast, empty space. Rubble, broken fragments of buildings, and ancient structures drifted around her, suspended as if time itself had ceased. The stars shimmered in the distance, cold and distant. The silence was profound, almost oppressive. It wasn’t peaceful—it felt... abandoned.

"Finally! You can now see where I live!"

Shez spun around at the voice, her heart leaping into her throat. Arval stood behind her, his usual mischievous grin plastered on his face, though there was a glint of something sadder in his silver eyes.

"Gods, Arval!" She clutched her chest, feeling her heart pound. "You scared me!"

Arval chuckled softly and gave an exaggerated, apologetic bow. "My deepest apologies, Shez. I didn’t mean to frighten you."

Shez let out a sigh, her body relaxing just a little. "It’s okay... I guess I should be used to you popping up out of nowhere by now." She glanced around again, taking in the desolate scene around her. "Is this a dream?"

Arval smiled, that playful look returning to his face. "Half right, but that also means you’re half wrong. Full marks for effort, though!" He gave her a thumbs up, looking almost childlike, as if he were congratulating her on a small victory.

Shez couldn’t help but smile, albeit awkwardly. "Uh... thanks?" She glanced around, feeling the weight of the place pressing down on her. "So... you actually live here?"

Arval’s smile faded slightly, and he nodded. "I do."

"It’s... kind of depressing," Shez admitted, glancing at the floating debris, the crumbling ruins of what seemed like once grand structures. "Why does everything look so... abandoned?"

For a moment, Arval didn’t answer. His eyes wandered over the ruined landscape, his expression distant. Shez felt the tension in the air shift, like something heavy was about to be revealed.

"Something’s bothering you," Shez said gently, her voice softer now. "What is it?"

Arval’s silver eyes darkened, the usual spark of mischief completely gone. "This place... what you see... it’s an image of the last battle Sothis had with my father."

Shez blinked, taken aback. "Wait, what? Sothis? I thought she slept for over a thousand years."

"That’s what people think," Arval replied, his voice quiet and laced with something close to bitterness. "But they never knew the full story. Sothis woke up... and she attacked my home. She did it because of my father." He paused, his gaze dropping to the ground. "My father wanted her people... wanted them all dead."

The weight of his words settled heavily between them, and Shez felt her stomach twist. She didn’t know much about Sothis beyond what legends had told, but to hear that this mythical figure had been responsible for such devastation... and that Arval’s father had caused it... it left her speechless.

Arval continued, his voice hollow. "Sothis had been watching everything—the war, the bloodshed, the destruction. And when she saw what my father was doing, she... she came for him. Their powers clashed like nothing anyone had ever seen. It was... beyond anything I could comprehend."

Shez bit her lip, her heart aching for him. She could see it in his eyes—the pain, the burden of what had happened. "Your father... what happened to him?"

Arval’s expression grew sadder, and Shez knew what was coming even before he said the words. "His desire for power, his greed for control over everything... it was his downfall. Sothis came to finish him off... and she did."

Shez felt a lump in her throat. "And you... how did you survive?"

Arval let out a long, shaky breath. "I ran." His voice was barely a whisper. "I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to be like him."

Shez blinked, trying to process the gravity of what Arval had just admitted. "You didn’t want to be like him?" She repeated softly, her confusion evident in her voice. "I mean... I get it. But... didn’t you love him?"

Arval’s silver eyes shifted, locking onto Shez's gaze, and for the first time, the mischievous light in his eyes was entirely absent. "He was my father," he began, his voice steady but tinged with a deep sadness. "He raised me. He gave me life. But... he was also a cruel god. His thirst for power was unrelenting. He didn’t care who suffered, who was destroyed in his wake. Not even me."

Shez's breath caught in her throat as the words sank in. He didn’t love his father—not the way most would expect. There was no affection in his tone, only resignation. To hear someone speak so plainly, without love, about their own father was jarring. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there was anything she could say.

Arval seemed to sense her inner turmoil and offered a weak smile. "I want a different path, Shez. I don’t want to be a reflection of him."

Shez was surprised, caught off guard by the raw vulnerability in his voice. For a long moment, she said nothing, the desolate landscape around them feeling even heavier now, as if it carried the weight of Arval’s confessions. She tried to find the right words, but they eluded her. She couldn't find the right words, so she changed the subject, hoping to ease the tension.

"You once told me..." She began, her voice hesitant. "If I accepted you, I’d have powers. But over the past month, I’ve felt... exactly the same. No difference at all."

Arval blinked, as if her words had jolted him from his own thoughts. He tilted his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face before a glint of realization sparked in his eyes. "Ah... that’s right. You’ve been in the waking world. But now..." He gestured around them. "Now you’re here, in my home. And now... you’ll finally awaken."

Shez raised an eyebrow, confused by his cryptic words. "Wait, what do you mean? Awaken?"

"Hold out your hand," Arval said, his voice soft but insistent.

Shez hesitated, unsure of what he was planning. "Why? Is there a reason?"

Arval’s smile returned, though it was softer, less mischievous than before. "Since you’ve accepted me, and now that you're here... the power within you can finally be unlocked. Consider it a... formal introduction to your potential."

Shez’s heart skipped a beat, her pulse quickening with anticipation. "Is this... is this going to hurt?"

Arval’s lips curled into an awkward smile, not quite reaching his eyes. He didn’t answer, but his silence spoke volumes.

Shez let out a sigh, already regretting her question. "Great. So that’s a yes," she muttered under her breath before extending her hand toward him.

As Arval reached out, his fingers just inches from hers, a voice cut through the air, breaking the eerie calm of the dream world.

"Hey, wake up!"

Shez’s eyes widened in surprise, recognizing the familiar voice immediately. "Claude?" she whispered, her head snapping to look around, but there was no one else in the vast, desolate space but her and Arval.

Arval let out a groan, his face scrunching in irritation. "We were just about to get to the best part." His voice held a note of disappointment as he floated closer to Shez, his expression forlorn. "It seems your dear friend is calling you back."

Shez glanced back at Arval, her brow furrowing in confusion. "But... how am I supposed to wake up?"

Without warning, Arval grinned, his usual playful demeanor snapping back into place. "Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of that."

Before Shez could protest, Arval floated up to her, and with a sudden, swift motion, he slapped her across the face.

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The impact jolted her awake.

Shez gasped, her body jerking upright. The campfire was still flickering in front of her, the sounds of the night returning to her ears—crickets, distant rustling of the wind through trees, and the low murmurs of soldiers nearby. And standing over her, arms crossed and an amused smirk on his face, was Claude.

"Glad to see you’re back with us," he said, his golden eyes twinkling with mischief.

Shez rubbed her cheek, still feeling the faint sting from Arval's slap, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "I guess I'm glad to be awake too," she muttered, her tone dry. The remnants of the strange dream lingered in her mind, but she shook them off for now. "What did I miss?"

Claude’s smirk softened as he leaned in slightly. "Caspar, Linhardt, Yuri, and Ashe are back," he replied. "They just returned from the city. Thought you’d want to know."

Shez quickly got to her feet, brushing the dirt from her clothes. "Let’s go meet them," she said, her voice gaining strength. Her eyes flicked to Claude, and he nodded in agreement, his usual teasing grin tempered by a subtle seriousness.

The two walked side by side through the camp, the soft glow of campfires lighting their way. The night felt heavy, filled with an underlying tension that matched the weariness in the faces of the soldiers around them. Shez felt a gnawing sense of urgency—whatever Yuri and the others had found would either be good news or add to the growing dread in the pit of her stomach.

When they reached the main tent, they found the others gathered. Yuri stood with his arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning the room with his usual air of detached calm, while Caspar looked slightly more disheveled, his fists clenched as if he were still brimming with leftover adrenaline from a fight. Linhardt, predictably, was half-asleep, leaning against a post, and Ashe wore a frown of quiet concern.

Byleth, ever composed, stepped forward and spoke with her usual calm authority. "Did you find anything?"

Yuri shook his head, his expression grim. "Nothing significant. Just a few pirates in the city causing some trouble. We handled it."

Caspar, unable to hold back, jumped in. "Yeah, we took care of them. They didn’t stand a chance!"

Linhardt sighed, his voice heavy with exasperation. "By 'taking care of them,' Caspar means charging in without a plan. So, yes... we dealt with the situation—if you can call it that."

Shez’s lips twitched into a faint smile. Despite the gravity of the situation, their familiar banter felt like a small comfort. But it wasn’t enough to ease the growing tension in the air. "What about the knights?" Ashe asked, his voice low, his brow furrowed. "Almost all of them were injured when we arrived. What happened here?"

Edelgard, who had been silent until now, stepped forward. Her crimson eyes carried the weight of leadership, but there was also a flicker of something darker—a mixture of frustration and worry. "It was Ashen," she said, her voice steady but cold. "He’s gathered an army. Somehow, he’s using beasts—creatures—and turning them into soldiers. They attacked everyone without mercy."

There was a collective pause as the weight of her words sank in.

Ingrid, standing at Edelgard’s side, nodded grimly. "These soldiers aren’t like anything we’ve fought before. They have... special abilities. We don’t know how he’s controlling them yet, but it’s nothing natural."

Linhardt’s eyes, previously half-lidded with boredom, widened with sudden interest. "I wish I could’ve seen that," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "It sounds... fascinating."

Edelgard shot him a sharp look, though there was no real anger behind it. "Fascinating or not, we need to be prepared. These soldiers are deadly, and Ashen won’t stop until he’s wiped out everything in his path."

The mood in the tent grew heavier, and Shez felt her pulse quicken as the reality of the situation settled in. The enemy wasn’t just stronger—it was different, unpredictable. And that made them all the more dangerous.

Just then, one of the general knights entered the tent, his armor clinking softly as he approached Edelgard. His face was drawn, tired from the battle, but there was no hesitation in his step as he saluted her. "Your Majesty," he began, his voice low. "I’ve come to report our losses."

Edelgard’s expression hardened, but she nodded, signaling him to continue.

The knight took a deep breath, the weight of his words already clear. "We’ve lost nearly two hundred soldiers. Many more are injured—beyond the point of fighting. We’ll need to reorganize and replenish our forces soon if we’re to continue holding this ground."

A thick silence followed his words. The campfires outside flickered, casting shadows on the faces of the gathered leaders. Shez clenched her fists, the helplessness creeping in. They couldn’t afford these kinds of losses—not with the threat Ashen posed.

Edelgard, however, stood tall, her resolve unshaken. "We’ll rest for now," she commanded, her voice like steel. "But we’ll regroup, gather intelligence on these beasts, and prepare for our next move. We will overcome this."

Shez exchanged a glance with Claude, who nodded at her, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by the serious strategist she knew him to be. There was no turning back now. The battle ahead would be unlike any they had faced before.

As the others dispersed to rest, Shez couldn’t shake the feeling of Arval’s words still echoing in her mind. "Awaken." Whatever power lay dormant within her—it would be needed soon.

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In Byleth and Edelgard's tent, the soft glow of the candle flickered against the canvas walls. The air was thick with tension after the grim reports from earlier, but for now, Byleth lay beside his wife, hoping the calm of the night would offer her some rest. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him, when suddenly, he felt her shift beside him.

Edelgard’s body jerked slightly, and her breath hitched. Her fists clenched the sheets tightly, her face contorting in pain. "N-no... give them back," she murmured in a trembling voice. Byleth’s eyes snapped open. This wasn’t the first time he had seen her like this. The nightmares had been plaguing her for weeks, ever since Ashen had taken their children.

“El...” he whispered gently, his heart tightening. He reached out, brushing his hand against her arm, but she continued to tremble, her face pale and strained. "El, wake up. It’s just a dream," he called softly, his voice threaded with concern.

But Edelgard’s breathing became more erratic, and her words grew desperate. “I can’t... I can’t lose them... not again... please, Ashen... let them go... let Byleth and our children go!” Her voice cracked, and she began to shake violently in her sleep.

Byleth sat up quickly, gripping her shoulders firmly but with care. “Edelgard!” he called out, louder this time, his voice breaking with urgency. “Wake up! El, it’s me... I’m right here.”

At his touch, her eyes flew open, wide with terror. She gasped as if she had been pulled from the depths of a dark ocean, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Tears streamed down her cheeks before she could even register her surroundings, her body trembling as the vivid nightmare continued to linger.

“Byleth...” she whispered brokenly, her voice a fragile thread as she turned to him, her eyes filled with fear and sorrow. “I... I saw him take you... take our children... and I couldn’t stop him...” Her words tumbled out, raw and desperate, as if speaking them would somehow keep the nightmare at bay. She buried her face in her hands, her sobs wracking her body.

Byleth immediately pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest, his hand gently stroking her hair. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice calm, though his heart ached for her. “I’m here. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I won’t let it.”

Edelgard shook her head, her voice trembling as she choked out, “How can you be sure? How can you know that Ashen won’t... what if I’m not there? What if I can’t protect you? You’ve seen what he’s capable of, Byleth... he’s not a man, he’s a monster. And he has our children.”

Her words were laced with the deepest kind of fear—a mother’s fear of losing her children, of losing everything she had fought so hard to protect. Byleth’s heart ached, and he held her even tighter.

“I know it’s terrifying,” he said softly, pulling back slightly to cup her cheek with his hand, wiping away her tears with his thumb. “But you’re not alone in this, El. We have our friends—Claude, Shez, everyone—they’ll fight with us. And you... you’re the strongest person I know. We will get our kids back. I promise you that.”

Edelgard’s lip trembled as she stared into his eyes, seeking the strength she had lost to her fear. “What if... what if they’re not there anymore? What if Ashen has done something to them? What if I can’t save them?” Her voice cracked, and she bit back a sob, but the tears kept flowing. The weight of her guilt, her helplessness, crushed her.

Byleth leaned in and kissed her forehead softly, lingering there for a moment, as if willing his strength into her. “You once told me,” he whispered against her skin, “that if anyone ever dared to take our children, you wouldn’t stop searching for them—even if it meant sacrificing armies. You are the Empress, Edelgard. And I know that no force in this world can stand between you and your family.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at his words, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks, but something in her shifted. His unwavering belief in her, the promise that they would face this together—it rekindled a small flicker of hope inside her.

“I... I said that, didn’t I?” she murmured, her voice still shaky, but there was a faint steadiness returning. She rested her forehead against his, the closeness of him grounding her, pulling her back from the despair. “I just... I don’t want to lose anyone else. I can’t... not after my siblings and parents..."

“You won’t lose us,” Byleth promised, his voice firm but gentle. He pulled her closer again, holding her as tightly as he could, as if his embrace alone could shield her from the nightmares. “I swear to you, Edelgard, we’ll bring them back. We’ll be together again. You’re not alone in this fight.”

For a long moment, they stayed like that—Edelgard trembling in his arms, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers gripping his shirt as if holding onto him for dear life. Slowly, slowly, her breathing began to calm, her sobs turning into quiet sniffles.

Edelgard leaned into him, her face buried in the crook of his neck as the last of her tears fell. “I love you, Byleth,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but the emotion behind it clear. “I love you so much... I can’t lose another family...”

Byleth kissed the top of her head, his own emotions welling up in his chest. “You won’t, El,” he murmured. “I promise. We’ll fight this together.”

After a long while, Edelgard finally calmed enough to rest, her body still wrapped in Byleth’s protective embrace. Though the fear lingered, there was a newfound determination in her eyes as she whispered, “This... this is for Jeralt... for Clainsiia... for our children.”

And as she slowly drifted back to sleep in Byleth’s arms, he stayed awake, watching over her, his mind already thinking of the battles yet to come, and the promise he would keep—no matter the cost.

Byleth’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, her features still shadowed by the turmoil she had just endured. His hand gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, and for a moment, everything felt still. But the weight of his thoughts was heavy, and his eyes wandered to his own reflection in the faint glow of the candle. The green strands of his hair shimmered softly, a lingering reminder of the power Sothis once gave him. A power he had relied on, a power that had shaped the very core of his being.

"How long has it been since I’ve truly felt her presence?" he wondered, his hand subconsciously tracing a lock of his hair between his fingers.

Closing his eyes, he whispered silently within his mind, calling out to her. Sothis... The name lingered in the silence of his thoughts, heavy with unspoken questions. "I must know— is there a way to regain the power you once gave me?"

For a few heartbeats, there was only the sound of Edelgard’s gentle breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. And then, like a ripple through his consciousness, he felt her presence stir.

“I see you still seek me out in your moments of uncertainty,” came the soft, familiar voice of Sothis, materializing before him, her ethereal form as vivid in his mind as if she were standing beside him. Her emerald hair floated around her, framing her youthful face, though her expression was serious, almost distant.

Byleth’s eyes opened within the realm of his mind, meeting her gaze. “Sothis,” he breathed, a strange relief washing over him at the sight of her, though it was quickly replaced by his deep concern. “I need to know—can I regain the power I once had?"

Sothis’ gaze softened, though there was a sadness in her eyes. “You ask a difficult question, one that I do not have an easy answer for,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest. “The power I granted you... it was tied to my presence within you. Now that you no longer bear my crest, it would be nearly impossible to regain it.”

Byleth’s heart sank. No longer bear her crest... He had felt it, the absence of that divine power, and though he had tried to push forward without it, the weight of its loss had only grown heavier with time.

“But,” Sothis continued, her voice gentle but firm, “perhaps there is a way... though it will not come easily. You must understand, Byleth, that the bond between us is still there, faint as it may be. And I feel... that the time to restore that bond is approaching.”

Byleth frowned, his mind racing. “What do you mean? How can I—”

But Sothis closed her eyes, her brows furrowing slightly as if sensing something beyond their conversation. Her form flickered, her ethereal presence shifting as a wave of something unseen passed through her.

“Sothis?” Byleth asked, his voice tight with concern. “What is it? What do you sense?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, with a deep breath, she opened her eyes, her gaze sharp and focused. “I sense a presence,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the very air around them had grown still in response. “It’s faint, but familiar...”

Byleth’s chest tightened. “Is it that other god you felt?” he asked cautiously, already knowing the answer before she could speak it aloud.

Sothis gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Yes. I have sensed this presence before, but I cannot place where it comes from. It’s elusive, but powerful.  If it is indeed the same god that I’ve encountered before...”"

Her words trailed off, but Byleth knew what she was implying. Epimenides. The dark god who had threatened them before, whose thirst for revenge had nearly destroyed everything they held dear.

“Do you think this god will help us?” Byleth asked, his voice low but steady, though he already knew that Sothis would not offer him the comfort he sought.

Sothis’ lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes clouded with doubt. “I doubt it,” she admitted, her voice heavy with foreboding. “If this presence is connected to Epimenides or any of his ilk, then it is far more likely they will seek revenge rather than offer aid.”

Byleth clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the sheets beneath him. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he muttered, a cold shiver running down his spine. The thought of facing another god—of having to fight a force far beyond his comprehension—filled him with a dread he rarely allowed himself to feel. But it was there, lurking beneath the surface.

Chapter Text

In the lava land of Ailell, where the ground seemed to pulse with the intense heat from below, Petra, Leonie, and Shamir arrived, already feeling the oppressive warmth seeping into their skin. The relentless waves of heat bore down on them, causing beads of sweat to trickle down their brows and necks. Leonie sighed heavily, brushing the back of her hand against her forehead, her voice laced with impatience. "This better be worth the trip. I can’t stand this kind of heat."

Petra gave a solemn nod, her sharp eyes scanning the scorching terrain. “In Brigid, heat is different. It is...not like this.” She reached for her waterskin, taking a quick sip before offering it to Leonie, who gratefully took it. The parched landscape stretched ahead of them, with plumes of smoke rising in the distance, giving the place a foreboding sense of danger.

Shamir took the lead, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the barren, rocky path in front of them. Suddenly, she held up a hand, motioning for silence. Leonie and Petra halted instantly, alert to any threat. Shamir tilted her head, listening intently. “Do you hear that?” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the distant hissing and crackling of lava.

Petra’s eyes darted in the direction Shamir indicated. “I am hearing it, yes. The sound is...strange.” She looked to Shamir and Leonie. “We should check what it is, if it is enemy or ally.”

They all nodded, moving in unison as they crept forward, each step bringing them closer to the source of the strange noise. The sounds grew louder, almost rhythmic, like the steady, synchronized march of countless feet. As they approached the edge of a crag, they peered over and stopped dead in their tracks. Below them stretched a vast, organized army, their figures shadowed by the rising haze of heat from the molten ground. It was a sight they had not anticipated, and each of them felt a chill despite the intense warmth surrounding them.

“What the... he has an army?” Leonie muttered in disbelief, her voice a mix of awe and fear. This was the first time any of them had seen Ashen’s forces assembled on such a scale.

Petra, her gaze sharpened with worry, whispered, “How is he finding an army so quickly? This...is not something done alone.” She glanced between Shamir and Leonie, her brows furrowing in suspicion and unease.

Shamir’s hand reached into her pouch, retrieving a small monocular. She extended it, focusing on the soldiers below. Her mouth tightened as she scanned the army, her expression hardening. “These aren’t ordinary soldiers…” she said quietly, passing the monocular to Leonie.

Leonie took a look, her eyes widening as she saw what Shamir had. Towering beasts stood among the soldiers, their massive forms clad in crude armor, though the unsettling detail was their stature—they were somehow human-sized, more agile yet just as menacing as the colossal beasts she’d seen in the past. “What kind of dark magic could have…?” Her voice trailed off, the implications settling uneasily in her stomach as she handed the monocular back to Shamir.

Shamir raised it to her eye again, adjusting her focus until she spotted him: Ashen, draped in shadow, perched on a high throne like a king overseeing his kingdom, his expression arrogant and detached, as if he truly believed himself a god. He watched over his forces, barely acknowledging the twisted creatures that made up his army.

Just then, Petra tensed, her senses catching something to her right. She gestured to the others, her expression urgent. “We must hide,” she whispered, her tone leaving no room for questions.

In swift, silent movements, they ducked behind a group of large rocks, barely out of sight as two beastly soldiers lumbered past them. Their hunched forms, covered in thick hides and mismatched armor, exuded an almost animalistic smell. They walked slowly, as if patrolling, and one of them spoke in a guttural voice.

“Doesn’t make sense to me why our lord lets the brats live,” the first beast soldier growled. “If it were me, I’d have crushed them already. Make that one, Byleth, lose hope right then and there.”

The other beast chuckled darkly, his voice filled with a bitter amusement. “Who knows? Maybe it’s to make Byleth and his wife fight for them, to earn them back.” His laugh was thick with a twisted pleasure. “Or maybe just to drive them mad. I’d like to see that—watching them suffer, clawing for what they love.”

Leonie’s fists clenched, her nails digging into her palms. It took everything in her not to leap out and strike them down on the spot. She looked over at Shamir, whose face remained an unreadable mask, though her eyes betrayed a fierce, simmering anger.

Petra pressed a hand on Leonie’s shoulder, a silent warning to stay calm. Her own heart pounded, each beat louder than the last as the two beast soldiers continued their patrol, unaware of the fierce determination that burned in the eyes of those who watched them.

Once the soldiers were far enough away, Shamir exhaled, motioning for the others to follow her lead back behind the rocks. She allowed herself a fleeting moment of relief, a rare softness breaking through her usual hardened exterior. It was reassuring to know Byleth and Edelgard’s children were still around, though that knowledge came with an unsettling weight.

Petra shifted, eyes flashing with resolve. “We are needing to be closer. To see the situation fully.” Her voice was firm yet tinged with urgency. The three of them nodded in silent agreement, each understanding the risk but also knowing they’d come too far to turn back now.

They moved forward, slipping through the shadows cast by the lava-lit land, ducking behind a rocky outcrop. As they peered over the edge, their gazes locked onto two small figures among the masses—Clainsiia, a spark of fiery defiance in her young eyes, and Jeralt, clutching tightly to his sister. Leonie’s eyes widened as she pointed them out. “There they are…” Her voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile scene before them.

Petra’s brow furrowed with concern as she whispered, “Now that we have them in sight…what are we doing next?” Her question hung heavy in the scorching air, and the trio exchanged a tense look.

But before Shamir could answer, a grating voice boomed across the camp, causing them all to flinch. “We’re relocating!” the beast captain bellowed, his voice filled with a callous authority. “Pack everything and bring the children! Move out!”

The words struck them like a thunderclap. Leonie’s face twisted in frustration, disbelief written in every line. “After coming this far, they’re just…moving? What’s going on?”

Shamir’s sharp gaze swept the area, assessing the sudden commotion. Her eyes narrowed as she realized something critical—Ashen was no longer perched on his throne. The eerie absence of his figure sent a chill through her veins, one that intensified as her instincts screamed a warning. Her head shot up, and her expression turned deadly serious. “Move! Now!”

Without hesitation, they darted back from the edge, skirting away as fast as their legs would carry them. But just as they gained some distance, a shadow plummeted from above, crashing into the ground with a force that shook the earth beneath their feet. Dust and ash erupted into the air, revealing Ashen, wings folding back into his body as he stood tall, his dark presence like a storm cloud against the volcanic landscape. His eyes gleamed with malice, the taint of his cursed form swirling like shadows across his skin.

“So…” he drawled, a sinister smile curling at the corners of his mouth, “it appears we have…intruders.” His voice was deceptively smooth, almost amused, but there was no mistaking the danger that laced his words.

A ring of beast soldiers closed in around them, their grotesque forms towering, teeth bared, eyes gleaming with bloodlust. One of the generals turned to Ashen with a cruel grin, awaiting orders. “What shall we do with them, my lord?”

Before he could answer, a desperate voice pierced through the grim silence.

“Shamir!”

Shamir’s heart lurched as she turned to see Clainsiia, her young form holding tightly to Jeralt. She was struggling against the massive arm of a beast soldier, her fierce little face twisted in defiance. “Let me and my brother go!” Clainsiia’s voice was fierce and filled with an unyielding determination, even as the beast yanked her back roughly, causing Jeralt to cry out in fear.

The sight stoked a fire within Shamir, her blood boiling as the helplessness in Clainsiia’s eyes sparked a protective rage. Leonie’s voice came out in a venomous snarl, her grip tightening around her weapon as she glared at Ashen. “You dastard…!”

Petra, her eyes blazing, took a step forward, standing tall despite the hulking figures of the beast soldiers surrounding them. “If you are harming even one hair on their heads, you will be regretting it.” Her tone was a lethal whisper, her words vibrating with intensity.

Ashen merely raised an eyebrow, a cool, detached smile on his face. He almost seemed amused, entirely unruffled by their fury. “Relax,” he drawled, his tone calm, almost condescending. “I don’t intend to kill the children… not yet, anyway.” His gaze settled lazily on Shamir, Leonie, and Petra. “I could end their lives here, true. But I’m feeling generous. I want to give Byleth the chance to earn them back, to prove if he still has the goddess’s power coursing through his veins.”

Shamir’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and unwavering. “So, this was your grand plan?” she spat, the loathing in her voice as cutting as her arrows. “Kidnapping children, killing friends and soldiers—just for a throne?”

Ashen’s smirk grew, his eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of pride. “It is my right,” he replied, each word laden with entitlement. “Fódlan is mine to claim. I will not stand by and be replaced by some puppet of Rhea’s creation.” His gaze darkened, lingering on Shamir, the weight of his words pressing down on the group like a stone. “Rhea promised me rulership,” he continued, his voice laced with venom, “yet all that awaited me was hollow hope, shattered by her betrayal when she branded me a failure..."

Before Leonie could retort, a flicker of surprise crossed Ashen’s face as his voice grew cold. “But then Sitri froze me,” he whispered, his voice carrying a haunting bitterness. “My life, my ambition—all locked away like some discarded weapon.” He looked up, his eyes sharp with a mix of hatred and resolve. “And then, so many years later, Byleth… he emerged, bearing her power. My chance at redemption stolen by a man whose blood she infused with divinity. But not this time. This time, vengeance will be mine.”

One of the beast generals beside him, massive and hulking, leaned close, the glow of his eyes making the ground tremble as he asked, “Do you want us to kill them now?”

Ashen’s calculating gaze swept over Shamir, Leonie, and Petra, lingering a moment longer on each of them. “No,” he replied, a dark smile twisting at his lips. “Let’s make this interesting. I propose a deal,” he said, his voice as cold as steel. Petra’s brow furrowed, her gaze never wavering as she took a step forward.

“What deal?” she asked, her voice hard as granite.

Ashen’s smile grew, his words savoring the tension like the taste of victory. “You can all leave. But one of you… one who is worthless… must stay behind.”

Leonie’s grip tightened on her weapon, her eyes blazing. “There’s no way any of us stay behind!” Her voice was filled with defiance, but beneath it lay a thread of desperation. This was no ordinary choice.

Shamir looked down, her shoulders stiffening as her fists clenched. Silence wrapped around her like a cloak as she wrestled with the decision. Finally, she spoke, her voice steady but tinged with a quiet sadness. “I’ll stay.”

Petra and Leonie turned to her, eyes wide with shock.

“No…” Petra’s voice cracked as she took a step toward Shamir. “You cannot. You… you cannot do this.”

Leonie’s voice broke through, raw and pleading. “Shamir, why? We need you. The company needs its captain. I need you.” The words came out as if torn from her, her voice faltering. She looked at Shamir with a desperate hope, her hands trembling on her weapon.

But Shamir met their eyes with a resolute calm. “You are both more important than I am. Petra, you are the queen of Brigid. If you fall, your people fall with you. I know about you and Caspar, and I know the legacy you both can build together.” She turned to Leonie, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And you… you don’t need me anymore. You’ve become one of the best mercenaries in all of Fódlan, maybe even better than me.”

Leonie’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as Shamir placed her bow and quiver in Leonie’s hands. Leonie’s fingers curled around them, her face breaking as she looked back at Shamir, her voice barely a whisper. “You… you really mean it?”

Shamir placed a hand on Leonie’s shoulder, her eyes soft with pride. “Yes. Jeralt trained you well, and after he was gone, I had the honor of seeing you grow stronger every day. Now… keep the company safe.”

Petra stepped forward, her voice fierce yet trembling. “Shamir, we will not be forgetting what you have done for us. Not just for money, but for all of us. For… for everything.” Her voice broke, the weight of her words hanging heavy in the air.

Shamir nodded, her gaze steady. “Then make sure my choice isn’t wasted.”

Ashen smirked, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “This is all settled, then,” he announced, his tone dripping with self-assured finality. He took a letter from his coat, holding it out to Petra and Leonie, who eyed him warily. “Before you leave,” he said, his voice deceptively soft, “I need you to deliver this to Edelgard and Byleth. Consider it my… promise of goodwill. And rest assured,” he added, a chilling smirk curling on his lips, “the children will remain unharmed, for now.”

Petra clenched her jaw but took the letter, her glare as fierce as the storm that brewed within her. Leonie’s knuckles were white as her grip tightened around Shamir’s bow, but she remained silent, fighting the urge to stay and fight by Shamir’s side. A few soldiers stepped forward, parting to create a path, and Petra and Leonie shared one last, fleeting look with Shamir before they were ushered away, the soldiers’ presence forcing them forward.

As they disappeared into the shadows, Ashen’s beast general stepped forward, eyes gleaming with sadistic anticipation. At a nod from Ashen, the general delivered a swift kick to the back of Shamir’s knee, forcing her down, her body bowing under the pain and pressure. Ashen’s cold hand gripped her chin, tilting her head up until she was forced to look into his eyes.

“Shamir,” he began, his voice low and mocking, “the renowned sniper of Dagda. I’ve heard stories of you—a skilled fighter, a leader who’s rallied armies… and one who helped Edelgard and Byleth bring an end to Those Who Slither in the Dark.” He sneered, his grip tightening on her chin. “You aren’t worthless, not by a long shot. The orange-haired one, though… I can’t quite say the same. So tell me, why take her place?”

Shamir’s eyes, blazing with defiance, never wavered. “Leonie is not worthless,” she spat, her voice a steady, determined flame. “She has a future, and she has people who need her. I am willing to do what’s necessary… even if it means sacrificing myself for them.”

Ashen chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through the air like a sinister promise. “Admirable. But I can think of a far better use for you, Shamir. Imagine… being forced to turn on your precious allies, to kill the very friends you so dearly want to protect.” At his snap, two soldiers stepped forward, seizing Shamir by her arms.

Realizing where they were dragging her, Shamir twisted and fought, her muscles straining against their hold, but they were too strong. Her heart pounded as dread seeped into her, but her resolve held firm even as she let out a scream, the sound echoing through the night like a warning to those she had left behind. Ashen only watched, eyes glinting with perverse satisfaction, as her voice broke through the silence, raw and pained.

Turning to his general, Ashen’s voice dripped with cold command. “Once they’ve… softened her up, we’ll proceed to the Tailtean Plains. We’ll need a distraction.”

The hulking beast general nodded, his fanged grin gleaming in the torchlight. “And what shall we use as this distraction, my lord?”

Ashen reached into a satchel at his side, pulling out a map of Fódlan, tracing his finger over it with careful consideration. “While our enemies gather their forces, we’ll begin by striking the heart of the Leicester Alliance. I’ve found certain noble houses left unscathed by Edelgard’s rule, and they will pay the price for Byleth’s foolish leniency.” He tapped his finger firmly against the edge of the map. “House Gloucester. Prepare the troops to march at first light.”

The general’s grin widened as he bowed, ready to carry out the commands. Meanwhile, Ashen looked back toward where Shamir had been dragged, her cries now muffled but still hauntingly present. He lingered for a moment, a cruel satisfaction on his face, before turning to oversee the preparations, the night growing darker around them as the gears of his plans began to turn.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since the attack, and the air around the camp was thick with a tense anticipation. The absence of Shamir, Leonie, and Petra had left everyone on edge, their minds plagued by the unknown. People carried on with their duties, each seeking distraction in the routines of camp life, yet their hearts were heavy, burdened by worry.

In a quieter corner of the camp, Shez was wandering, her eyes scanning for Yuri. She had been hoping to squeeze in some training to clear her head, and Yuri was one of the few people who could match her skill and keep her sharp. His tent lay just ahead, and she ducked inside, expecting to find him lounging with that usual smirk of his. But the tent was empty, save for a few scattered belongings left in what was, for Yuri, unusually disorganized fashion.

She spotted a letter lying on the table, the delicate script catching her eye. Curiosity flickered within her, and after a brief hesitation, she reached for it. The words on the parchment were surprisingly tender, laced with a love that felt so unlike the Yuri she knew:

“My beautiful son…it seems that I am not getting any better….I am grateful for the money you have given me… but, I will always cherish the memories we had even more-so…my little Regulus…I will always watch over you. Love, Mom.”

Shez furrowed her brow, murmuring to herself. “Huh, this is for Yuri? But… why does it have a different name?” Just as the confusion began to settle, a voice, smooth as silk and just the slightest bit amused, broke the silence.

“Are you having fun snooping around, Shez?”

She whipped around, her heart racing as she came face-to-face with Yuri, his violet eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something sharper. “Yuri! You really snuck up on me,” she blurted out, trying to play off the tension she felt. “Where were you?”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his tone dismissive. “That’s none of your concern. But more importantly,” he continued, taking a step closer, “why are you poking through things that don’t belong to you?” His eyes narrowed, a half-smile lifting one corner of his mouth as he said, almost playfully, “Choose your next words carefully, Shez… they may be your last.”

Shez swallowed, caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze, but she steadied herself, meeting his eyes. “Look, I was just looking for you,” she explained. “I wanted to ask if you’d train with me. And when you weren’t here, I saw this letter lying around… it caught my eye.”

Yuri sighed, the amusement slipping from his face, replaced by something more distant, almost pained. “I should’ve known this would happen,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with irritation but softened by resignation. “This is what I get for taking off without saying anything and… for being careless.”

Shez softened, her curiosity tempered by a pang of sympathy. “I… I didn’t mean to pry,” she admitted honestly. “I just thought… well, you’d be the last person to leave something like that out in the open.”

Yuri sighed, crossing his arms as he looked down, the edges of his guarded expression softening for just a moment. “I suppose you can say that,” he replied, his voice low, almost contemplative. “But I’ll tell you about the letter. It was… last year.” He paused, glancing away as if remembering something he’d rather forget.

Shez tilted her head, her brow furrowing. “Last year?”

Yuri nodded, the usual spark in his violet eyes dimmed by something heavier, something quietly aching. “My mother… she had an illness,” he explained, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was getting worse, year by year. I did everything I could, visiting her whenever I had the chance, no matter how far away I was or how dangerous the roads became. But even then, I couldn’t be with her at the end.”

Shez’s face softened further, her own memories stirring painfully as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I… I get it. The woman who raised me wasn’t my real mother by blood, but… she was my mom in every way that mattered. Before she died, I spent every moment I could with her. And yet, it still didn’t feel like enough.”

Yuri turned to her, studying her expression. “She must have been special to you,” he murmured, a flicker of understanding in his gaze.

“She was more than I can ever say,” Shez replied, her voice thick with emotion. “She found me when I had nowhere and no one, taught me how to survive. I’ll always love her for that.”

Yuri’s gaze softened, and he nodded solemnly. “Wherever she is now, I’m sure she’s… glad to hear you feel that way.”

Shez smiled, but her expression shifted to curiosity once more as she glanced at the letter. “But Yuri… in the letter, your name… it says Reg—”

He lifted a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. “No need to say it. That’s my real name.” His tone was surprisingly calm, and he glanced at her with the barest hint of vulnerability. “Yuri’s just an alias. My mother never called me by it. And really, what parent would? An alias isn’t for family; it’s for survival.”

Shez looked at him thoughtfully, her tone gentle. “Regulus… it’s a good name. I’ve never heard anything like it. Where does it come from?”

For a moment, Yuri was caught off guard, his eyes widening slightly. But then he chuckled, an almost bashful smirk tugging at his lips. “It came from a bright star. Apparently, the goddess herself made it a disciple. My mother was a follower of Seiros,” he explained, glancing skyward as if he could see that very star in the daytime sky. “It’s… an ostentatious name for a penniless kid, don’t you think?”

Shez shook her head firmly. “Not at all. It shows how much she loved you. I mean, if you think about it, she saw something precious in you—enough to give you a name tied to the stars. Not everyone gets that.”

Yuri’s smile softened, a chuckle slipping out, low and warm. “Well, maybe you’re right. It does have a nice ring to it… and she gave it to me, after all.” He sighed, his voice becoming distant as if lost in memory. “I don’t know how much of the scriptures she really understood. But knowing her, she put a lot of thought into that name.”

Shez nodded slowly, her own respect for his mother growing. “She sounds like an incredible woman.”

Yuri met her eyes, a flicker of unspoken gratitude there. “She was. But… let’s keep this between us. Don’t tell anyone my real name, alright?”

Yuri let out a small chuckle, though it was a touch hollow. "I go by a lot of names, Shez. Each one has its own mask, its own… purpose. But when I hear my real name, all of those facades… they just fall away. It’s different." He paused, his violet eyes meeting hers, the usual guardedness in his gaze replaced by something raw and unfiltered. "The only people who can call me that are those who are truly special to me. Immediate family… or someone just as important."

A faint smile touched his lips as he continued, his tone lightening slightly. "So, please… just call me Yuri. Unless, of course," he added with a smirk, "you’d be willing to spend the rest of your life by my side."

Shez blinked, a small laugh escaping her before she could help it. "What… are you even talking about? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?"

He laughed too, the sound unburdened and genuine, as if he hadn’t laughed like that in ages. "Obviously," he replied, a twinkle in his eye. "But… honestly, I’d have been at a bit of a loss if you’d said you were all for it. That would be a lot for me to handle." He cleared his throat, his gaze softening. "But, it does make me happy to hear you like my name. And… if you ever decide you’re up for it, let me know. I’ll give it some thought."

Shez chuckled, her playful nature resurfacing as she nudged him lightly. "Well, I’ll keep that in mind. But until then, let’s focus on something I know I can handle—like training with you. You up for that?"

A smirk spread across Yuri’s face, the familiar spark returning to his eyes. "Very well. Let’s see what kind of mercenary you really are, then."

With that, they made their way to the training grounds, each step easing the weight of their shared burdens.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elsewhere in the camp, Dorothea wandered through the quiet shadows of the evening, the campfires casting soft glows across her path. She paused when she noticed Ferdinand seated alone on a fallen log, cradling a tin cup of black coffee. Ferdinand rarely touched coffee, always claiming it was too bitter for his tastes. Concern flickered through her gaze, and she approached him gently, her voice soft yet laced with worry.

“Ferdi… everything alright?”

Ferdinand glanced up at her, the sharpness in his eyes softened, burdened by something heavy and unspoken. He took a deliberate sip, letting the bitter taste linger as if grounding him. Finally, he sighed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I… used to dislike coffee. But things change. This was Hubert’s drink, you know? Said it kept him alert.” He let out a dry laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After he died, I… found myself reaching for it.”

Dorothea’s heart ached as she settled beside him, close enough to offer comfort without a word. She could see it in his slumped shoulders, the weight of grief dragging him down, the sorrow etched in every line of his face. He looked older somehow, as though the loss of his dear friend had etched away a part of his youth, leaving something raw and vulnerable behind.

“He was my friend,” Ferdinand murmured, his gaze distant. “Strange to think, isn’t it? I never thought we would end up as… comrades. Friends.” He exhaled deeply, as if each word took a piece of his strength. “You know, I killed my father, and it didn’t break me like this. My father… he deserved it, in a way. But Hubert… Hubert was different. He was someone I could depend on, a friend who never wavered.”

Dorothea reached out, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know, Ferdi. I could see it—the way he trusted you, even when you thought he didn’t. You two didn’t always see eye to eye, but behind that harsh exterior, he was just… human.”

Ferdinand nodded, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Yes. He was. At times, I was afraid to even talk to him, if I’m being honest. The way he’d look at people… who wouldn’t be intimidated? But he was always there, standing firm, protecting Edelgard, guiding Byleth and me… both of us, in his way.”

Dorothea chuckled softly, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “Remember when people called you two ‘The Nation’s Two Jewels’? The left and right hands of Byleth and Edelgard?” She grinned, her eyes glimmering with fondness. “I’m pretty sure Edelgard was a bit jealous of that.”

For the first time in a long while, Ferdinand let out a genuine laugh. “Yes, she was, wasn’t she? Hubert and I… we had this… friendly rivalry, always competing to be the most helpful, the most reliable.” His expression softened as he remembered the quiet moments between the clashing of swords and the roaring of battle. “It’s strange… those little competitions kept me going.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of loss settling comfortably between them like an old friend.

Then, Dorothea broke the quiet with a small, hesitant smile. “You know… I once proposed to Hubert.”

Ferdinand nearly choked on his coffee, his eyes widening as he looked at her in shock. “You’re joking. Really?”

Dorothea smiled softly, her gaze distant. “Yes, really. He made me wonder what it’s like to be wholly devoted to someone… I think, just for a moment, I wanted to see the world through his eyes.” She paused, a gentle laugh escaping her. “He even considered it, you know? Though… well, nothing ever happened. But I’m glad he made me understand more about devoting myself to someone else.” Her fingers trailed idly along the hem of her cloak, as if tracing the memory of it all.

Ferdinand let out a small, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Hubert never told me this. Not a word. The man could keep secrets better than any vault.”

A comfortable silence settled between them as they both remembered the quiet strength Hubert had always shown, the way he could hold a room in silence, or the unwavering loyalty that bound him to Edelgard’s side. Dorothea’s expression softened, and she reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder.

“He did keep it a secret,” she murmured. “But he knew, Ferdi. He knew he had people who cared about him, even if he’d never say it.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “And we all miss him.”

Ferdinand’s hand trembled slightly around the cup, his thumb tracing its rim as he fought the wave of sorrow building inside him. “I know, Dorothea… I know. It’s just… hard to believe it’s been a month already.” His voice grew quieter, as if the weight of each word was too much to bear. “I still feel like he’ll stride into the camp any minute, with that same dark cloak and sharp gaze, telling me how I’m still too naive to see things clearly.”

Dorothea tightened her grip on his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Ferdinand. You still have friends. People who are here for you, who want to help you through this.” She smiled warmly, her eyes filled with a familiar kindness that had always grounded him.

Ferdinand turned to her, something fragile and grateful in his gaze as he met her steady expression. A hint of a smile curved his lips, but his voice was raw. “Thank you, Dorothea. I… I needed to hear that.”

They sat there, Ferdinand finding solace in her presence, the weight of his grief less heavy with her by his side. He lifted his cup once more, sipping the bitter coffee in silence, as if in tribute to the friend he had lost, with Dorothea’s comforting hand on his shoulder, anchoring him in the here and now.

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Bernadetta took a deep breath, the scent of wildflowers and damp earth filling her senses, grounding her. She watched the delicate petals of lavender and wild daisies sway with the wind, almost as if nature itself was breathing with her, giving her courage. “Okay, Bernie, you got this,” she whispered, gripping her brush. Setting the bristles against the canvas, she began to capture the soft hues of the morning light filtering over the field, her strokes tentative at first but gaining confidence with each line.

Just as she was beginning to lose herself in the gentle rhythm of her painting, a soft snore drifted through the field. She froze, her eyes widening. “Wh-who’s there?” she whispered, her heart pounding. She scanned the area, her gaze darting over every blade of grass until, with a sigh of both relief and exasperation, she spotted Linhardt sprawled out on the ground a short distance away, his chest rising and falling in sleep.

Before she could say anything, Linhardt’s eyes blinked open, hazy with the remnants of sleep. He noticed her and lifted a hand lazily, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Ah, good morning, Bernadetta. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

She crossed her arms, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “You’re sleeping again? Really, Linhardt? Don’t you ever get enough?”

He sat up slowly, a book he’d apparently brought along tumbling into his lap. With a soft chuckle, he picked it up, brushing the cover fondly. “It’s not about getting enough. Sleep just feels like… coming home. But don’t worry, I won’t disturb you.” He reclined back against a nearby rock, opening his book. “Go on, continue. I’m simply here to read.”

Bernadetta let out a sigh, partly relieved, and turned back to her painting. Hours melted away as she lost herself in her work, letting each stroke capture the world around her. The colors of the flowers bled into one another in soft, dreamlike transitions, and her heart fluttered with the thrill of capturing beauty so delicate.

At last, she stepped back, inspecting the finished piece. She hadn’t expected Linhardt to still be there, but he was, eyes lifted from his book as he glanced at her canvas with a soft, curious expression.

“Once again, your painting is as fascinating as ever,” he remarked, his tone gentle yet sincere.

Bernadetta blushed, her mind racing. Whenever he praised her work, it was as if the ground beneath her feet could vanish, leaving her suspended in disbelief. “You always say that… and every time you do, it makes me think the world’s going to fall apart or something,” she mumbled.

Linhardt gave a small, thoughtful laugh, closing his book. “To be fair, Bernadetta, I think the world is already on the edge of chaos. Especially… considering our situation facing s god."

She fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them both. He was right—the world was teetering on the brink, an uncertain future looming over them all. And yet here they were, surrounded by flowers, painted in warm sun, with a painting capturing this fleeting peace. For a brief moment, she dared to meet his gaze, the melancholy she saw in his eyes mirroring her own.

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At another part of the camp, Caspar paced anxiously, his eyes fixed on the distant path, his mind cycling through hope, worry, and anticipation. The faint glow of the firelight reflected his resolve, but the underlying tension in his stance betrayed the vulnerability he felt waiting for Petra. Edelgard and Byleth noticed him as they returned from a strategy meeting. Quietly, they exchanged a glance before approaching him, concern evident on Byleth’s face as he gently placed a hand on Caspar’s shoulder.

“Caspar, are you alright?” Byleth asked, his voice calm yet probing.

Caspar managed a nod, though his gaze never left the path. “I’m fine… Just waiting for Petra. She should’ve been back by now.” His voice cracked slightly as he added, “She’s my fiancée, after all. I can’t help but… worry.”

Edelgard stepped forward, her gaze softening as she recognized his apprehension. “Caspar, I understand how you feel. Petra is one of the bravest warriors I know, and she wouldn’t let anything stop her from coming back to you. Have faith in her.”

Caspar swallowed, nodding. “I know she’s strong, and I know I shouldn’t doubt her… But loving someone means you end up worrying more than you’d like. Sometimes… it’s hard to be strong.”

Byleth nodded, offering a small smile of reassurance. “That’s normal, Caspar. Love and worry go hand in hand, especially with everything we’re facing.” But before he could continue, Caspar’s eyes lit up, and he stood up abruptly, his gaze fixed on the horizon where two familiar figures emerged from the shadows—Petra and Leonie.

Without a second thought, Caspar broke into a run, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. He reached Petra, enveloping her in a fierce hug, his voice a quiet whisper in her ear. “I’m so glad you’re safe, Petra.”

Petra returned the embrace, offering a reassuring smile. Meanwhile, Leonie lingered behind them, her expression dark, a heaviness in her eyes. Edelgard and Byleth approached, concern sparking in Byleth’s gaze as he noticed something amiss. “Wait…where’s Shamir?” he asked, his voice tense.

Leonie lowered her head, her grip tightening on the items in her hand. “Shamir… she stayed behind.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of her words sank into each of them like stones. The flickering fire cast shadows across their faces, amplifying the heavy silence that followed. Leonie took a deep breath, her eyes hollow, and turned, wordlessly retreating to her tent, leaving Caspar, Byleth, and Edelgard in a state of stunned quiet.

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed, her voice barely audible as she spoke. “Did… did Shamir die?”

Petra stepped forward, her face pale yet resolute. “No, Shamir did not die, but… there was no other way to escape. Ashen’s forces were relentless. Shamir made the choice to stay behind, knowing it was the only way we could get out alive.” She glanced at Edelgard and Byleth, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken burden. “Ashen was at Ailell with his forces, but they are relocating. Before we left, he… he gave me something for you both.”

Caspar, Byleth, and Edelgard’s gazes fell on the letter Petra held out, her hands trembling slightly. Byleth took it, unfolding the paper with careful hands as Edelgard peered over his shoulder. The letter was scrawled in sharp, deliberate strokes:

"Hello, Byleth. By now, you must have encountered a portion of my army. They are no ordinary soldiers, as you may have noticed—they are creatures of power beyond any you’ve faced before. Rest assured, your children are alive. For now, they remain unharmed, but know that they will only stay safe as long as you comply. Any failure on your part, any misstep, and their safety is forfeited. I promise we will see each other soon, on the battlefield.  With anticipation, Ashen."

Byleth’s jaw clenched, and his hand trembled as he read the words, a cold fury settling in his gaze. Ashen had not only captured Shamir, but he held their children hostage, twisting the knife deeper with every line. Edelgard’s hand rested on his shoulder, her face resolute as she took the letter from him, reading it for herself. After a moment, she tore the letter in half, letting the pieces fall to the ground.

“Byleth,” she said, her voice unwavering, “as long as we live, our children will be safe. We will not fail them.”

He nodded, the firelight reflecting the fierce determination in his eyes. But his gaze drifted to Leonie’s tent, where she had disappeared into the silence. He knew what she must be feeling; Shamir’s absence left a wound, a hollow place in her heart that he recognized well. He walked slowly toward the tent, steeling himself for the conversation to come.

Inside, Leonie sat on the edge of her cot, Shamir’s bow resting across her knees. Her fingers traced the well-worn wood, her head bowed as she stared at it. Byleth took a step forward, his voice gentle.

“Leonie… are you alright?” Byleth’s voice was quiet, but his presence filled the small tent, as if he was anchoring her in place.

Leonie looked up, eyes dull and rimmed red, the weight of her sorrow etched into every line of her face. Her grip on Shamir’s bow tightened until her knuckles turned white. “It should’ve been me,” she murmured, the words barely audible but heavy as stone. Her head bowed, voice laced with bitterness, “I’m the worthless one, Byleth. Shamir… she was the heart. She led us, inspired us. Without her… it feels hollow.”

Byleth’s brow furrowed, and he took a cautious step forward. “Leonie…”

But she pressed on, her words tumbling out, laced with self-recrimination. “I’m not even worthy enough to lead Jeralt’s mercenaries. Shamir trained me, showed me everything, and when it mattered… I couldn’t do anything to help her. She stayed behind because I wasn’t strong enough.” Her voice cracked, and she lowered her head, fingers brushing against the bow as if it held Shamir’s spirit.

“Leonie!” Byleth’s voice came stronger this time, and he took her by the shoulders, his grip firm but steady. “Were you not the apprentice of my father? Did Shamir not help you grow? Didn’t you join my class to become stronger?”

Leonie’s eyes widened, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze and the raw edge to his voice. She hadn’t expected Byleth to be so forceful, to be so… angry. But as his words settled in, they tore through her despair, each one hitting her like the slap of cold water.

“You are a mercenary, Leonie, a warrior who’s proven her strength time and time again,” he continued, his voice softening, but the fierce conviction remained. “You and Shamir together were one of the finest duos Fódlan has ever seen. You’ve been trained by the best, and you carry on my father’s legacy. There’s not a soul here who would consider you worthless—not me, not Shamir, not anyone.”

A single tear traced down Leonie’s cheek, but she wiped it away, her jaw set in newfound determination. Byleth’s words had rekindled something deep inside her—a fire that had nearly been extinguished. She clenched her fists, her eyes steeling with a newfound resolve, and nodded. “You’re right, Byleth,” she said, her voice steady now. “I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain. I’ll show you what your father saw in me.”

As they stepped out of the tent, their movements sharp with purpose, they were met by a breathless messenger who hurried toward Byleth, his face pale with urgency.

“My lord, there’s a message for everyone,” he managed, gasping for breath as Byleth raised a hand, summoning the others to gather. Edelgard, Shez, everyone closed in, their expressions serious as they joined the group.

“Go ahead,” Byleth instructed, his voice calm but commanding.

The messenger took a steadying breath. “A beast army… they’re pouring out of Ailell. One of them… a monstrous figure wielding a double-bladed sword… is leading them. It’s believed to be Ashen.” His words hung in the air, each one thick with foreboding.

A chill ran through the crowd, Shez stepping forward with grim certainty in his eyes. “It has to be Ashen,” he murmured, his gaze hardening. “There’s no mistaking it.”

The messenger glanced around nervously, and it was clear he wasn’t finished. “There is… more,” he said, hesitating. “House Galatea has reported spotting an additional force, moving quickly. It appears as though… the army may be splitting.”

Ingrid’s face paled, her voice sharp with worry. “Are my people under attack?”

“No, not yet,” the messenger assured her quickly, but his tone held a grim weight. “The scouts believe the beast army is moving toward the Tailtean Plains, but they’re not alone. Another contingent, the larger one with Ashen, is believed to be heading for House Gloucester.”

Lysithea’s face was set with determination as she turned to Byleth, her voice laced with urgency. “If that’s true… then Lorenz is going to need our help.”

Linhardt’s brows furrowed, his voice uncharacteristically troubled as he spoke up. “This isn’t just an attack; it’s a forced choice. Ashen’s trying to split us, make us decide between defending Gloucester or rescuing…” His voice dropped, but the weight of his meaning was clear.

Caspar looked at him in confusion, clenching his fists. “What are you talking about?”

Linhardt sighed, meeting his friend’s gaze. “Why else would he send two groups? It’s Ashen’s way of making us choose: rescue Edelgard and Byleth’s children, or protect Lorenz and House Gloucester. He knows we can’t save both in time.”

Edelgard’s jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists as she stared at Byleth. Her gaze was filled with desperation and anger at the trap Ashen had laid before them. They had to make a choice—one that tore at her heart with the cruelty of its simplicity.

Byleth’s voice was low but steady, filled with a steel resolve as he spoke. “As long as we live, Edelgard, our children will live,” he said, his gaze unwavering.

Shez, watching the intensity in his commander’s eyes, couldn’t help but voice the doubt that plagued everyone’s minds. “Do you really believe Ashen will keep his word?”

Petra stepped forward, her voice calm yet resolute. “When I, Shamir, and Leonie last saw them, the children were alive. Ashen is a creature of malice, but… he may see value in keeping them that way for now.”

Claude interjected, his expression conflicted as he glanced at Edelgard and Byleth. “Lorenz can’t hold against an army that large on his own. He needs us… badly.”

Edelgard met Byleth’s eyes, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. She took a deep breath, signaling with a glance for him to join her away from the group for a private word. Once they were far enough, Byleth’s hand found hers, his voice gentle as he spoke. “El,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “what do you think?”

Edelgard’s gaze softened as she met his eyes, conflicted. “I… I don’t know, Byleth. We could go after our children immediately, but Lorenz and his people…” She hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. “It would mean abandoning them, letting Ashen destroy House Gloucester.”

Byleth’s eyes were sad yet resolute as he nodded, his hand brushing gently against her cheek. “I want to save them, El. More than anything. But I think… we need to help Lorenz. If we lose Gloucester, we lose an ally. And as long as we’re alive, as long as we stand… our children will be safe. I believe that.”

Edelgard closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his touch against her cheek. She leaned into it, grounding herself in his strength. After a moment, she kissed his hand, breathing deeply as she opened her eyes, filled with determination. “You’re right, Byleth. As long as we live, our children live.”

The decision settled between them like the closing of a door. Returning to the group, Edelgard’s voice rang with a newfound authority. “We’re heading to House Gloucester. The Empire will not abandon its allies.”

A hushed silence fell as the gravity of her words settled. The Empire’s forces would move to protect Lorenz, knowing full well that their choice would lead them further from their children.

As the group turned to ready themselves, Byleth and Edelgard exchanged one last look. The pain of their decision lay heavy in their eyes, but so too did the fierce hope that they would see their children again.

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Ashen’s troops assembled in the harsh twilight that fell between the Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance. The land felt taut, as if holding its breath in anticipation of the battle to come. Beast generals flanked Ashen, their forms hulking and intimidating, fangs glinting in the dim light, their eyes fixed on their master, awaiting his command. One of the beast generals approached, bowing low before him.

“My lord,” the general intoned, voice gravelly and resonant. “Everything is ready.”

Ashen’s dark gaze cut through the air as he nodded, a cold glint of satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Now they will separate,” he growled, savoring the trap he’d set. “You will take the children as I lead—”

A sharp, insistent wail split the air, shattering his words. He clenched his teeth, glancing over to see Byleth and Edelgard’s infant son wriggling restlessly in Clainsiia’s arms, his small face red with frustration as he cried out, his tiny voice defiant in its innocence.

Ashen’s jaw tightened as he began again, his voice a growl of irritation. “When I lead the—”

The infant wailed again, louder this time, cutting him off. The sound seemed to pierce even the armored hides of his beast troops, each cry filled with an unyielding demand. Ashen felt his claws clench, his patience thinning with every interruption. He looked over at Clainsiia, his expression fierce.

“Tell that runt to shut up,” he barked, his voice venomous.

Clainsiia shot him a glare, the defiance in her eyes matching the fire in her young brother’s cries. “I’ve been trying to keep him calm,” she retorted. “But… I think he’s hungry.”

Ashen’s lips curled into a snarl, but he resisted the urge to unleash his anger. Instead, he signaled to one of his beast soldiers. “Get him something to quiet him,” he commanded. “Anything.”

The beast soldier hesitated, his eyes darting nervously as he replied, “We… we ran out of anything fit for a human infant, my lord. But I know how to silence him.”

With a savage glint, the soldier raised his spear, pointing it toward the child and Clainsiia, who instinctively tightened her arms around her brother, holding him protectively against her chest. Her voice, fierce and unwavering, rang out as she held her brother closer, her gaze defiant.

Ashen’s patience snapped. In a flash, his claws sank into the soldier’s neck, his voice a cold snarl. “Insolent fool.” He lifted the beast and hurled him into the churning pit of lava nearby, the hiss and sizzle punctuating the silence as the soldier vanished beneath the molten surface. “There goes our ‘cook,’” he muttered dryly.

Another beast soldier, trembling slightly, dared to step forward. “It was just milk, my lord… We still have those potions we give him to drink, but… just milk.”

Ashen’s dark gaze bore into him. “Then send someone to get more,” he ordered.

From behind him, Clainsiia’s voice rang out, steady and defiant. “Why can’t you do it?”

Ashen turned, the irritation simmering just beneath his surface now fully ignited. “What did you say?”

Clainsiia held his gaze, unflinching, her arms still wrapped protectively around her infant brother. “Why don’t you go? After all, you know the right ingredients.”

A low, threatening growl rumbled from Ashen’s throat, but Clainsiia’s determined expression only deepened.

“You’re supposed to be a god, aren’t you?” she challenged. “Gods are supposed to be smart, powerful… even capable of miracles. So why don’t you prove it?” Her words were laced with a quiet smirk, a spark of defiance he hadn’t seen in her before.

Ashen let out a deep breath, his growl fading into a reluctant sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. He shot a warning glance at the other soldiers, his voice cold and authoritative. “No one harms the children. I will return.”

Unfurling his wings, he took to the sky, soaring over the barren land until he spotted a small farmstead below. Descending, he landed with a heavy thud in a pasture where a few cows grazed. Reaching down, he lifted one onto his shoulder effortlessly, the animal’s weight insignificant to him. “Brave kid,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he thought of Clainsiia’s defiance.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye—a young boy sprinting into a nearby barn, clutching a small, worn book to his chest. Intrigued, Ashen followed, watching as the boy knelt beside a frail woman lying on a makeshift bed of hay, her face pale and her breaths shallow. Determination burned in the child’s eyes as he held the book tightly, whispering to himself.

“I won’t fail you, Mother,” he vowed. “I’m going to help you.”

Ashen watched as the boy’s hand began to glow faintly, a flickering ember of magic that grew weaker by the second. The boy’s face twisted with frustration as his power waned, tears springing to his eyes. “I… I can’t lose you, Mother…” he whispered, the last flicker of light fading from his fingertips.

A strange, quiet sadness washed over Ashen as he observed the boy’s desperation. For a brief moment, he felt an unfamiliar pang, something unsettlingly close to empathy. Grinding his teeth, he looked down, the coarse dirt beneath his taloned feet grounding him. His dark wings shifted restlessly as he entered the barn, his imposing figure casting an ominous shadow over the boy.

The child looked up, his eyes widening in terror at the sight of Ashen’s scaled body, the glinting, wicked claws on his fingers, and those dark, piercing eyes that held no mercy. Without hesitation, the boy pulled out a small knife, his trembling hand raising it in a desperate attempt to protect his mother.

Ashen merely sighed, a faint irritation crossing his face as he swiped the knife from the boy’s grip with ease, sending it clattering to the ground. Before the boy could react, Ashen took the book from his hands, flipping through its worn pages, his brow furrowing with concentration. Slowly, he scanned each line, taking in every symbol and word with a surprising attentiveness, his eyes narrowing as he pieced together the meaning.

Finally, once he finished, Ashen closed the book and set it aside with a deliberate care. He took a slow, deep breath, focusing the energy within him, allowing his hand to glow with a steady, brilliant light. The boy gasped, watching in awe as Ashen’s hand transformed, that menacing claw now softened by a warm glow. Ashen knelt beside the mother, placing his hand gently on her forehead. The light shimmered, pulsing with a powerful energy that spread across her weakened form, and then faded into a soft glow before disappearing altogether.

The woman’s eyes fluttered open, her pale face regaining a hint of color. She looked around, disoriented, before her gaze fell on her son. With newfound strength, she managed a weak smile, reaching out to pull him into an embrace. "Mother! How are you feeling?” the boy cried, his voice breaking with relief as he held her tightly.

She stroked his hair gently, her own voice laced with wonder. “I… I feel fine, my child. The sickness... it's gone.” She looked at him with tender bewilderment, her hand brushing away a tear from his cheek. “How did you do it?”

The boy hesitated, a mix of pride and confusion flickering across his face. “It… it wasn’t me,” he admitted, turning quickly to where Ashen had been standing, his gaze filled with both gratitude and awe.

But the barn was empty.

Racing outside, the boy looked up just in time to see a dark silhouette vanish into the sky, Ashen’s powerful wings carrying him swiftly away. He stood there, watching until Ashen disappeared beyond the distant hills, feeling a strange sense of reverence for the creature who had saved his mother’s life.

The boy’s heart thudded with a mix of awe and lingering fear; he clutched his mother’s hand as if grounding himself in her presence, her warmth, and her revived strength. And even as he looked out over the horizon, a small part of him longed to understand why a being so fearsome had chosen mercy.

Meanwhile, Ashen flew through the clouds, his thoughts a tangle of confusion and irritation. He hadn’t planned on helping the boy, and the act of kindness felt like a weakness, a thorn he couldn’t quite dislodge. But something in the boy’s desperation had struck a long-buried part of him, something he hadn’t felt in years—a reluctant compassion, born not from kindness but from a need to quiet the unfamiliar ache that had crept into his heart. Grinding his teeth, Ashen pushed these thoughts aside as he neared his encampment.

Landing with the quiet, practiced grace of a predator, Ashen folded his dark wings, straightened, and surveyed his surroundings. Clainsiia and Jeralt waited nearby, their eyes glinting with intrigue as they saw him return. Without a word, Ashen made his way to a humble stable where a lone cow stood, chewing placidly. He grabbed a stool, sitting heavily as he began to milk the cow, his movements methodical, almost meditative. Each pull on the udder brought him a strange sense of calm, the rhythmic sound a balm against the disquiet in his mind.

Once he had filled a pitcher, Ashen cupped his hand to release a small, controlled breath of fire, warming the milk with practiced precision. A soft, golden steam rose from the pitcher as he turned to his beast soldier. “Bring me the potions,” he commanded.

The soldier moved swiftly, fetching the assortment of vials and powders Ashen had requested. Ashen mixed the ingredients with meticulous care, his clawed fingers deft and steady as he worked. The concoction turned a rich, milky gold as he poured it into an empty glass, offering it to Clainsiia.

She took the glass with a careful, almost reverent touch, her expression shifting to one of quiet gratitude. Clainsiia knelt beside her younger brother, gently holding the glass to his lips. “Drink, Jeralt,” she urged, her voice soft and filled with warmth.

Jeralt drank, his small face softening as the calming effect took hold. He sighed deeply, a sense of comfort washing over him, and for the first time that evening, his teary eyes dried, a peaceful expression settling over his features. Clainsiia’s gaze lingered on her brother, her eyes soft yet shining with a look so reminiscent of Edelgard’s strength and the gentle resolve of Byleth that it was almost haunting.

When she looked back at Ashen, there was a flicker of something in her gaze, a rare and profound respect. “For a big bully,” she began, her words light but genuine, “you’re very kind.” Her lips curved in a small, knowing smile.

Ashen remained silent, her words stirring something unacknowledged within him. He looked at her with his dark, unreadable eyes, then shifted his gaze toward his general. His voice, low and commanding, broke the silence. “Prepare to split up,” he ordered, the weight of his words resonating in the air. “And make sure nothing happens to the children.”

Ashen’s gaze grew sharp, focused. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his sword, the metal gleaming in the dim light. He tightened his grip on the hilt, a fierce determination settling into his expression. His gaze swept over his troops one last time, cold and resolute, before he turned his attention toward House Gloucester. Without another word, he moved forward, his powerful wings unfurling slightly as he took a final, deep breath, preparing himself for the path that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Over the next few days, the Empire’s forces arrived at House Gloucester. The heavy march of armor-clad soldiers and the solemn cadence of horses’ hooves reverberated through the air, filling the approaching soldiers with a sense of grim purpose. As they neared the gates, the looming stone walls of Gloucester stood stark against the dawn sky, as if defying the darkness creeping into their lands. Knights were stationed at the entrance, their faces steeled with determination, though shadows of fatigue lay under their eyes.

The massive gate slowly lifted, groaning under the weight of the iron and stone. Lorenz strode forward, his polished armor gleaming, his familiar noble composure softened by a relieved smile. He took in the sight of the approaching leaders—Byleth, Edelgard, Claude, and Shez among them. When his eyes fell upon Claude, a rare warmth crossed his refined features.

“It’s good to see everyone again,” Lorenz greeted, his voice steady but tinged with relief. Claude stepped forward, extending a hand. As their hands clasped in a firm shake, a sense of camaraderie and history passed between them.

“It’s good to see you too, my old friend,” Claude replied with a grin, though his eyes held a solemn glint. The weight of what was to come lay heavily on them all.

Byleth, his expression as calm as ever yet underpinned by unyielding resolve, approached Lorenz. “I hope you understand the situation,” he said, his voice carrying a quiet intensity.

Lorenz nodded, his gaze unwavering. “I do,” he answered, his tone respectful yet earnest. “And I am grateful to you all. Please, come into my kingdom; we have much to discuss, and even more to prepare for.”

As they entered, Byleth gestured for the troops to remain outside the city walls, positioned strategically to defend Gloucester. The knights saluted, falling into formations around the perimeter, their armor clinking in unified resolve.

Lorenz led them through the winding streets, past villagers who looked on with mingled curiosity and apprehension. The sight of Edelgard and Byleth walking side by side with Lorenz sent a message of strength, an unspoken promise that they would protect these people, no matter the cost.

Inside the palace, the gravity of their mission settled over them like a dense fog. The hall’s opulent tapestries and stained glass stood in stark contrast to the fear and uncertainty gripping the kingdom. Lorenz brought them to a grand chamber where a table was spread with maps and documents, detailing the enemy’s projected movements, defensive strategies, and points of weakness.

As Lorenz laid out the situation, the weight of his words hung heavily in the room. He pointed to various marks on the map, his finger tracing lines that represented Ashen’s advancing army. “They’re well-organized,” Lorenz began, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a deep weariness. “Their tactics are relentless, and with every village they target, our forces grow thinner.”

Edelgard, standing beside him, crossed her arms and nodded thoughtfully, her gaze sharpening as she absorbed every detail. “Ashen’s army will be here soon,” she said, her tone both solemn and resolute. “Lorenz, how strong is your army now?”

A silence filled the room as Lorenz hesitated, his composure faltering for the first time since they’d arrived. His eyes dropped to the table before he finally spoke. “We have lost… too many,” he admitted, his voice soft yet laced with a sorrow he couldn’t hide. “House Gloucester has seen countless casualties in recent weeks. I had to send some of our best knights to defend nearby villages. They barely managed to save the people, but… many did not return.”

Dorothea, her expression compassionate, placed a hand on her heart as she asked, “How did this happen, Lorenz? How were they attacked?”

Lorenz’s gaze turned distant, as if haunted by memories of those recent battles. “Ashen’s forces move swiftly. They hit us where we least expect, preying upon the vulnerable. My knights did what they could, but… we are stretched thin, and I fear we’re nearing our limit.”

Bernadetta, who had been quietly observing, finally mustered the courage to speak. Her voice, though soft, was filled with concern. “How many… how many troops have you lost?”

A somber look crossed Lorenz’s face, and he hesitated, pained by the memories of those who had fallen. “Too many,” he admitted quietly, his voice a faint whisper. “More than I care to count.” He looked around the room, his eyes settling on each of them in turn. “This is where I must ask for your aid. My people… they need more protection than I can provide alone.”

Byleth stepped forward, his gaze steady and reassuring. “We’ll help fortify your defenses. We can assist in establishing a self-defense system to hold Ashen’s forces back. But after the attack, Lorenz… we’ll need your strength.”

Lorenz took a deep breath, his shoulders heavy with the weight of his duty. “I will do all I can, but I must also protect my people, Byleth. They are my first responsibility.”

Ashe, standing nearby, nodded in understanding. “Of course. You have to look after your own,” he said with empathy. “But is there anything we can do for you? Any way we can make things easier?”

Lorenz offered a small, grateful smile. “It is kind of you to ask, Ashe. But… it is I who must ask something of you. You are my guests, and I am indebted to you all for coming to our aid. I’ll ensure your rooms are prepared, and that your soldiers are well-cared for.”

Ignatz, ever humble, thanked Lorenz with a soft smile. “Thank you, Lorenz."

Lorenz inclined his head respectfully. “It is my honor,” he replied, his voice warm despite the gravity of the situation. “Food has been prepared for your soldiers. I will make sure they are fed and receive supplies to withstand Ashen’s army.”

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Later that day, every soldier was given a warm meal, their spirits lifted by the kindness of House Gloucester. Supplies were distributed, with armor polished, weapons sharpened, and rations packed for the days ahead. The sense of camaraderie grew as they prepared together, readying themselves for the inevitable clash with Ashen’s forces.

Meanwhile, Shez trained alone in the courtyard, her movements swift and precise as she wielded two swords, the gleam of the blades cutting through the air with each strike. Arval, ever watchful, floated beside her, observing her intense focus.

“What are you doing, Shez?” Arval’s voice was curious, echoing softly in the stillness of the evening. The calm of House Gloucester’s courtyard was a stark contrast to the fierce determination in Shez’s movements. She moved with such focus, wielding both blades in a fluid, deadly dance, the gleam of steel cutting through the air as she slashed and thrust, training as if her life depended on it.

Arval floated beside her, his gaze fixed on her with a kind of gentle intensity. “I see,” he murmured, his tone shifting slightly. “But tell me, are you training to fight Ashen… or is it Jeralt?”

Shez halted mid-strike, her swords hovering in the air before she lowered them, looking at him in surprise. "How… how do you know about Jeralt?” Her voice was guarded, her eyes narrowing slightly.

Arval offered a small, knowing smile. “I can read your mind, Shez. It’s… part of the connection we share.”

A flash of discomfort crossed Shez’s face, and she looked away for a moment. “Arval… could you please not do that? It feels… invasive,” she admitted softly. There was a vulnerable note to her voice, a side she rarely allowed others to see.

Arval’s smile faded a little, his tone shifting to one of respect. “I understand. I’ll try to give you the privacy you need. But…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting hers with an unusual gravity. “That’s not why I’m here to speak with you."

Shez tilted her head, curiosity mixed with a hint of wariness. "What is it, Arval?"

Arval floated closer, extending his hand toward her. “It’s time… time for you to awaken to your power,” he said, his voice soft yet filled with an ancient weight. “When the glow on your hand appears, that means you’re ready.”

Shez looked down at her hand, then back up at him, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. “Ready? Ready for what, exactly?”

“For the power to be unleashed,” Arval replied, his voice calm but with a spark of excitement. “But only you can choose when to use it.” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, an awkward grin appearing on his face. “I… I’ll be honest, Shez, it’s going to hurt—a bit. But I promise, it’ll be worth it.”

Shez raised a brow at him, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Good to know,” she said with a hint of sarcasm, then nodded, steeling herself. “Alright, let’s do this.”

Taking a deep breath, Shez reached out her hand. A soft, pulsating glow began to spread from her palm, flickering like embers in a fire. But as the glow grew brighter, a sharp jolt of pain shot through her, making her gasp. Her fingers clenched, and she bit down on the urge to pull back.

Arval floated beside her, his voice gentle yet encouraging. “You’re doing great, Shez! Just hang in there!” he cheered, his tone full of warmth and assurance.

“Oh, geez, thanks for the support,” she managed to mutter, her words laced with a grimace. The pain was intense, like fire coursing through her veins, but somehow, his presence steadied her. She pushed through, refusing to give in to the searing heat. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, the pain began to ease, gradually replaced by a strange, powerful sensation.

A soft, orange glow filled her vision as her eyes lit up with a fiery hue. It faded after a moment, but Arval’s eyes sparkled with delight. “It worked,” he said, his voice filled with pride and relief.

Shez looked at him, a mixture of exhaustion and amusement on her face. “Could I have died from that?” she asked, only half-joking.

Arval chuckled, though there was a touch of nervousness in his laugh. “No, not death. But… you might’ve lost some memories. Just a few! Nothing major,” he added quickly. “But hey, it worked!”

He gestured toward her hand, and Shez looked down. The faint orange glow still danced across her palm, almost like a mark, pulsing with a quiet, dormant power. “That glow,” Arval explained, “means you now carry a part of my power. You can unleash it when Ashen tries to attack you.”

A small, grateful smile crossed Shez’s lips. “Thanks, Arval,” she said softly.

“Anything for my partner of destiny,” he replied, his voice warm and sincere.

With a grin, Shez raised her hand, offering him a high-five. Arval’s form flickered as he eagerly met her hand with his own. The impact was light, but a warmth lingered between them. “Another one!” he demanded, a childlike joy in his voice. Shez laughed and gave him another high-five, the connection somehow even stronger.

With her newfound strength and resolve, Shez turned and headed back to her training. She spent the rest of the day honing her skills, the orange glow on her hand a constant reminder of the power she now held, and of the quiet bond she shared with Arval.

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It was night in House Gloucester, and the cool air settled like a gentle blanket over the estate. Edelgard took a deep breath, savoring the quiet of the night as she wandered toward the gardens. The delicate sound of footsteps behind her made her turn, only to see Bernadetta, her eyes wide with that familiar shyness, yet filled with a warm determination.

“E-Edelgard?” Bernadetta stammered, her voice barely a whisper. “Are you… are you alright? I noticed you heading outside.”

Edelgard offered a small smile. “Yes, I’m fine, Bernadetta. I was just heading to the garden to enjoy the peace for a moment.”

Bernadetta shifted, her cheeks tinged with pink. “Oh! Well… mind if I come along? It’s been a while since we… you know, just talked.”

Edelgard’s smile softened. “Of course. I would enjoy the company.”

As they made their way through the garden paths, Edelgard’s gaze drifted over the moonlit flowers, their soft glow illuminating the surroundings with a serene beauty. But as they approached a secluded corner of the garden, something caught her eye—a couple under the night sky, laughing as the man lifted the woman, spinning her gently. Their laughter carried through the air, and Edelgard noticed the woman’s rounded belly.

Bernadetta glanced up, noticing Edelgard’s thoughtful expression. “Edelgard?” she asked quietly. “What… what are you thinking about?”

Edelgard’s gaze softened as memories flooded her mind. “That couple… it reminds me of Byleth and me, years ago,” she murmured. “When I first found out I was expecting Clainsiia." 

Bernadetta’s eyes widened with curiosity and warmth, and Edelgard’s mind drifted back, memories unfurling like pages of a treasured book.

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Flashback

It was seven years ago, and six months after Edelgard and Byleth had wed. They were seated together in a cozy corner of the study, sharing a rare moment of peace over cups of warm green tea. Edelgard gently cradled her teacup, looking across at her husband with a quiet smile.

“It’s been a while since we had tea together like this,” Edelgard said, her tone soft and reflective. She looked at Byleth with a trace of curiosity. “What inspired you to plan this?”

Byleth returned her smile, his gaze warm as he studied her face. “I thought… we could use some time. Just the two of us. Things have been so busy with the alliance negotiations and troop training… it felt right to slow down a bit.”

Edelgard nodded and settled into her chair, a sigh of contentment escaping her. “You’re right. It’s been too long,” she said, lifting her cup and taking a cautious sip. She winced slightly, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as the tea’s warmth stung her lips. “A little hot,” she murmured, attempting to laugh it off.

Byleth chuckled, his eyes softening. “It is tea, after all, El,” he replied with gentle humor.

“True,” she said with a small laugh, but her words trailed off as a strange sensation came over her. A sudden wave of dizziness washed through her, and her vision blurred at the edges. Her smile faltered, and she instinctively pressed a hand to her temple, her breathing shallow.

“El?” Byleth’s voice was gentle but laced with concern as he leaned forward. “Are you alright?”

“I… I feel a bit light-headed, but…” Edelgard tried to steady herself, forcing a reassuring smile, but her strength seemed to drain away in an instant. “I think… I’ll… be… f…”

Before she could finish, her world faded into darkness, and she slumped forward. Byleth’s eyes widened in alarm as he surged from his chair, catching her just in time, his arms wrapping around her protectively.

“El!” he called, his voice breaking with worry as he cradled her, brushing a loose strand of silver hair from her face. She was unresponsive, her face pale, and her breaths faint.

Without a second thought, he called out, his voice echoing through the halls. “Knights! Someone, please—help!”

The sound of rushing footsteps soon filled the room as knights and a healer hurried in, their eyes widening at the sight of the Emperor in her husband’s arms. Gently but swiftly, they helped Byleth carry her to their chambers, where she was laid down on the bed, her breathing shallow but steady.

Hours passed, and Byleth sat by her side, his hand wrapped around hers, unwilling to leave her even for a moment. His heart ached with worry, a feeling he hadn’t experienced so profoundly since his days as her teacher, watching her struggle through battles and burdens that few could bear. Now, the thought of losing her—of any harm coming to her—cut him deeper than any wound.

Hours passed, and Byleth sat by her side, his hand wrapped around hers, unwilling to leave her even for a moment. His heart ached with worry, a feeling he hadn’t experienced so profoundly since his days as her teacher, watching her struggle through battles and burdens that few could bear. Now, the thought of losing her—of any harm coming to her—cut him deeper than any wound. He stayed by her side, brushing his thumb over her hand in small, gentle circles, his gaze fixed on her peaceful but pale face. Every shallow rise and fall of her chest kept his heart suspended, his mind racing with silent prayers that she would awaken soon.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Edelgard’s eyelids fluttered, and her violet eyes opened slowly, their usual sharpness softened by a lingering haze. She blinked a few times, her gaze landing on him with a faint confusion.

“Byleth…” she murmured, her voice weak but carrying the familiar strength he cherished. “What… happened?”

Relief surged through him, though he kept his voice calm and gentle, not wanting to startle her. “You fainted,” he explained, his tone laced with the worry he could no longer conceal. “I think it’s all the hard work. You’ve been pushing yourself so much, El.”

Edelgard’s brow furrowed slightly as she absorbed his words. She could feel the truth in them, each tired bone and weary muscle a testament to her endless responsibilities. As emperor, peace was something she could hardly afford, and the weight of her position bore down on her constantly. She nodded thoughtfully, a small, weary smile tugging at her lips. “You might be right… perhaps I have been overdoing it,” she admitted, a tinge of self-reproach in her voice. “Maybe it’s time I ask Linhardt to check on me.”

As if summoned by her thoughts, Linhardt appeared in the doorway, stretching lazily as he glanced at the two of them. “Ah, I was summoned?” he said in a casual tone, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “And here I thought you might just want me for my company.”

Byleth chuckled softly, the tension easing slightly. “I did summon you, Linhardt. Edelgard hasn’t been feeling well… can you help us figure out what’s wrong?”

Linhardt’s demeanor shifted subtly as he approached, his usual casual air replaced by a quiet focus. “Well, I suppose I could try something,” he mused, pulling out a worn book from his robes. “It’s an old healing method—one I haven’t exactly practiced, but it should work.”

Byleth watched as Linhardt placed his hand over Edelgard, his fingers hovering just above her, glowing faintly with a soft, blue light. Linhardt closed his eyes, murmuring a few quiet incantations as his hand traced gentle, precise paths over her. Byleth held his breath, every second feeling like an eternity.

After a tense moment, Linhardt stepped back, exhaling softly. Edelgard looked at him, her eyes wide with curiosity and a trace of trepidation. “Linhardt… what is it? Is something wrong?”

Linhardt’s expression softened, and he shook his head, a small, mysterious smile tugging at his lips. “No… nothing is wrong. But I do know why you fainted.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed with concern as he leaned closer, his gaze intense. “Why, Linhardt?”

Linhardt’s gaze moved between the two of them, his voice gentle yet filled with a reverent wonder. “You’re… pregnant, Edelgard.”

A thick silence filled the room, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth. Edelgard’s eyes widened, her breath catching as the words sank in. She stared at Linhardt, her lips parted in stunned disbelief. “What… did you say?”

Linhardt nodded, his expression kind and understanding. “You heard me, Your Majesty. You’re going to have a child.” With a soft smile, he gave a slight bow. “I’ll leave you both to… process the news.”

As Linhardt left, Byleth and Edelgard remained frozen, staring at each other. Edelgard’s hand instinctively moved to her abdomen, her fingers trembling as she tried to comprehend the miracle unfolding within her. Tears welled in her eyes, glistening as they traced silent paths down her cheeks.

“Byleth…” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I… I never thought…” Her hand pressed softly against her stomach, as if hoping to feel some evidence of the life growing inside her. “They told me… they told me it would be impossible because of what those who slither in the dark did to me. I thought… I thought this could never happen.”

Byleth’s own eyes shone with tears, his hand moving to rest atop hers. He struggled to find words, his heart brimming with a joy so deep it left him speechless. This woman he had loved, fought for, and stood by through endless battles… she was now carrying their child. The sheer magnitude of it left him awestruck.

“Thank you, El…” he murmured, his voice a soft whisper, raw with emotion. He gently pressed her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as if grounding himself in this newfound reality. “Thank you for giving me a family… for giving us this chance.”

Edelgard’s gaze softened as she looked up at him, her violet eyes shimmering with tears that mirrored his own. She squeezed his hand, and then, in a tender but trembling voice, she replied, “No, Byleth… thank you. I never thought I’d be allowed this dream."  Her voice broke, and she choked on a sob, unable to finish as the overwhelming emotion washed over her.

He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, as if to shield her from all the hardships and sacrifices that had defined her life until now. They held each other tightly, his hands threading gently through her hair as he felt the rhythmic beat of her heart against his. 

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Present 

Bernadetta shifted slightly, her usual nervous energy softened by her genuine affection.

“I remember… when I first heard you were pregnant,” Bernadetta began, her voice trembling but filled with sincerity. “I was so happy for you and Professor Byleth. I think everyone was.” She glanced down, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “But I don’t think anyone could have been happier than me.”

Edelgard’s smile grew tender as she looked at Bernadetta, touched by her friend’s kindness. “Yes… everyone was so supportive. It felt like the whole world was celebrating with us.” She gently placed a reassuring hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. “And you were there, just as you always have been.”

They continued walking, the cool night air mingling with the faint fragrance of night-blooming flowers as they approached the deeper part of the gardens. The moon cast a silver glow over the foliage, and Edelgard felt the familiar peace she always found in these gardens. After a few quiet steps, they reached a clearing, where a familiar figure stood in the gentle shadows, cradling a small teapot in his hand.

Byleth turned at the sound of their footsteps, his eyes lighting up as he saw Edelgard. “Edelgard,” he greeted her softly, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to melt the quiet of the night.

Edelgard raised an eyebrow, surprised but pleased to see him there. “Byleth? What brings you out here at this hour?”

Byleth offered a gentle smile and looked over at Bernadetta. “Bernadetta, if you don’t mind, could I borrow my wife for a bit? I thought a quiet cup of tea might be good for us.”

Bernadetta’s face brightened, and she nodded quickly, her shyness returning as she glanced between the two. “Oh! Of course! I… I should probably be heading back to the others anyway.” She gave a quick wave, her smile lingering a bit longer as she turned and hurried off, leaving Edelgard and Byleth alone.

Edelgard walked over to where Byleth had set a small table with two chairs under the shade of a flowering tree. She took a seat, watching as he poured a steaming cup of tea and placed it in front of her. As she lifted it to her lips, the familiar, soothing scent of bergamot reached her.

“Bergamot tea,” she remarked with a smile, her eyes meeting his over the rim of the cup. “You know me too well, Byleth.”

He chuckled softly, settling into the chair across from her. “Of course I do. I’d have to know my wife’s favorite tea, wouldn’t I?” His gaze softened as he reached out, his hand finding hers across the table. “You’re my everything, Edelgard.”

Edelgard’s heart swelled at his words, the deep affection that lay behind them, so unguarded and true. She squeezed his hand gently, feeling the warmth of his love seep into her like a balm. But before they could say another word, the quiet moment was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps.

“Shez?” Edelgard called, surprised, as Shez emerged from the shadows, a grin spreading across her face as she noticed the two.

“Ah, caught me,” Shez replied with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, glancing at the tea on the table. “Are you two having tea at this hour? How cozy.”

Edelgard chuckled and gestured to the empty chair beside them. “Would you like to join us, Shez? There’s enough tea for one more.”

Shez’s face lit up as she nodded and took a seat, eagerly lifting a delicate cup Byleth had set out. She took a small sip, letting the warmth settle over her. “It’s been so long since I’ve had tea like this,” she admitted, a faraway look in her eyes. “When I traveled with Berling, we had tea all the time. I couldn’t stand it at first—thought it was bitter and pointless. But in time, I grew to love it. And this… this tea you’re having tonight? It’s my favorite.”

Unbeknownst to them, but only to Shez, Arval offered a gentle chuckle. “It’s a lovely story, Shez."

Meanwhile, on Byleth’s side,  unnoticed by Edelgard and Shez. Sothis appeared beside him and she leaned in, her voice soft but carrying a weight. “Byleth,” she whispered, “when will you tell Shez the truth?

Before Byleth could respond, a sudden voice broke through the quiet night, chilling yet familiar. “How heartwarming.”

Byleth’s head snapped up, his instincts kicking in as he pushed back his chair, his hand gripping the Sword of the Creator. In a flash, the sword’s energy pulsed to life as he pointed it toward the edge of the clearing, where the shadows deepened. A figure stepped forward, his features coming into focus beneath the dappled moonlight.

Edelgard’s breath hitched, and Shez gasped beside her, eyes wide with disbelief. They both recognized him immediately. Ashen stood before them, a faint smirk curling at his lips as he took in their astonished expressions.

“Miss me?” he asked, his voice carrying a casual confidence.

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her cup before setting it down, her tone as sharp as the night air. "How far are you willing to go, Ashen?"

Ashen's smirk deepened, his gaze shifting from Edelgard to Byleth, then to Shez. "Not far," he replied, his voice calm yet laced with a dark amusement. "I only wanted to see what choice you would make… whether you’d abandon your children or come running to House Gloucester. But, I must say, you didn’t disappoint me."

He took a step closer, his hand beginning to spark with a quiet but menacing energy. Edelgard and Shez, tense and untrusting, reached instinctively for their weapons, ready to spring. But Ashen raised his hand, fingers crackling with a warning signal, halting them in their tracks.

“If you try to kill me here,” he cautioned, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “a single signal will alert my army. They'll know what to do… send a message, perhaps, or maybe a sword to your children’s side.”

The unspoken threat hung heavily between them, cutting through the calm night air, filling it with a sudden, fragile tension. He let the silence simmer, letting them understand the weight of the decision he held over them.

Edelgard’s jaw tightened, but her hand slowly fell away from her weapon, signaling Byleth and Shez to do the same. With careful, measured steps, Ashen crossed over to the empty chair, seating himself with an unsettling ease. He took his time, pouring tea into the delicate cup Edelgard had set aside, and then took a sip, eyes half-lidded as though savoring a memory.

"To be honest," Ashen began softly, his gaze distant, "the first time I had tea, I was very young. Weak, starving, barely alive." He paused, the flicker of an old pain flashing across his face. "And Rhea found me. She saved me."

The mention of Rhea's name struck something in Byleth, his body stiffening. Edelgard, too, glanced at him, sensing the turmoil that was brewing beneath his composed exterior.

"She made sure I survived," Ashen continued, his voice dropping, his eyes staring somewhere past the flickering fire. "For days, she kept me in her own quarters, in her bed… and when I awoke, terrified and alone, I ran. Hid down in the mess hall’s lower cabins, thinking I could disappear."

He chuckled softly, a bitter sound. "But she found me, offering me food and tea. Crescent Moon tea. Her favorite. It was warm, soothing… not bitter like most teas. Rhea… she raised me as if I were her own."

Ashen’s words cast a strange spell over the group, each of them drawn to the weight of his past, though they hardly understood it. Byleth, staring at him with a mixture of pity and anger, finally broke the silence.

"Until you became this," Byleth whispered, the ache in his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

Ashen looked at him, and for a moment, their eyes met in a quiet, haunted understanding, a bridge between them that both repelled and connected them.

Shez, breaking the silence, spoke up, her voice steady. "Ashen… maybe you should leave."

Ashen’s eyes flicked toward her, lingering, as if trying to decipher something hidden. There was a faint glint of curiosity in his gaze, mixed with an edge of darkness. "And who might you be?" he asked, voice smooth but probing.

Shez held his gaze, her chin lifting defiantly. "You'll find out soon enough."

Ashen didn’t reply, but something shifted in his expression—a subtle hint of recognition, or perhaps admiration. “You've got a fire in you,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his gaze drifted back to Edelgard, who stood with a rigid calm, but there was a cold fury in her eyes.

“What did you do to Shamir?” Edelgard demanded, her voice a tightly wound coil of restraint and threat.

Ashen met her gaze, unbothered. "And why would I tell you?" he asked, an amused smirk flickering across his lips.

Byleth stepped forward, his voice stern. “Because you have your reasons, Ashen. If you’re here, facing us now, you didn’t come without a purpose.”

Ashen’s gaze flitted over them, a faint glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes. "Shamir isn’t dead,” he said at last. “You needn’t worry. She’s too… valuable to kill." He paused, his expression turning colder. "Although, that orange-haired woman—that one’s useless."

The insult struck a nerve. Byleth’s fist came down hard on the table, the sound echoing into the night. “Not one of them—none of those who’ve I taught, fought alongside, or stood by my side—are worthless,” he spat, anger thick in his voice.

Ashen tilted his head, an unsettling calm settling over him. “We’ll see,” he said softly. “I hope you’re prepared—for all of you will need to be.” His voice was as cold as the shadows that crept over them, casting a chill that dug deep into their bones.

He stood, his movements slow, deliberate, and turned to leave. “Thanks for the tea,” he said, mocking politeness glinting in his eyes. As he walked away, he paused, glancing back at Byleth. In that moment, his gaze changed, something stirring behind his eyes, and then his thoughts reached out to Byleth’s mind like a whisper in the dark.

“Sothis,” he murmured silently, the connection flaring to life within Byleth’s mind. “When will I see his true power?”

In the blink of an eye, Sothis appeared, her figure visible only to Ashen and Byleth. Her eyes were solemn, her voice a whisper threaded with wisdom. “Soon enough, Ashen,” she replied, her tone unwavering, calm. “And know this—what you are doing will not last.”

Ashen’s gaze hardened, the bitterness of years surfacing. He met her stare with defiance, though his words remained unspoken. “If you had accepted me then, all those years ago, I would not be like this—this cursed, twisted form.” His voice dropped to a dark, inward murmur, carrying a weight that neither Byleth nor Sothis could ignore. “You and your children created this. All of Fódlan now questions if you, the goddess Sothis, have sent a devil upon your own people.”

In that moment, dark, expansive wings unfurled from Ashen’s back, casting a shadow that stretched over the clearing. With a powerful beat, he lifted himself into the air, the wind from his wings scattering the delicate tea set, the flickering flames below casting his silhouette into an ominous form.

Byleth’s fists clenched, watching Ashen disappear into the night sky, his silhouette melting into the darkness until there was nothing left but silence.

Turning to Edelgard and Shez, Byleth took a steadying breath. “Get some rest,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow… we prepare for battle.”

Chapter Text

The next day, the air was thick with a tense anticipation as the army of the Empire and the forces of House Gloucester stood ready, each warrior bracing themselves for whatever Ashen had in store. Citizens huddled in their homes, shutters drawn, whispers of fear filling the darkened streets as they waited for the sound of battle to begin.

Lorenz rode up to Byleth and the others on his horse, the crest of House Gloucester gleaming on his armor, his gaze steady but strained. "My troops are ready," he announced, voice low but resolute, though a flicker of doubt played across his eyes.

Claude, standing nearby with arms crossed, sighed. "Let's hope this works," he muttered, his usual confidence dimmed by the ominous silence that hung over them.

Byleth looked at his companions, his voice unwavering. "Have faith. If it comes to it and things don’t go as planned, we’ll regroup and return to the Kingdom. We must protect the people first."

"Agreed," Ferdinand chimed in, his posture proud and unyielding. "I have every confidence that we’ll hold our ground."

Caspar grinned, fists clenched in eager anticipation. "Let them come. I’m ready to take on whatever Ashen throws at us!"

Edelgard, standing on a small rise, kept her gaze fixed on the hills ahead. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted a lone figure cresting the horizon. She clenched her hand around the hilt of her axe, her voice cutting through the tension. "Get ready. He’s here."

Everyone’s attention snapped to the figure approaching in the distance. The knights raised their weapons, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of Ashen’s army. But as he came closer, the realization struck—they saw only Ashen. He walked alone, calm, a faint smirk dancing on his lips.

Petra narrowed her eyes, tension lacing her every breath. "Where…where is his army?" she murmured, gripping her dagger tightly.

Ingrid’s brow furrowed, a sickening feeling twisting in her gut. "This isn’t right," she whispered, instinct screaming that something was horribly amiss. "It’s a trap… I’m certain of it."

As if to confirm her worst fears, Ashen stopped in his tracks, pausing just a stone's throw from the frontline. His dark gaze swept over the gathered forces, a single brow arched, almost… amused. His left hand rose slowly, fingers poised in a deliberate, theatrical movement. And then—he snapped his fingers.

For an agonizing moment, nothing happened. The eerie silence lingered, hanging over them like a storm waiting to break. Byleth’s gaze bore into Ashen, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. The faintest smile played on Ashen’s lips as his gaze met Byleth’s, eyes gleaming with a twisted sense of anticipation.

Then, a thunderous rumble echoed from behind the walls of House Gloucester. The ground trembled beneath their feet, loose stones clattering as the earth itself seemed to come alive. The rumbling grew louder, splitting the air with a bone-chilling sound that sent a wave of terror rippling through the gathered soldiers.

“By the goddess…” Lorenz whispered, his eyes widening in horror.

Giant worm-like creatures, Crawlers, burst from the earth, their monstrous forms towering over the city walls. They writhed and twisted, their segmented bodies lined with razor-sharp scales that gleamed like polished steel. With each movement, they burrowed back into the ground, leaving gaping holes in their wake, from which Ashen's beast army began to emerge-their forms hideous, their roars echoing as if from the very bowels of hell.

Panicked screams filled the air as citizens fled for their lives, scrambling for shelter as the monstrous horde surged toward the city. Byleth, his eyes wide with determination, raised his voice over the chaos. “Everyone, fall back! Protect the citizens! They need us more than ever!”

The soldiers sprang into action, retreating through the gates as they dropped to seal the city. But Byleth lingered, his gaze locked onto Ashen, who remained rooted in place, calm amid the bedlam. They stared at each other, a silent understanding passing between them, unspoken yet unmistakable.

Sothis’s voice echoed in Byleth’s mind, a whisper edged with both warning and resolve. “He is waiting for you, Byleth. You know that. He wishes to fight you and you alone.”

“I know,” Byleth murmured back, feeling a surge of steely resolve coursing through him.

With the Sword of the Creator drawn, he took a steady step forward. Ashen, as if in response, spread his dark wings, his silhouette casting an eerie shadow over the ground. The two moved toward each other, slow at first, each step weighted with the promise of violence to come. Then, as if in perfect synchrony, Byleth quickened his pace, his footsteps echoing against the earth. Ashen matched him, his wings beating with increasing intensity, propelling him forward.

Byleth broke into a sprint, his eyes narrowed, every muscle tensed and ready. Ashen surged toward him, wings unfurled in a display of dark majesty, and with a final, powerful leap, he launched himself through the air.

Their clash was fierce and immediate—the Sword of the Creator met Ashen’s double bladed sword, a shockwave erupting from their collision that rippled through the battlefield. Sparks flew as their weapons ground against each other, neither giving an inch, each warrior pouring their strength into this brutal contest.
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When Edelgard and the army of the Empire and House Gloucester finally returned to the city, the devastation greeted them like a harsh slap. Flames clawed at the rooftops, curling into the sky in thick black plumes, while Ashen's monstrous soldiers rampaged through the streets, leaving trails of destruction and terror. Citizens fled, desperate to escape the merciless claws and fangs of the beastly horde, but few managed to evade their wrath.

Edelgard’s heart tightened, rage simmering beneath her calm exterior as she surveyed the scene. Turning to the soldiers, she commanded, “Everyone, split up into groups. We need to save as many as we can.” Her voice was firm, yet a note of urgency crept through. “Claude, take Leonie and Shez. Lorenz, you go with Ferdinand and Ashe. Caspar, bring Linhardt and Petra with you. Ingrid, take Bernadetta and Ignatz.” Each group gathered their troops, a glint of determination in their eyes as they prepared to protect the innocent.

Edelgard cast a quick glance over her shoulder, expecting to see Byleth’s familiar form among the soldiers, but he was nowhere to be found. A sinking feeling settled in her chest—Byleth had stayed behind. Gritting her teeth, she turned sharply, her gaze locking onto Dorothea, who was rallying Yuri and Lysithea.

“Dorothea,” Edelgard’s voice was urgent, almost pleading. “Take Yuri and Lysithea and go. I’m not leaving Byleth behind.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened in shock. “But Edie, you—”

“I have to go to him,” she cut in, determination blazing in her eyes. Without waiting for another word, Edelgard sprinted toward the gate, her pulse hammering in her ears as the chaos of the battle faded into a single purpose and that was Byleth.

Ahead, the scene she feared most was unfolding. Ashen hovered in the air, his dark wings beating with a sinister grace as he released a torrent of fire toward Byleth, who dodged with a swift roll, his form blurring with the speed of his movement. The air crackled as Byleth retaliated, casting Thunder with an intense precision, but Ashen evaded, twisting mid-air with effortless grace. With a smirk, Ashen split his double-bladed sword, one half in each hand, his strikes swift and relentless.

Byleth met each blow, his muscles straining as he parried, his grip firm on the Sword of the Creator. But as their clash reached a fevered pitch, Ashen’s weapons vanished, and he lunged forward, his powerful hand seizing Byleth’s head. With a cruel laugh, he hurled Byleth backward, sending him crashing against the trunk of a gnarled tree. The impact was brutal, and Byleth grimaced, struggling to steady himself.

Ashen’s mocking voice cut through the smoke. “Where is the power Sothis gave you?” His eyes narrowed with a disdainful sneer. “A true ruler does whatever it takes to secure victory, even if it means sacrificing everything.”

As if to underscore his words, Ashen’s double-bladed sword reappeared, its edge gleaming with deadly intent as he prepared to strike a fatal blow. Byleth, disoriented, could do little more than brace himself—but then, a flash of silver and crimson intercepted Ashen’s strike. Edelgard stood between them, her axe braced against Ashen’s blade.

Ashen’s lip curled in annoyance. “Edelgard. This fight is not yours.”

She met his gaze, her expression fierce and unyielding. “You took my children, murdered Hubert, and now you want to tear away my love?” Her voice trembled with suppressed fury. “I will not let you torture us any longer, you dastard!” With a surge of strength, she broke their clash, forcing him back.

Byleth pushed himself to his feet, standing beside her, a silent understanding passing between them. Together, they charged at Ashen, their movements a symphony of power and resolve. Ashen snarled, his wings flaring as he launched forward to meet them, and the three clashed in a storm of blades and grit.

Edelgard’s axe swung with deadly precision, fueled by an intensity that was both fierce and sorrowful—a fury born of every loss Ashen had forced upon her. She struck with a vengeance, her swings imbued with the weight of Hubert’s memory, her fallen comrades, and the future she had fought so hard to build. Byleth moved beside her, his strikes calculated and fierce, every movement an unspoken promise that he would not leave her to face this horror alone.
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Back at House Gloucester, the battle raged on with unrelenting fury. Every soldier fought as if their life depended on it—which, in truth, it did. Beast soldiers resembling wild, demonic creatures, twisted into monstrous forms like giant wolves and towering birds, clawed and tore through the ranks, their forms grotesquely humanoid yet unmistakably feral. Screams and roars filled the air, echoing against the stone walls and sending tremors through the ground.

In the thick of it, Shez fought alongside Claude and Leonie, their backs to each other as they defended against the monstrous onslaught. Shez caught sight of a massive wolf-beast lunging toward Claude, its razor-sharp fangs aimed straight for his neck.

"Claude! Look out!" Shez shouted, hurling a dagger with swift precision. The blade embedded itself in the creature's shoulder, diverting its course just enough for Claude to dodge aside.

Claude gave her a quick, grateful nod, already nocking an arrow into Failnaught. With a calm, steady breath, he released, and the golden light of his arrows illuminated the battlefield, each shot striking down another monstrous foe. "Thanks for the save, Shez!" he called, his voice a blend of gratitude and weariness. He drew another arrow, his hands steady, his gaze sharp as he focused on the approaching enemies.

Leonie, not far off, spun her spear with deadly precision, slicing through two beast soldiers in a single sweep. The creatures fell at her feet, lifeless, their twisted forms returning briefly to their human shapes before dissolving into dark mist. Shez rushed to her side, slashing down another soldier with a single, clean strike.

"How do you think the others are holding up?" Leonie asked, panting as she took a brief moment to survey the battlefield.

Claude grimaced, loosing another arrow. "I hope they’re managing. We’ve got our hands full here, but something tells me they’re not having it any easier."
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In another corner of the battlefield, Lorenz was a whirlwind of fury. Mounted atop his steed, he cut down beast after beast with graceful strikes, his face etched with grim determination. "You think you can come to House Gloucester and terrorize my people?" he seethed, slashing a monstrous wolf-beast across the chest. "You’re sorely mistaken!"

But just as Lorenz took down one of the creatures, a massive bird-like soldier lunged at him, swiping him from his horse with a brutal force that sent him sprawling to the ground. The beast loomed over him, jaws wide open, ready to strike at his exposed neck. Lorenz could only manage a sharp intake of breath, his limbs struggling to push himself away from his inevitable fate.

Suddenly, a spear drove straight through the beast’s chest, halting its advance. Ferdinand stood above Lorenz, his expression fierce and unyielding. With a resolute shove, he drove his spear deeper into the beast, causing it to release a blood-curdling shriek before collapsing.

The moment wasn't over; another beast soldier, with eyes that burned like embers, turned its gaze on Ferdinand. Its twisted lips curled back in a sneer as it rasped, “Who...are you?”

Ferdinand’s stance remained firm, his voice unwavering as he thrust his spear into the creature’s leg. "Who am I?" He withdrew his weapon, then struck the beast with a brutal punch that cracked against its flesh. "I am Ferdinand—" He wrenched his spear free with a fierce pull. "Von—" He plunged it into the beast’s heart, ending its life in a swift, decisive motion. "Aegir!"

As the beast collapsed, Ferdinand turned, extending his hand to Lorenz, who was still catching his breath. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice a mixture of concern and pride.

Lorenz took Ferdinand’s hand, hauling himself up. “Yes,” he replied, brushing dust from his armor. “Thanks to you. Let’s not waste any more time; there are lives we still need to save.”

A few yards away, Ashe was leading a group of soldiers, his sharp eyes catching sight of the orphanage at the edge of the battlefield. The twisted forms of beast soldiers were pounding on its doors, clawing and snarling with ferocious hunger. Ashe’s heart clenched, and with a determined cry, he charged forward, his soldiers following in tight formation.

“Hold strong!” he called out to his troops. They surged forward, meeting the monstrous soldiers with relentless force. Ashe’s arrows flew true, each one finding its mark, and soon, the beasts fell in heaps at the doors of the orphanage. With the last of them defeated, Ashe sprinted to the doors, throwing them open. Behind him, his soldiers began guiding the children out, their tiny faces filled with terror, clinging to the soldiers who were now their protectors.

“We’re taking you to the palace,” Ashe reassured them gently. “You’ll be safe there, I promise.” His soldiers carefully escorted the children, ensuring they were protected from any lurking dangers on their journey.

Just then, Ferdinand and Lorenz caught up, their faces mirroring Ashe’s relief. “Are all the orphans safe?” Lorenz asked, scanning the departing group with vigilant eyes.

Ashe nodded, his expression softening. “Yes, they’re all on their way to the palace now. They’ll be safer there.”

Ferdinand looked back at the battlefield, where the clash of metal and roars of beasts continued. “We’ve done what we can here,” he said, his gaze steely. “Let’s regroup with the others. They’ll need us.”
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Meanwhile, in another part of the battle, Petra, Caspar, and Linhardt found themselves encircled by beast soldiers, their monstrous forms closing in like wolves around prey. Caspar held his axe ready, his muscles tense as he glanced protectively at Petra. “Stay close to me!” he shouted, his eyes fierce with determination.

Petra gave him an exasperated look, deflecting a beast’s claw with her blade. “Caspar, you worry too much! I am capable!” Her voice was sharp, but there was a hint of warmth beneath her fierce expression.

Caspar huffed, sidestepping a lunging beast. “I can’t help it! Ever since—” His words were abruptly cut off as Linhardt raised a shimmering barrier around them, the translucent shield gleaming with a soft, protective light. Linhardt’s expression was as serene as ever, even as the monstrous soldiers crashed against the shield, snarling and clawing.

“What are you two arguing about?” Linhardt asked in a calm voice, his gaze flicking between Caspar and Petra.

Caspar shot a look at Petra, his eyes a mix of resolve and trepidation. “We can’t keep it a secret anymore,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper but carrying a weight that made Petra’s gaze soften.

Linhardt’s brow furrowed in confusion, his focus momentarily slipping. “Can’t hide what?”

Petra let out a deep sigh, her grip tightening on her blade as she blocked a clawing strike against the barrier. “Linhardt… Caspar and I… we are… we are parents.”

The words lingered in the air, and Linhardt’s eyes widened in shock. His mouth parted in silent surprise as he absorbed the revelation. Reflexively, he expanded the barrier, the shimmering shield pushing back the beasts with a burst of force, granting them a few more precious moments of safety. The barrier vanished as swiftly as it had appeared, leaving them exposed but giving them a heartbeat of reprieve.

Linhardt’s usually calm voice wavered slightly. “Please… tell me that this child is safe back in Brigid.”

Caspar’s shoulders dropped as he looked down, his fingers tightening around the handle of his axe. He nodded, his expression strained but determined. “Our child is safe. Petra… she’s carrying.”

Linhardt’s eyes grew even wider as the reality dawned on him. Before he could voice his concerns, a new wave of beast soldiers surged forward, their snarls echoing through the battlefield. Caspar’s grip on his weapon tightened, his gaze fierce. “We’ll explain everything later,” he said, steeling himself as the beasts charged.

Petra gave a brisk nod, her voice resolute. “Yes. First, we fight.”

Linhardt cast a worried glance at them both, his usually lazy demeanor sharpened with concern. “Just promise me one thing. You will tell Edelgard about this—I will if you don’t.” His voice held an uncharacteristic urgency, yet beneath it, a quiet plea.

Petra’s gaze softened, but her resolve remained steadfast. “I know. But right now… our child’s future depends on us winning this battle.” She raised her blade, her fierce expression returning as she prepared to strike.

The beasts charged again, but Caspar was the first to meet them, his axe cleaving through the air in a powerful arc that forced the monstrous soldiers back. “Petra, watch your left!” he called, shifting his stance to cover her flank. Petra flowed into his motion, her blade a swift glint of steel as it struck down a beast lunging for Caspar.

Linhardt, despite his usual distaste for violence, summoned a spell that erupted from his hands like a surge of bright wind, sweeping through the enemy lines and giving them the space they needed. His voice was tense as he spoke, glancing between his two friends. “You two… you don’t just fight for the Empire now, or for Brigid. You fight for your child. Remember that."

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Another part of the battlefield was ablaze with movement as Ingrid, mounted on her Pegasus, soared through the chaos. Her eyes scanned the sky, spotting dark figures—beast soldiers mutated into monstrous, bird-like forms circling above, their screeches tearing through the clouds like thunder.

“We need to thin those numbers!” Ingrid called back to her companions below. Her voice was steady, carrying both urgency and calm command. She looked down at Bernadetta and Ignatz, who had been fighting alongside her on the ground.

Bernadetta’s eyes went wide as she clutched her bow, her voice a mixture of fear and reluctant resolve. “W-Wait, you’re going up there alone?!” She bit her lip, glancing between the snarling beasts on the ground and the monsters in the sky.

Ignatz stepped forward, his gaze fixed on a new line of beast soldiers marching toward them from a distance. “Ingrid, we’ve got more incoming on the ground too!”

Ingrid frowned, calculating the best approach as the chaos around them grew louder. With a decisive nod, she adjusted her grip on the reins. “Alright. New plan! Ignatz, take some of our ground troops and keep those beasts from flanking us. Bernadetta…” She paused, looking at Bernadetta with a knowing smirk. “You’re coming with me. Climb on.”

Bernadetta paled, her fingers twitching nervously around her bow. “M-Me? Up there? With you? B-But I’ve never—” She gulped, but Ingrid’s unwavering gaze gave her a strange sense of steadiness. She finally nodded, swallowing her fear. “Okay… I’m coming.”

As soon as Bernadetta settled in behind Ingrid, she clung tightly to Ingrid’s waist, her knuckles white. “I-I’m ready… Just don’t go too fast—”

Ingrid gave her a wry smile over her shoulder. “Hold on tight, Bernie!” With a powerful kick, Ingrid spurred her Pegasus into the sky, and they shot upward in a blur, the wind screaming in their ears as the ground shrank beneath them.

Bernadetta’s scream pierced the air, her voice barely audible over the wind. “TOO FAAAASSSSTTT!”

“Keep your eyes on the target!” Ingrid called, her voice filled with a confident energy that Bernadetta clung to, even as the fierce winds tugged at her hair and her grip felt like it could slip at any moment. She managed to raise her bow, though her fingers trembled. Above them, the bird-like beast soldiers dived and clawed, their massive wings blotting out the sun as they let out guttural screeches that echoed across the battlefield.

As they approached the swarm of flying beasts, Bernadetta caught a glimpse of other Pegasus knights soaring up to join them, their wings glinting in the sunlight. She gasped in awe, the sight giving her a strange sense of camaraderie she hadn’t expected. “They’re here!” she shouted, managing a shaky smile as she nocked an arrow.

“Right on time,” Ingrid replied, a fierce grin on her face as she led the formation. She signaled to the other knights, her hand raised high before pointing it forward, and together they charged, spears and arrows gleaming in the light.

Ingrid’s voice was steady, grounding Bernadetta’s nerves. “On my mark, Bernadetta! Aim for their wings! It’ll keep them from diving at our troops below!”

Bernadetta took a deep breath, her focus narrowing onto a massive bird-beast soldier coming toward them, its twisted feathers dark and jagged. She released her arrow, watching it fly straight and true, piercing the creature’s wing. It screeched in pain, spiraling downward, and Bernadetta’s heart leapt in a mixture of terror and exhilaration.

“I did it!” she gasped, but the celebration was short-lived as another beast lunged at them from above. Ingrid twisted the reins, maneuvering their Pegasus to dodge the attack, her expression fierce yet calm.

Ingrid’s voice was low, reassuring. “I knew you could. But stay sharp, Bernadetta. More are coming!”

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At another area on the battlefield, Yuri, Dorothea, and Lysithea led a small group of troops through the fiery chaos, their mission clear—to rescue those trapped within the burning buildings nearby. Shouts and screams echoed through the smoke-choked air as the flames devoured everything in their path, casting an eerie orange glow over the scene. Yuri’s sharp gaze swept over his surroundings, his voice unwavering as he barked orders to the knights and soldiers around him. “Hurry! Get them out! There’s no time to waste!”

But just as he turned to assess the scene, a sharp pain tore through his leg. He looked down, eyes widening at the arrow embedded in his knee. The searing pain exploded, nearly causing him to collapse. He grit his teeth, a low, pained groan escaping his lips as he tried to steady himself, but his leg threatened to buckle under him.

“Yuri!” Dorothea cried, her voice laced with panic as she saw him fall to one knee. Without hesitation, she rushed to his side, her usually composed demeanor cracking as worry took hold. She knelt beside him, her hand already glowing with the soft light of a healing spell. “Lysithea, take out those archers! We can’t afford to be sitting targets!”

Lysithea nodded, her gaze steely as she directed her troops. “Cover me! Archers, follow my lead!” She then raised her staff, calling forth dark magic that coiled around her in thick, shadowy tendrils. With a fierce determination in her eyes, she channeled the power of Dark Spikes T, sending a wave of cursed energy spiraling toward the enemy soldiers. The dark magic struck with unrelenting force, knocking back the twisted, monstrous soldiers, their cries of pain echoing through the battlefield.

Yuri grimaced, gripping the arrow in his leg. He knew it needed to come out—every second it stayed lodged there was another second his ability to fight was compromised. With a steady breath, he yanked the arrow out, his scream of agony echoing even through the noise of battle. Blood flowed freely from the wound, staining the ground beneath him, but he clenched his jaw, fighting through the pain.

“Hang on, Yuri,” Dorothea murmured, her hands now pressed against his wound, the warm light of her healing spell closing the torn flesh bit by bit. She looked at him, her brows drawn with worry. “Are you okay?”

Yuri forced a smirk through his pain, his eyes glinting with defiance. “Let’s find out.” He reached for his sword, the grip of his hand firm despite the pain throbbing through his leg. With a fierce look, he rose, testing his strength, and to his relief, his leg held. Adrenaline surged through him, dulling the ache as he prepared for the next round.

As he steadied himself, a towering beast soldier approached, its grotesque form hulking over him with a spear ready to strike. Yuri’s eyes narrowed, his gaze fierce and unyielding. He ducked just as the spear lunged toward him, and with a swift kick, he sent the weapon flying from the beast’s hands. In a fluid motion, he snatched the spear from mid-air and, with a cold, determined glare, drove it straight into the beast’s chest. The creature let out a strangled gasp before crumbling, and Yuri pushed forward, his focus locked on the remaining enemies.

Behind him, Dorothea watched with awe and concern mingling in her expression, relief washing over her as she saw Yuri moving with the same tenacity he always had. She gave a faint smile, calling out, “Looks like you’re not quite ready to be down and out.”

Yuri glanced over his shoulder, a roguish grin on his face despite the pain. “Leg works fine, thanks to you.” He then turned back, his gaze hardening as he surveyed the remaining beast soldiers.

Lysithea, having subdued the archers with her deadly spell, rejoined them, wiping sweat from her brow as she eyed Yuri’s brutal handiwork. Her voice held a note of dry amusement. “That was…brutal. But effective.”

The three stood together, a strange unity between them as they fought off wave after wave of the twisted soldiers, their exhaustion matched only by their resolve.

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Byleth and Edelgard were still fighting Ashen, both swinging their weapons with all they had at his back, but Ashen’s reflexes were impossibly sharp. He blocked their strikes with a dark satisfaction, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“Sloppy,” he sneered, breaking the clash with a force that sent them stumbling back. “Where is the strength you once possessed, Byleth? The power Sothis gifted you—a goddess’s gift against a god—that would be fitting now, wouldn’t it?” His voice was calm, almost mocking, as he prowled around them, radiating a dark energy that seemed to chill the air around them.

Without a word, Edelgard lunged forward, her grip tightening on Aymr. Her eyes burned with fury, with all the years of sacrifice and blood she had poured into building her future. She swung the massive axe with all her might, but Ashen twisted to the side, narrowly dodging it. In a brutal counter, he drove his elbow into the back of her head, sending her staggering forward.

“Edelgard!” Byleth cried, his voice breaking as he saw her stumble. His heart twisted, every instinct urging him forward. “El…” he whispered, a mixture of love and desperation woven into that single syllable.

Fueled by an unwavering resolve, Byleth charged Ashen, his eyes fixed on his enemy. Their blades met in a series of lightning-fast clashes, each strike ringing out in the dark forest like thunder. But Ashen remained unfazed, his expression almost bored as he blocked each blow.

“I’m still waiting, Byleth,” Ashen taunted. With a swift, brutal movement, he disarmed Byleth, sending the Sword of the Creator skittering across the ground. Before Byleth could react, Ashen’s fist connected with his jaw, knocking him back. The world spun as Byleth hit the ground, dazed and vulnerable.

Ashen seized Byleth by the leg, his grip iron-like. Without a hint of hesitation, he swung Byleth and hurled him across the battlefield, sending him crashing through the lower trunks of several ancient trees. The wood splintered and cracked, dust filling the air as the trees collapsed around him.

“This is the end, Byleth,” Ashen declared, his voice echoing with finality. With a dark glint in his eyes, he raised his hand and invoked the spell: Banshee Θ. The trees above trembled, their massive forms shuddering before toppling in an avalanche of wood and foliage, burying Byleth beneath them.

“No!” Edelgard’s voice ripped through the silence, raw with terror. “Byleth!” She was paralyzed, her chest heaving as her heart clenched with fear. Her hands trembled on the hilt of Aymr as she turned her gaze to Ashen, who merely watched her with cold indifference, his face devoid of any emotion.

“You…” she choked out, her voice barely containing the rage surging within her. “You murderous…dastard!” She charged, her vision blurred with tears and fury. Her grip on Aymr tightened until her knuckles turned white, and she swung with every ounce of strength she had left, each movement a cry of defiance, of grief, of rage.

Ashen met her onslaught with a steely calm, parrying her attacks as if they were little more than nuisances. “Is this all that remains of the mighty Edelgard?” he mocked, sidestepping her blows effortlessly. “It seems today will be the end of your family—the husband you loved, the children you fought for—all gone.”

The words struck her like daggers, deepening her pain. But that pain also fueled her, transforming into a desperate, raw strength. She swung Aymr with renewed fervor, her movements wild, a manifestation of all her anger, her sorrow, her defiance.

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Byleth looked around, his vision swallowed by darkness, an endless expanse where time itself seemed to freeze. But then, emerging from the blackness, he saw it—a familiar throne carved from ancient stone, its form adorned with faint, emerald glows that pulsed with otherworldly energy. He recognized it at once as Sothis’ throne, and in a voice broken yet determined, he asked, “Sothis… where are you?”

A gentle, ancient voice answered from behind him, carrying a tone of both sorrow and strength. “I am here, child.”

He turned, his heart pounding as he faced the goddess herself. Sothis’ eyes glimmered with an intensity that seemed to hold both eternity and sorrow within them. Byleth took a step forward, his desperation spilling out. “I need your power… to defeat Ashen. Please, lend me what I’ve lost. I can’t let him destroy everything we’ve fought for!”

She was silent, her gaze piercing yet filled with a distant sadness. The pause grew heavy, and his plea turned to frustration as he shouted, “Can you do it or not?”

Her response was a fierce, echoing shout that shook the emptiness around them. “It is not that simple, child!” She steadied herself, taking a breath, her tone softening. “You no longer possess my crest. To grant you my power now, even for a moment, will not be easy. And know this: it will be limited. I can only give you so much.”

Byleth’s fists tightened, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t care if it’s limited. We have to stop him… now.”

Sothis looked away, her eyes drifting toward the throne and then to the ancient stone steps that led down from it, her expression shadowed by memories. “It was here that I first encountered him… Ashen. All of this is my fault. The children of Fódlan are suffering… because of me.”

The weight of her words settled heavily between them. But Byleth took a steadying breath, stepping closer, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “What you did was what you thought was right. We can’t change the past… but we can change what happens now.” He extended his hand toward her, his gaze steady and full of trust.

For a long, tense moment, Sothis studied his face, her expression wavering between regret and hope. Slowly, she placed her hand in his, a green spark flickering at the contact, spreading warmth through the cold void around them. She nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. “You’re right, Byleth. This may not be easy… not like last time. But we must try.”

Their hands clasped, and with a surge of energy, a brilliant green light surrounded them. Golden dust swirled like fireflies in the dark, encircling Byleth as Sothis’ form began to fade, her voice soft but resolute. “Remember, child, you won’t have much time. Use this power wisely… and make it count.”

As she disappeared, the golden dust seemed to sink into Byleth’s skin, merging with his very soul. He felt a familiar warmth, a spark of life he hadn’t felt since the day he lost Sothis. His hair began to glow, shifting to a deep, celestial green as her power flowed through him, rekindling the divine strength he once wielded.

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Edelgard was kicked to the ground, her vision blurring as Ashen loomed over her, his dark blade raised high, glinting with deadly intent. He sneered down at her, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “I promised, didn’t I? If both you and Byleth fell, your children, your legacy, everything you fought for—will die with you.”

But as he spoke, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Gold dust, faint but unmistakable, drifted from the place where the fallen trees lay tangled, where Byleth had been crushed beneath them. Ashen faltered, his blade pausing mid-air, and he turned toward the trees, his sneer fading as curiosity and suspicion flickered across his face.

A green light exploded from the wreckage, illuminating the dark forest like dawn breaking through midnight. It was a pure, radiant glow, ancient and powerful, and it grew brighter with every passing second. A massive tree, uprooted and hurtling toward Ashen with a vengeance, was split in half by a single, effortless swing of his blade. He held his ground, squinting against the blinding green light. For the first time, his expression wasn’t one of amusement, but something closer to awe.

Edelgard’s breath caught, her eyes widening. Through the light, she saw it—a shadowed figure rising from the wreckage, bathed in a divine glow. “Byleth…” she whispered, her voice soft and full of a desperate, trembling hope. Her fingers tightened around Aymr as she pushed herself up, refusing to believe it was a mirage. The figure stepped forward, and the light began to recede, unveiling him fully.

Byleth opened his eyes, the light within them fierce, his hair a brilliant, ethereal green. He seemed almost otherworldly, as though he carried a fragment of Sothis within him. Slowly, he extended his hand, and from the shattered ground, the Sword of the Creator flew to his grasp, humming with renewed power. His gaze fixed on Ashen, steady and unyielding.

“Prepare yourself,” Byleth said, his voice ringing out like a battle cry, each word heavy with purpose.

Chapter Text

Ashen narrowed his eyes, the flicker of recognition sparking within them as he took in Byleth’s transformation. The brilliant green glow of Byleth’s hair, the fiery determination in his piercing gaze, and the divine aura radiating from his presence—it was all too familiar. Ashen’s sneer curled back into place, but there was a trace of unease beneath it. “So, you’ve finally unlocked her power again. It’s about time,” he said, his tone laced with both challenge and curiosity. “Let’s see if this time, you’re worthy of it.”

Byleth’s expression didn’t waver, his resolve as unshakable as steel. Without a word, he vanished from sight, reappearing in front of Ashen in the blink of an eye. The force of his punches came swift and brutal, each blow landing with precision. One punch to the chest sent Ashen staggering, another to the jaw made his head snap back, and a well-placed kick to his side sent him rolling across the ground. Dust and leaves scattered in the wake of Ashen’s momentum.

Staggering to his feet, Ashen’s expression flickered with irritation and… was it respect? “Teleportation…?"

Byleth froze for a moment, glancing down at his own hands as if noticing the power within them for the first time. “I’ve never done that before…” he murmured, a hint of astonishment breaking through his composed exterior.

“That’s because you’ve never truly wielded my full power before.” Sothis’s voice rang in his mind, steady and knowing. “Now, it’s yours. All of it.”

Byleth’s jaw tightened, and he turned his attention toward Edelgard, who was struggling to rise. He was by her side in an instant, dropping to one knee and placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “El,” he said, his voice softer now. “Are you alright?”

She looked up at him, her violet eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Without a word, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly. "I... I thought I lost you," she whispered, her voice trembling. Her hands clutched at the fabric of his cloak, as if anchoring herself to the fact that he was truly there.

Byleth froze for a moment, feeling the weight of her emotions seep into him. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. “El…” he began, his voice low and steady, but before he could say more, she pulled back slightly to look at him. Her gaze searched his face, taking in the glow of his green hair and the divine radiance in his eyes.

“This… this look…” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “I never thought I’d see it again.” Her fingers trembled as they lightly touched the edge of his hair.

Before Byleth could respond, his head snapped to the side, his senses screaming in warning. Ashen, a cruel grin twisting his face, was preparing to unleash a torrent of flame, his chest swelling as fire began to pool in his throat. Without hesitation, Byleth raised his hand, summoning a shimmering, golden shield in front of them. The flames collided with the barrier, roaring furiously as sparks and embers scattered in every direction. The force of the attack pushed against the shield, but it held firm.

Edelgard gasped as she stumbled back, clutching at her chest as the heat from the flames faded. Ashen lowered his head, smoke curling from his mouth as he let out a low chuckle. “Shall we continue now?" he sneered, the mocking tone barely masking the undercurrent of rage.

Byleth didn’t respond immediately. He turned to Edelgard, his expression softening despite the intensity of the moment. “El, go. Get back to the others. I have what I need to finish this.”

Edelgard hesitated, her eyes flickering between him and Ashen. “Byleth, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his voice firm but gentle. “You have to. Trust me.”

For a moment, her resolve wavered, but then she stepped forward and, without a word, pressed her lips to his in a quick, desperate kiss. The touch lingered for only a heartbeat, but it carried the weight of all her fears and hopes. “Come back to me,” she whispered, her voice shaking as she pulled away.

“I will,” he promised, his gaze steady. “Now go.”

Edelgard turned and ran as she can to her way towards House Gloucester as her legs could carry her. Byleth watched her until she disappeared into the distance, then turned his attention back to Ashen.

“Now then,” he said, his voice cold and commanding, “let the lesson begin.”

Ashen let out a deafening roar that shook the earth, his form swelling with power. He charged at Byleth, the ground cracking beneath his feet with each step. But Byleth stood his ground, his eyes narrowing in focus. Just as Ashen raised his massive double-bladed sword to strike, Byleth swung the Sword of the Creator. The blade extended, its segmented form snaking through the air like a whip. It wrapped around Ashen’s weapon, ripping it from his grasp and hurling it across the battlefield.

Ashen snarled, his eyes flashing with fury. But as Byleth surged forward to deliver a decisive blow, Ashen snapped his fingers. His sword, as if obeying his will, flew back into his hand just in time to block Byleth’s strike. The clash of their blades sent a shockwave rippling through the air, uprooting nearby trees and scattering debris.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” Ashen admitted, his tone almost admiring. “But strength alone won’t save you.”

Byleth didn’t respond. He stepped back, his movements fluid and precise, before launching into another assault. His strikes were relentless, each one aimed to exploit a weakness in Ashen’s defenses. But Ashen matched him blow for blow, his own power surging with every swing of his blade.
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Edelgard made it back to House Gloucester, her eyes taking in the chaos that had consumed the battlefield. Her army was faltering, the relentless waves of beast soldiers overwhelming even her most seasoned fighters. Blood stained the ground, and the air was thick with the cries of the wounded and dying. Her gaze sharpened as she saw the monstrous figures tearing through her troops. Clutching her weapon, Aymr, she felt an unyielding fire surge within her.

The weapon began to glow, flames licking its edges as if responding to her fury. The beast soldiers turned, their glowing red eyes locking onto her, but she stood undaunted. Raising Aymr high, she shouted, “Witness my power!” With a mighty leap, she soared into the air, her form silhouetted against the burning sky.

She brought Aymr crashing down, the impact shaking the earth. A searing heat wave erupted from the strike, engulfing the nearest soldiers in flames and leaving only ash in its wake. The surviving beasts recoiled, their confidence shaken. Edelgard stood amidst the destruction, her voice resolute as she whispered to herself, “For the fate of my family.”

From a distance, Claude watched her with a mixture of admiration and concern. He turned to Shez, who stood nearby, her twin swords at the ready. “She’s incredible, but she can’t keep this up alone,” Claude said, his tone firm. “Shez, get in there and back her up.”

Shez nodded, a determined glint in her eyes. “On it!” she replied, signaling to a group of elite troops. As she sprinted towards Edelgard, Arval’s voice echoed in her mind.

“Shez, something isn’t right,” the voice said, laced with unease.

“What do you mean?” Shez thought back, her focus unwavering even as she weaved through the chaos.

“Your power,” Arval responded. “It should have fully awakened by now. There’s something holding it back.”

“We can figure that out later,” Shez shot back, her tone brisk. “Right now, Edelgard needs us.”

Ahead, Edelgard was a blur of movement. She grabbed a fallen soldier’s shield and bashed it into a beast’s face, following up with a devastating swing of Aymr that cleaved another in two. A shadow passed over her, and she looked up just in time to see a winged beast descending upon her with razor-sharp talons.

Before she could react, Shez appeared in a flash of violet light, her blade plunging into the creature’s chest. The beast let out a screech before collapsing to the ground. Edelgard turned, her violet eyes locking with Shez’s.

“Do you need backup? Shez asked with a teasing grin, her breath fogging in the cold air as she pulled her blade free, purple energy crackling along its edges.

Edelgard chuckled softly, a rare sound in the midst of chaos. “That’s my line.” She turned her attention back to the battlefield, her smile fading as her expression hardened. “But if you’re here, then let’s not waste a moment.”

The two women turned to see a fresh wave of beast soldiers surging forward, their guttural roars shaking the air. Their glowing red eyes were filled with relentless hunger, their claws digging deep trenches into the blood-soaked earth as they charged. Edelgard raised her voice, her command cutting through the cacophony of battle.

“Elite soldiers of the Empire!” she called out, her voice strong and unwavering. “Show these monsters the might of Adrestia! Attack!”

A roar erupted from her troops as Edelgard and Shez surged forward, leading the charge. The moment Edelgard reentered the fray, the tide of battle began to shift. Her presence was a beacon, igniting a fire in the hearts of her soldiers.

Aymr cleaved through the ranks of beast soldiers, its fiery glow leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Beside her, Shez moved like a shadow, her twin blades dancing with a deadly elegance. Together, they carved a path through the enemy ranks, their movements a symphony of strength and precision.

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Meanwhile, Ashen swung his sword to the side, his monstrous strength cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh. But Byleth, with precision honed in countless battles, flipped sideways into the air, his form graceful and fluid. Fire erupted from his free hand, its blazing intensity striking Ashen's scaled face. The beast roared, a guttural sound that echoed across the battlefield as the flames seared his flesh.

Ashen dug his claws into the earth, dragging deep gouges into the ground to stop his forced retreat. His glowing eyes, now a swirling mix of rage and begrudging respect, locked onto Byleth. For the first time, he allowed himself a moment of honesty. "I never believed... you'd show me thjis power." His voice was a deep rumble, the words dripping with reluctant awe.

Byleth, unshaken, stood tall, the Sword of the Creator humming with latent energy in his grasp. He met Ashen’s gaze, his own eyes glowing faintly as he called out, "Then here's something to believe in!" Without hesitation, he charged forward, his movements a blur of determination and precision.

Their blades met in a clash that sent shockwaves through the battlefield. Byleth's Sword of the Creator, crackling with divine energy, matched the brutal force of Ashen’s double-bladed weapon. Each strike and counterstrike was a dance of raw power and unyielding will. Sparks flew as their weapons connected, lighting up the darkened field like bursts of firework embers.

Ashen sneered, baring his fangs as he pushed against Byleth’s blade. "I finally see why someone like you brought Rhea to her knees," he admitted, his tone laced with grudging respect and venom. But before he could say more, a voice echoed in the back of his mind, sharp and scornful.

"This is your greatest folly, child," Sothis interjected, her voice ringing with both disappointment and resolve. "Now face the consequences of your path!" 

Byleth’s eyes flared a brilliant yellow as he felt the full presence of Sothis merge with his own will. The Sword of the Creator began to pulse with radiant energy, a golden light that seemed to pierce through the gloom of the battlefield. Sothis’s voice resonated within him, her strength and guidance intertwining with his own.

"Your will and mine are now as one," she declared, her tone carrying both finality and conviction.

The Sword of the Creator shifted, its form extending and reshaping into a glowing whip-like blade. It crackled with orange and purple lightning, the energy moving like a serpentine creature ready to strike. With a flick of his wrist, Byleth lashed out, the blade cutting through the air with terrifying precision. Ashen barely dodged, the whip grazing his armor and leaving glowing scorch marks in its wake.

Ashen roared, splitting his double-bladed sword into two and channeling his own power. A brilliant beam of energy erupted from his weapons, surging forward with the force of a tidal wave. Without hesitation, Byleth responded, the Sword of the Creator coiling and snapping forward like a striking snake. The two attacks collided in a massive explosion, the ground trembling as the energy surged outward, leaving a crater in its wake.

As the dust settled, Byleth stood tall, his green eyes glowing with an ethereal light. He smirked, his calm demeanor unbroken despite the chaos. "Should I have held back?" he asked, his tone teasing but edged with steel.

Ashen gave a deafening roar, his wings spreading wide as he launched himself into the air. The ground trembled beneath his monstrous strength, and with a single powerful beat of his wings, he soared toward Byleth like a meteor. Byleth, undaunted, surged forward, his feet pounding the shattered ground as they both warped simultaneously, disappearing into the ether.

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Back at House Gloucester, the battle was turning in Edelgard and Shez’s favor. Edelgard’s commanding voice rang out across the battlefield as she raised her axe high, her presence an unshakable pillar amidst the chaos. “They’re retreating!” she declared, her crimson eyes gleaming. “We have them on the run!”

Shez, standing beside her with a wicked grin, motioned toward the sky. “Not so fast. Look up!”

Edelgard turned her gaze upward, her expression hardening. Ashen’s flying beast soldiers were plummeting from the skies, their massive forms crashing into the earth as Ingrid’s Pegasus Knights dove with precision, spears piercing through thick hide and armored scales.

“Ingrid,” Edelgard murmured, a rare smile tugging at her lips. “Impressive as ever.”

“She’s clearing the skies,” Shez noted, already scanning the battlefield. “I’ll take the west flank. Those beasts are still trying to regroup there.”

Edelgard nodded, her tone brisk. “Take a squad with you. Do not let them reorganize.”

Shez turned, her lavender hair trailing behind her as she pointed to a handful of soldiers. “You, with me! Let’s move!” Without hesitation, she led her troops to the west, where the remaining beast soldiers were beginning to scatter.

The further west Shez pushed, the quieter the battlefield became. The beast soldiers were retreating rapidly, their forces crumbling. Shez adjusted her grip on her twin blades, a confident smirk on her face. “Too easy,” she muttered.

But before she could continue her advance, a deafening crack split the air, and reality itself seemed to twist. A shockwave knocked Shez and her troops off balance as two figures suddenly appeared before them—Byleth and Ashen.

Shez pushed herself to her feet, her heart pounding as her gaze locked onto the scene before her. Byleth's green hair and glowing eyes were a stark contrast to the deep gray skies above. His calm expression betrayed no fear, even as Ashen towered before him, his massive wings spread wide, his presence like a living storm. Ashen’s crimson gaze flickered with fury, but his smirk was one of confidence, of amusement.

In her mind, Arval's voice rang out, low and edged with unease. “Shez, his hair, his eyes… Sothis has granted him her full power. That glow is unmistakable.”

Shez clenched her blades tightly, her brows furrowing. “Does that mean… if I unlock my power, I’ll end up like that?” She glanced at her reflection in her blade, imagining green hair and glowing eyes on herself.

Arval scoffed, though there was an undercurrent of tension in his tone. “No. Your power is different—rooted in me. You’d never have such… garish features.”

Relief washed over Shez, and despite the tension of the moment, she managed a smirk. “Good. Green’s not really my color anyway.”

Before she could make another quip, the clash began. Byleth and Ashen moved faster than Shez’s eyes could track, their swords meeting with deafening booms that echoed across the battlefield. Each blow sent shockwaves rippling through the air, the sheer force shaking the earth beneath her feet. Byleth ducked under a swing and drove his blade into Ashen’s knee, the steel sinking deep.

Ashen let out a monstrous roar, his wings snapping open as he stumbled. Byleth pulled his blade free, his voice calm but edged with finality. “It’s over, Ashen.”

For a moment, silence blanketed the battlefield, save for the faint hum of energy crackling in the air. Ashen’s expression didn’t waver, betraying no pain or fear. Instead, he looked down at his injured knee, his lips curling into a soft chuckle that sent a chill through Byleth.

Inside Byleth’s mind, Sothis’s voice was sharp, tinged with unease. “Byleth, something isn’t right. Be on guard.”

Before he could respond, Ashen’s eyes began to glow a fierce crimson, his body radiating a sinister gray aura. Sothis’s warning came again, more urgent this time: “Byleth, it’s a—”

Her words were cut short as Ashen vanished, warping out of sight in an instant. Byleth’s eyes darted around the battlefield, scanning for any sign of his opponent. The tension in the air grew heavier, and then, with a thunderous crack, Ashen reappeared above him. His massive sword was drawn, poised to strike.

Byleth reacted just in time, leaping backward as Ashen’s blade carved into the ground where he had stood. The earth split beneath the force of the blow, and dust filled the air. As Byleth steadied himself, Ashen’s voice rang out, dark and mocking.

“You forgot, Byleth,” Ashen said, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I too had the crest of flames. Even when Rhea ripped the crest from my chest, the blood of the goddess still flows through my veins."

Before Byleth could react, Ashen vanished again, reappearing behind him in an instant. His clawed hand clamped onto Byleth's arm like a vice, and with a mighty heave, he hurled him through the air. Byleth's body collided with the side of a crumbling stone building, the impact sending cracks spidering through the structure. Dust and debris rained down as Byleth struggled to his feet, blood trickling from a cut above his eyebrow.

"Was that all you had, Ashen?" Byleth asked, his voice steady but edged with pain. He steadied himself against the wall, his piercing gaze meeting Ashen’s. "Or were you holding back?"

Ashen’s cruel grin widened. "Perhaps I was. But now that I’ve seen your true power..." He raised his hand, summoning his massive, blackened sword from the air. The weapon pulsed with the same sinister gray aura as its wielder. "It’s time I showed you mine."

With a swift motion, Ashen hurled the sword toward Byleth. The blade tore through the air like a bolt of lightning. Byleth rolled to the side just in time, the sword embedding itself deep into the wall where he had stood. But before he could catch his breath, the sword wrenched itself free and came hurtling back toward him like a boomerang. Byleth spun around, his own sword raised, and blocked the attack with a resounding clash of steel.

From a distance, Shez watched the battle, her fists tightening. The sheer ferocity of the clash made her stomach churn. She knew Byleth needed help. "Troops!" she yelled, rallying the soldiers at her side. "We need to help By—"

Her command was cut short as a soldier beside her crumpled to the ground, an arrow buried in his chest. The faint whistle of arrows filled the air, and another soldier cried out, "Sniper on the roof—!" before she too was struck down.

Panic erupted among the troops. Arrows rained down, picking off soldiers with terrifying precision. Shez dodged and weaved through the chaos, her eyes scanning for the source. Amidst the carnage, she spotted the sniper—a figure clad in black armor, their crow-shaped helmet gleaming ominously. Red glass lenses concealed their eyes, but their movements were sharp and calculated. The sniper adjusted their stance and loosed another arrow, missing Shez by a hair.

Ashen whistled sharply, his piercing sound cutting through the din of battle. The sniper paused, glancing at him. Ashen raised his hand and began communicating with rapid, precise gestures in a form of sign language. The sniper nodded once and retreated, vanishing from sight.

Byleth seized the moment, charging at Ashen with a roar. Their swords clashed in a burst of sparks, but Ashen twisted to the side, dodging the blow. He reappeared behind Byleth in a blur, his claws raking across Byleth’s leg. The steel-tipped talons tore through fabric and flesh, drawing a pained grunt from the professor.

"There can only be one true ruler of Fódlan," Ashen growled, his voice cold and unyielding. He yanked his claws free and delivered a brutal punch to Byleth’s chest, sending him sprawling. Ashen loomed over him, raining down blow after blow. Each strike drove Byleth deeper into the ground, the dirt and stone crumbling into a widening crater.

"A true ruler must be prepared for anything," Ashen snarled between punches. "A true ruler studies their enemies, learns their weaknesses, and strikes without hesitation!"

Lightning crackled around Ashen’s hand as he raised it high. With a flash of blinding light, a bolt of thunder shot down and struck Byleth square in the chest. A bloodcurdling scream escaped Byleth's lips as the electricity coursed through him, his body convulsing under the searing pain. When the light faded, Byleth’s hair and eyes reverted to their normal state, his energy completely drained. He weakly tried to crawl away, but his strength gave out, and he collapsed.

Ashen watched him with an air of grim satisfaction. He snapped his fingers, and his sword flew to his hand. Lifting the blade high, he pointed it down at Byleth’s prone form. "Tell Rhea I'll see her in hell," Ashen sneered, preparing to strike the final blow.

Before the sword could descend, Shez came hurtling into Ashen like a cannonball, tackling him off balance. They both tumbled to the ground, Shez landing a punch to his face. Ashen shoved her off with ease and sneered at her. "Foolish," he spat, his voice laced with disdain.

Ashen leaped high into the air, his blade poised to strike. Shez barely managed to roll out of the way as his sword came crashing down, splitting the earth where she had stood. Dust filled the air as Shez rose to her feet, her grip tightening on her weapon.

Arval’s voice echoed in her mind, sharp and insistent. “Shez, you must awaken your power! Without it, you cannot defeat him!”

She gritted her teeth, her heart pounding. “Not now, Arval!” she snapped aloud, her focus locked on Ashen as he advanced. He twisted his massive sword in his grip, and in a fluid motion, the weapon split into two jagged blades. His smirk deepened as he strode forward, menace radiating off him like heat from a wildfire.

Shez lunged, aiming for his head with a ferocious swing. Ashen’s reflexes were unnaturally sharp—he pivoted, slamming the flat of one blade into her wrist, forcing her strike wide. Before she could recover, his fist collided with her stomach. Shez staggered back, gasping for air, her vision swimming.

Ashen didn’t relent. He charged with both swords raised, each strike forcing Shez into a desperate retreat. The clashing steel rang out like a cruel symphony, each note threatening to end her. Arval’s voice returned, frantic yet oddly contemplative. “I understand now, Shez! The reason your power hasn’t awakened—”

“Not the time!” Shez barked, narrowly dodging a slash that would have taken her head. “Figure it out faster!”

Arval hesitated, and Shez couldn’t believe what she heard next. “I… forgot to say the lines.”

She nearly tripped over her own feet in shock, her voice dripping with incredulity. “Lines?! You’re telling me all I needed was a speech from you?! Arval, this is not the time to mess around!”

Ashen’s laugh cut through their exchange, dark and mocking. “Distracted in the middle of a fight?” He closed the distance, his strikes becoming faster, more precise. Shez managed to parry, but the force of each blow rattled her bones. One of Ashen’s swords came down with a crushing blow, shattering one of her dual blades. She stumbled back, dropping to her knees, her chest heaving.

The dust settled around her as her remaining blade clattered to the ground. Shez’s vision blurred, tears stinging her eyes from the pain and frustration. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, each one a struggle. Ashen loomed over her, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as he raised one of his blades.

“This is how it ends?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hands trembled as she gripped the earth beneath her, forcing herself to look up at him. “Arval… hurry up! I have to… keep fighting…”

But even as she said it, despair crept into her voice. She was outmatched, overpowered. Her mind raced through every failure, every moment where she wasn’t enough. 

Ashen’s shadow fell over her, his sword gleaming as he prepared to deliver the killing blow. “Pitiful,” he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt.

Then Arval’s voice rang out, clear and resolute. “The cycle of this world… I will not allow it to perish with you!”

A surge of energy rippled through the air as Arval’s presence seemed to grow. A hand, glowing with ethereal light, extended toward Shez from the void of her consciousness. The warmth of it was almost overwhelming. She reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing against the light.

As their connection solidified, a wave of power erupted from within her. Ashen staggered back, his sword lowering as an orange and purple glow radiated around Shez’s crumpled form. His sneer turned into a look of cautious curiosity as he shielded his face from the intense light.

Shez rose to her feet slowly, her eyes opening to reveal a blazing orange hue. White marks adorned her face like sacred war paint, and her hair shimmered with the colors of a sunset, the bottom half retaining its vibrant purple. A fiery crescent moon halo, shaped like a half-circle, hovered behind her neck, its flames dancing in defiance. Around her wrists, flame-shaped bracelets crackled with raw energy, their heat palpable even from a distance.

Ashen’s voice broke the silence, filled with a mixture of awe and irritation. “What is this…?”

Arval’s voice echoed aloud, steady and triumphant. “It worked.” The apparition of Arval materialized beside Shez, his form ethereal and otherworldly. Ashen’s eyes widened at the sight.

“What… What are you?!” Ashen demanded, his grip tightening on his blades.

Arval turned slowly, his once-confident demeanor faltering as he met Ashen’s gaze. “Ah… Well, this is… awkward.” His nervous chuckle was cut short by Ashen’s growl.

“So, another god meddles in mortal affairs,” Ashen muttered, his tone thick with disdain. “How predictable. And how unfortunate for you both. It seems another bearer of divine power must fall.”

Shez’s voice, stronger than before, cut through the tension. “I’m not dying here.” Her tone was steady, unyielding.

With a sudden burst of speed, Shez transformed into an orb of light, vanishing from her spot and reappearing behind Ashen in the blink of an eye. She struck him with a powerful kick, sending him stumbling forward. “That… is going to take some getting used to,” she muttered, her newfound power surprising even herself.

Arval chuckled. “You’ll adapt soon enough.”

Ashen recovered quickly, swinging his swords with deadly precision. But Shez moved with a grace and speed that felt otherworldly, dodging his attacks effortlessly. Her new blade, forged from the flames of her awakening, began to glow with a vibrant purple light.

She leaped into the air, crossing her swords into an X shape. The energy surged, and with a mighty cry, she unleashed a beam of searing energy in the shape of an X toward Ashen. The beam carved through the battlefield, its power shaking the earth.

But Ashen wasn’t done. He inhaled deeply, a sudden chill filling the air as he exhaled a torrent of blue fire. The flames met Shez’s beam, the two forces colliding in a dazzling display of power.

Arval’s voice rose over the roar of the clash. “Why is the fire blue now?!”

Ashen’s laugh cut through the chaos like a blade. “Because I’m not holding back anymore.” His swords gleamed in the eerie blue glow as he surged forward, his movements faster, more ruthless. The ground beneath them trembled as he closed the distance to Shez in an instant.

Shez gritted her teeth, gripping her flaming blade tightly. Without hesitation, she charged, meeting Ashen head-on. Their weapons clashed, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. Sparks flew as the two warriors exchanged blow for blow, neither willing to yield an inch.

Ashen’s movements were calculated, precise, each swing aiming to overwhelm her defenses. But Shez moved with an agility that bordered on supernatural, her blade weaving an intricate dance that seemed almost unpredictable.

As they broke apart for a brief moment, Ashen’s sharp gaze bore into hers. “Impressive,” he admitted, his voice carrying a grudging respect. “I can feel your power. It’s almost as potent as Byleth’s was. But it doesn’t matter. Against a true god, you’re still just mortal.”

Shez’s fiery eyes narrowed, the marks on her face glowing brighter. “You’re not a real god, Ashen!” she spat, her voice filled with defiance. “And I’m not dying here! Tell me—where is the sniper? Where did you send them?!”

A dark smirk tugged at Ashen’s lips. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, his tone cold and dismissive. With that, he lunged forward again, his blades striking with relentless force.

Shez met him with equal ferocity, her resolve unshaken. Her blade burned with intense light, the heat radiating from it pushing back Ashen’s encroaching chill. Each strike she delivered carried not just her strength but the weight of her will.

Ashen’s expression shifted subtly as they fought, his strikes no longer as overconfident as before. Shez’s power was undeniable—each of her movements sharper, more refined, as if she had transcended her mortal limits.

“I’ll admit,” Ashen said, his voice low but audible as their weapons locked once more, “this… is unexpected. You’re fighting like an entirely different person. For a mercenary, you’ve accomplished more than most would even dare to dream.”

Shez glared at him, her voice unwavering. “Then you should know why I won’t stand down. None of my accomplishments mean anything if I stop here. If I let you win. This is bigger than me. So no—I’m not stopping.”

Arval’s voice resonated in her mind, filled with warmth and pride. “This… this is why you’re my partner in destiny. No hesitation. No surrender.”

Ashen’s face hardened, his usual mockery replaced with a chilling neutrality. “So be it,” he said coldly. “Let’s end this.”

He charged, his speed almost blinding, and Shez braced herself, meeting his attack with a defiant roar. Their clash sent shockwaves through the battlefield, the sheer force splitting the ground beneath them. The blue flames of Ashen’s power intertwined with the fiery orange of Shez’s, creating a storm of energy that rippled outward.

Their battle became a blur of movement, the two of them exchanging devastating blows, each strike carrying the weight of their convictions. Ashen’s blue fire lashed out in devastating waves, but Shez countered with radiant arcs of light, her blade cutting through the chaos with precision and fury.

“You’re relentless,” Ashen remarked, his voice betraying a sliver of genuine admiration. “But relentlessness alone won’t save you.”

“And apathy won’t save you!” Shez shot back, her blade slicing through one of his strikes and grazing his shoulder.

Ashen staggered back slightly, a faint trail of blood marking where her blade had landed. His eyes flared with anger but also with something else—an almost begrudging respect.

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At the west side of House Gloucester’s territory, chaos reigned as beast soldiers struggled against the combined might of the Alliance and Empire forces. Their captain, barely holding the line, shouted desperately to his troops, “Retreat! Fall back and regroup!” The monstrous warriors hesitated for a moment, but the overwhelming force of Edelgard’s vanguard left them no choice. They fled, leaving a trail of destruction behind them.

Claude stood beside Lorenz and Edelgard, his bow still drawn and his sharp eyes scanning the battlefield. Behind them, their forces regrouped, their exhaustion palpable but their resolve unbroken. Claude lowered his bow slightly and turned to Edelgard. “The soldiers are pulling back. Looks like they’re done for now.”

Edelgard’s expression remained stern, her crimson gaze fixed on the retreating enemy. “No,” she said firmly. “This could be a trap. Stay vigilant. Ashen’s true tactics remain unknown, and I doubt he would allow his forces to retreat without reason.”

Lorenz adjusted his stance, his ornate armor gleaming despite the grime of battle. “What more do you think Ashen could possibly have planned, Lady Edelgard?” he asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Before Edelgard could respond, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Time seemed to slow as an arrow, black as night and tipped with a cruel glint, found its mark. It struck Lorenz squarely in the chest. His eyes widened in shock as he staggered backward, the breath leaving his lungs in a strangled gasp.

“Lorenz!” Claude’s voice broke through the stillness as he caught his friend, lowering him gently to the ground. His hands trembled as he gripped the arrow, and without hesitation, he yanked it free. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking the embroidered crest on Lorenz’s armor. “Linhardt! Get over here, now!”

Linhardt appeared in an instant, dropping to his knees beside Lorenz. His hands glowed with the soft green light of healing magic as he worked furiously to close the wound. The flesh knit together under his touch, but Lorenz’s breathing remained shallow, his face pale. Linhardt’s brow furrowed. “It’s not working. The wound is healed, but something’s still—”

Leonie crouched beside them, holding the arrow. Her sharp gaze scanned its surface before her expression darkened. “Poison,” she said grimly. “It’s laced with some kind of deadly toxin.”

Claude’s jaw clenched as he grasped Lorenz’s shoulder. “You’re going to make it,” he said, his voice firm, almost desperate. “Don’t you dare give up on me.”

But Lorenz shook his head weakly. His usual regal demeanor was faded, replaced with the quiet acceptance of a man who knew his time was near. “No… Claude,” he rasped, his voice faint. “I won’t. This… is a fitting way for a noble to meet his end.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Claude snapped, his voice cracking. His hand tightened on Lorenz’s. “We’ve been through worse. Just hold on a little longer!”

Lorenz managed a faint smile, his fingers brushing against Claude’s shoulder. “The Alliance… must endure. You must endure. Promise me you’ll remain… in Fódlan. Avenge those we’ve lost… and lead our people to a brighter future.”

Claude’s vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes. “I promise,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’ll stay. I’ll fight for everyone we’ve lost. For you.”

With a final breath, Lorenz closed his eyes, his hand slipping from Claude’s grasp. The battlefield seemed to fall silent, the weight of his death pressing down on them all.

Ingrid leapt onto her Pegasus, her spear raised as she scanned the rooftops. “I’ll find the sniper,” she vowed, her voice steely. She soared into the sky, her keen eyes searching for the enemy. A glint of movement caught her attention—a figure darting across the rooftops with inhuman speed. Before she could act, the sniper loosed another arrow into the air. This one exploded in a brilliant flash, a signal that illuminated the battlefield.

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Ashen and Shez turned their eyes skyward, the explosion painting their faces in harsh, flickering light. The battlefield stilled for a moment, the ominous glow holding everyone in its thrall.

Ashen’s cold smirk deepened as he turned to Shez. “It seems,” he said, his voice resonating with chilling calm, “that we’ve accomplished our goal.”

Shez narrowed her blazing orange eyes, her grip tightening on her blade. “What do you mean?” she demanded. “What did you do?”

Before Ashen could respond, the sniper landed with fluid grace beside him, still clad in a black helmet shaped like a crow. The crimson glass of its visor obscured the face beneath, rendering the figure an enigma. The sniper’s presence carried an unsettling calm, the faint glint of moonlight reflecting off the sharp contours of their armor.

Ashen glanced at the sniper, a slow, satisfied smile creeping across his face. “It’s done,” he said, his tone cold and deliberate. “My sniper here has ensured Lorenz’s demise. A necessary step. And now,” his gaze turned to Shez, who glared at him with fiery determination, “I’ve finally witnessed it.”

Shez’s grip on her blade tightened. “Witnessed what?” she spat. “Your twisted plan coming to fruition?”

“Not just that,” Ashen replied, his voice carrying an eerie calm. “I’ve seen Byleth’s power. But also… I’ve seen yours. Unexpected, yet fascinating.” His eyes darkened, and for the first time, a trace of unease flickered in his smirk. “And the other god within you.”

A sharp, ethereal voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Arval!” the spirit cried, its tone reverberating with both defiance and anguish. The sudden outburst startled Shez, her vision momentarily flickering with the image of the silver-haired apparition by her side. Ashen raised a brow, his interest piqued.

“Arval,” Ashen repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a secret finally unearthed. He turned his piercing gaze toward the spectral figure. “And who, pray tell, are your people?”

Arval’s normally composed visage faltered, their glowing eyes flickering as they averted their gaze to the ground. There was a weight in their silence, a grief too profound to be spoken. Finally, the words fell from their lips like a confession. “My people… served my father, Epimenides.”

Ashen didn’t respond immediately. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Arval, his expression unreadable save for a shadow that passed over his features. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath as if even the winds were awaiting his response. Slowly, he looked down, his voice dropping to a low, almost mournful tone.

“I knew it,” he said, his words deliberate and laced with a bitterness that seemed to cut through the tense air. “The god who convinced the Agarthans… your father. It all makes sense now.” His eyes hardened as he glanced back at Arval. “The people who killed most of the goddess’s children, the ones who brought this eternal conflict… And yet, five of her children survived. Five. And you, Arval… you are their god. The god of a people who are now nothing more than dust and ruins.”

Arval’s ethereal form seemed to tremble, their hands curling into fists as their gaze lifted back to Ashen. “How… how do you know this?” they demanded, their voice wavering with a mix of anger and despair.

Ashen’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile. “The Book of the Rival of the Goddess,” he said simply.

Shez, still standing on edge, her grip on her blade unwavering, narrowed her eyes. “The Book of the Rival of the Goddess?” she repeated, her voice carrying a sharp edge. “How do you know about that?”

Ashen’s smirk deepened, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Because I wrote it,” he said.

The weight of his words sent a ripple of disbelief through the air. Arval’s eyes widened, their expression a mixture of shock and outrage. “You wrote it?” he whispered, their voice almost drowned out by the incredulity.

Even Shez staggered back slightly, her fiery orange eyes blazing with confusion. “You’re lying!” she snapped. “There’s no way you—”

“Do you think I would claim such a thing lightly?” Ashen interrupted, his voice cutting through her protest like a blade. “The church has hidden many things, buried truths beneath layers of lies. But I uncovered them, one by one. Thanks to Rhea, Seteth, and even Flayn. Though I doubt they would admit it, their carelessness gave me the pieces I needed to see the truth.”

Arval stared at Ashen, their form flickering as if struggling to maintain its cohesion. “And what truth is that?” they asked, their voice barely above a whisper.

Ashen’s eyes darkened, his tone growing colder. “The truth of the war. The truth of what was hidden. I saw it all, Arval. I saw it because of the Crest of Flames that once burned within me. It gave me visions—fragments of the past, fragments that painted a picture far more damning than any history taught by the church.” His gaze shifted to Byleth’s unconscious form. “I chronicled it. I wrote the truth. And Rhea… she wanted to destroy it. But instead, she turned it into a key—a key to her secret room.”

Shez’s grip on her blade loosened slightly as the weight of Ashen’s words pressed down on her. “You saw… the past?” she muttered, her voice almost drowned by the swirling chaos of her thoughts.

Ashen's gaze softened for the first time, though his voice carried a sharp edge of bitterness. “Not just saw it,” he said, his tone heavy with both triumph and sorrow. “I lived it. Through visions, through dreams, the Crest of Flames burned images of the past into my mind. The truths hidden by centuries of lies, the pain endured by those who were silenced—everything. And with that knowledge… I accomplished what even Byleth could not.”

He turned his piercing eyes toward Byleth’s unconscious form, lying still on the cold ground. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, he fell silent, as though the weight of his own words had struck him.

Shez, her legs trembling under her, finally spoke, her voice sharp despite her visible fatigue. “Your fight… is with me,” she managed, raising her blade again, though it wavered in her grasp. But before she could stand fully, her body betrayed her. A sudden wave of exhaustion swept over her, and she dropped to her knees. “What’s… happening to me?” she whispered, her voice shaking with fear as she turned to Arval. “Arval… what’s going on?”

Arval trembled violently, their usually composed demeanor shattered. “No, no, no!” he cried, their voice rising in panic. “Not now, not now! This is… a side effect of your power awakening."

Shez, still on her knees, clutched at her chest as though something within her was trying to break free. Her breathing grew ragged, beads of sweat forming on her brow. “What… is happening to me?” she asked, her voice trembling, barely above a whisper.

Ashen’s piercing gaze softened slightly as he observed her. “It’s your first time, isn’t it?” he said, his tone devoid of malice. He took a step closer, his boots crunching against the cold, uneven ground. “The first awakening of a power like yours… it always comes with pain. Confusion. I felt it myself when my Crest of Flames began to burn. And I imagine Byleth did too.”

Shez’s eyes flicked toward Byleth, still unconscious on the ground, before narrowing at Ashen. “Why are you telling me this?” she demanded, her voice shaking but defiant.

Ashen tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Because I need to know, before I end the so-called ruler of Fódlan,” he said, gesturing toward Byleth. “Why did you, Shez, choose to follow the son of Jeralt Reus Eisner?”

The name hit Shez like a lightning bolt, her eyes widening in shock. “Jeralt… Reus Eisner?” she repeated, her voice barely audible. Her hand trembled as she clutched the hilt of her blade, her knuckles white from the force of her grip. Memories surged through her mind—scattered images of her adoptive mother’s bloodied body, the cold steel of a blade glinting in the dim light, and a figure she could never forget. Her chest heaved with the weight of emotions long buried, clawing their way to the surface.

Ashen’s piercing eyes studied her reaction, his head tilting slightly. “You didn’t know,” he stated, more curious than mocking. “You didn’t know who Byleth’s father was.”

Shez’s breathing quickened as anger mixed with confusion in her gaze. “That man… he’s the one who killed her. He killed my adoptive mother,” she hissed, her voice trembling but sharp with conviction.

Ashen’s eyes flicked toward Byleth’s unconscious form before returning to Shez. A slow, contemplative smile crept across his face. “Interesting,” he murmured. “Jeralt Reus Eisner… the infamous Blade Breaker… has been dead for years. You can’t take revenge on a corpse, Shez.”

“You’re lying!” she shouted, her voice raw with desperation. Her blade quivered in her hand, the strain of holding it reflecting her inner turmoil. “You’re just trying to manipulate me. Jeralt can’t be dead—he can’t!”

Ashen raised a hand, almost as though to calm her, though his tone remained impassive. “You don’t have to take my word for it. When your so-called ally wakes,” he said, gesturing toward Byleth, “ask him yourself. Ask him if he knew about this." 

Shez’s gaze darted to Byleth, her heart twisting painfully. Did he know? Had he carried this secret all along? Questions piled in her mind, each more suffocating than the last. Her legs trembled beneath her as she struggled to stay upright. “Why are you telling me this?” she demanded, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions. “What do you gain from this?”

Ashen’s expression darkened, his presence almost suffocating. “Because,” he said slowly, “though Jeralt is beyond your grasp, there is still blood payment to be had. If you can’t reach the father, you can take the son.” He gestured toward Byleth, his tone almost mockingly reverent. “You can claim vengeance on the one who carries Jeralt’s blood. Wouldn’t that be… poetic?”

“No!” Arval’s voice rang out, sharp and frantic, their glowing form reappearing beside Shez. “Don’t listen to him, Shez! He’s trying to twist your pain. He’s manipulating you!”

Ashen’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Manipulating?” he echoed. “I offer her the chance to fulfill her deepest desire. To right the wrong done to her. And if she so wishes, I will grant her my blessing to end him—a blessing from a god, no less.”

“You’re not a god!” Shez screamed, her voice cracking under the strain of her emotions. Her body trembled violently, her knees finally buckling beneath her. As she collapsed, the strange, burning energy in her chest subsided. Her breathing steadied, and her eyes fluttered shut as she slipped into unconsciousness

Arval’s form flickered and vanished, their voice echoing faintly in the air, “Don’t fall for his tricks…”

Ashen stood over Shez and Byleth, his gaze heavy with a mix of contemplation and disdain. “Three gods,” he muttered under his breath, “yet only one stands still.”

His sword dissolved into shimmering light, and he turned to his sniper, who stood silently nearby. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice softer now, almost fond. “But it’s time we depart—”

Before he could finish, an arrow whistled through the air, slamming into the sniper’s helmet and sending it flying. Ashen’s head snapped toward the source of the attack, his expression hardening. From the trees, a familiar figure emerged—Claude, his bow drawn and his golden eyes blazing with fury.

“This is for Lorenz!” Claude shouted, loosing another arrow. Ashen moved with inhuman speed, summoning his sword to deflect the arrow with a sharp clang. Behind Claude, Edelgard and Leonie appeared, weapons drawn, their faces etched with determination.

The sniper bent to retrieve her helmet, but as she lifted it, Leonie froze, her eyes wide with recognition. “Shamir?” she gasped, her voice trembling with disbelief. “This… this has to be some kind of twisted joke…”

Edelgard’s voice cut through the tense air like a blade. “Why, Shamir? Why betray your friends?”

Claude’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sniper’s altered appearance—her once-vivid purple eyes now glowing a sinister red, her black hair streaked with silver, and jagged scars marking the side of her face. “And what’s with the new look?” he asked, his tone sharp. “What happened to you?”

Ashen stepped forward, placing a hand under Shamir’s chin and tilting her face upward. “Shamir has undergone… changes,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “A little dark magic to make her forget her past loyalties. To make her mine. She’s a true blessing, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Monster!” Edelgard growled, her teeth clenched as fury burned in her eyes. “What have you done to her?”

Ashen chuckled darkly, running a gloved finger along one of Shamir’s scars. “Nothing she didn’t need. She’s more perfect now than she ever was. Aren’t you, my pet?”

Shamir said nothing, her face emotionless, her crimson eyes void of the warmth they once held. Leonie’s grip on her weapon tightened as tears pricked her eyes. “Shamir… this isn’t you. Please, fight it!” she pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

Shamir raised her bow, an arrow nocked and aimed directly at Leonie. Her voice, cold and devoid of the familiarity Leonie had known, sliced through the air. “Back away, worthless one.”

The words struck Leonie like a blade, her eyes widening in disbelief. “Worthless?” she whispered, her voice trembling. Her grip faltered for a moment as she staggered back. “You… you don’t mean that. Shamir, it’s me! Don’t you remember?”

Ashen’s smirk deepened as he observed the exchange, his satisfaction palpable. Turning his attention to Edelgard, he gestured toward the still-unconscious Byleth. “Your husband may need your help, Emperor,” he said mockingly. With a calculated step, he moved aside, giving her a clear view of Byleth’s battered form.

“Byleth!” Edelgard shouted, her voice laced with fear as her crimson eyes locked onto him. Without hesitation, she sprinted toward him, dropping her weapon in her haste.

Ashen’s mocking tone returned as he placed a hand on Shamir’s shoulder. “Our time here is over,” he declared, his voice brimming with twisted amusement. “Farewell, Emperor. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon enough.”

Before Edelgard could reach him, Ashen and Shamir vanished in a swirl of dark energy. The space where they had stood moments before crackled with residual magic, leaving only silence and the devastation of the battlefield behind.

Edelgard dropped to her knees beside Byleth, her hands trembling as she cupped his pale face. “Byleth… Byleth!” she called out, her voice breaking. She leaned down, pressing her ear against his chest, desperately seeking a heartbeat. Relief washed over her as she heard the faint, steady rhythm. Tears welled in her eyes. “You’re alive,” she whispered.

Byleth’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused and his voice weak. “El… what happened?” he murmured, each word a strain.

Edelgard’s shoulders shook as she exhaled a shaky breath. “Lorenz… Lorenz is dead,” she admitted, her voice thick with sorrow.

Byleth’s eyes widened in shock, the news hitting him harder than the wounds on his body. “Lorenz… no,” he whispered, grief weighing heavily on his tone.

Edelgard’s expression darkened as she continued. “And Shamir… she’s joined Ashen’s side. He’s done something to her—twisted her, erased her memories. She…” Edelgard faltered, the words catching in her throat. “She’s not the Shamir we knew.”

Byleth groaned as he tried to sit up, his body wracked with pain. “I have to—”

“No,” Edelgard interrupted firmly, placing a hand on his chest. “Not alone. Let me help you.” She wrapped his arm around her shoulder, supporting him as he struggled to stand. Despite his injuries, he leaned on her, his determination evident in his pained expression.

Nearby, Claude crouched beside Shez, who still lay motionless on the ground. “She’s breathing,” he confirmed, his voice tinged with concern. Without waiting for Edelgard’s direction, he carefully lifted Shez onto his back. “I’ll carry her,” he said, his golden eyes scanning the battlefield.

Leonie, however, remained rooted to the spot, staring at the place where Shamir had stood. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped her weapon, tears streaming down her face. The words “worthless one” echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than any wound.

Claude’s voice softened as he approached her. “Leonie… I’m sure there’s a way to bring her back,” he said, his tone both gentle and resolute.

Leonie nodded slowly, her tears continuing to fall, but her lips pressed together in silent determination. “There has to be,” she whispered, though her voice wavered.

The group turned toward the palace, battered and broken. The people they had fought to protect were safe for now, but the cost weighed heavily on them. Lorenz was dead. Shamir was lost to the enemy. And for the first time in a long while, the group felt the sting of failure.

As they trudged back, the silence between them was heavy. Edelgard glanced at Byleth, her heart aching at the sight of his injuries, but even more at the grief in his eyes. Claude carried Shez with care, his usual levity replaced by grim determination. And Leonie followed behind, her head bowed, haunted by the task that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Ashen and Shamir teleported to the Taitean Plains, where the sky wept as if mourning the lives lost in their wake. The steady rhythm of the rain pattered against the earth, a melancholic drumbeat to their silent march. Ashen moved with a casual arrogance. He glanced over his shoulder at Shamir, her expression as stoic as ever, her crimson eyes betraying no emotion.

“You did well,” Ashen remarked, his tone light but tinged with an undercurrent of calculation. “Your silence suits you. It speaks volumes without the need for empty words.”

Shamir gave no response, her grip firm on her bow as she kept pace with him. The only acknowledgment she gave was the faint narrowing of her eyes, as if the rain were the only thing worthy of her attention.

Ashen smirked. “Yes, silent as the grave. I like that.” He turned his gaze forward again. “Come, we’ve delayed long enough. The camp is just ahead.”

When they crested the next hill, Ashen froze mid-step. The expanse of the field was empty. No banners flew, no soldiers stood at attention. The camp was gone.

Ashen’s eyes darkened, his smirk vanishing. “Where is my army?” he muttered, his voice low and dangerous. A rustling in the nearby bushes drew his attention, and with a flick of his wrist, his blade materialized in his hand. “Show yourself!”

From the shadows emerged a towering figure, his black and gray armor gleaming even in the dim light of the storm. The beast-like man knelt before Ashen, his head bowed low. “My lord, I have been awaiting your return,” he said, his voice guttural yet laced with reverence.

“Warg,” Ashen said, lowering his blade slightly. “My first soldier. My second-in-command.” His voice softened, though his expression remained sharp. “Where is the army?”

Warg straightened, his massive frame dwarfing even Ashen’s imposing figure. “Though they serve you loyally, my lord, I deemed this location… unsuitable. A god such as yourself deserves a domain that reflects your power. I have taken the liberty of relocating them.”

Ashen raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued but his patience thin. “Go on.”

Without warning, Warg reached out, his clawed hands grasping both Ashen’s and Shamir’s shoulders. The world shifted in a blur of dark energy, and when they emerged, they stood atop a great wall overlooking a sprawling city. The air was cold and sharp, the remnants of a once-proud kingdom now steeped in despair.

Ashen’s gaze swept over the ruined cityscape. “Where have you taken us?” he demanded, his voice sharp and brimming with an edge of restrained fury.

Warg straightened, his monstrous frame almost regal in its posture. “Fhirdiad, my lord,” he said, his guttural voice reverberating in the cold air. “The once-proud kingdom of Faerghus. Seven years ago, their so-called king, Dimitri, fell to the hands of Edelgard. His death marked the end of their resistance, and the empire claimed this city as its prize.”

Ashen turned sharply as Warg gestured behind him. His piercing gaze landed on the grotesque sight of a man, his lifeless body swinging from a crude rope tied to the remnants of a shattered palace archway. His flesh was being torn apart by beast soldiers, their snarls mingling with the faint echoes of the rain.

Warg’s voice was steady, emotionless. “The imperial ruler appointed by Edelgard met his end here, discarded by the people he was meant to govern. But you, my lord, will not suffer the same fate. For you are no mere mortal ruler. Look beyond the edge, and see what awaits your command.”

With a flicker of curiosity and disdain, Ashen stepped closer to the edge of the great wall. Below, a sprawling scene unfolded: men, women, and children toiled in a relentless rhythm. Sparks flew from forges as they hammered weapons, shaped shields, and molded armor. The cacophony of industry filled the air, punctuated by cries of exhaustion and pain.

“These people,” Warg continued, his tone reverent, “are dedicated to forging the tools that will secure your supremacy. Every hammer stroke, every bead of sweat, is for you. Their lives are yours to mold, their strength yours to wield.”

Ashen’s lips curved into a slow, predatory smile. He turned to Warg, his icy gaze appraising his subordinate. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he admitted, his tone a rare mix of approval and condescension.

Warg then inclined his head deeper in reverence. “Every god needs a throne, my lord.”

Ashen’s smile widened, the gleam in his eyes reflecting his approval. “Then show me this throne of mine.”

Warg rose to his full, towering height, his claws gesturing with deliberate grandeur. “This way, my lord.”

Ashen and Shamir followed Warg through the vast city of labor and despair, their boots echoing against the stone pathways slick with rain. The air smelled of iron and sweat, the cries of the enslaved blending with the steady hum of industry. None dared meet Ashen’s gaze as he passed, heads bowing low as though their very existence was an insult to his divine presence.

They approached a massive fortress at the heart of the city, its dark spires clawing at the storm-laden sky. As they entered, rows of soldiers flanked the grand hall, their armor gleaming black and orange in honor of their sovereign. At Warg’s command, they dropped to one knee in perfect unison, spears clattering softly as they bowed their heads.

“All hail the almighty god, Ashen,” Warg declared, his guttural voice resounding like thunder in the vast chamber. The soldiers echoed the chant, their voices a harmonious roar of submission.

Ashen’s gaze swept over the hall with a mix of satisfaction and indifference until his eyes fell upon the throne. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, forged from intertwining veins of gold and silver, its arms adorned with jagged scales and dragon-like features. Behind it hung a massive banner of black and orange. In its center was a ferocious dragon, its claws painted red to symbolize the blood of his enemies, its wings ablaze with fire and electricity sparking from their tips. But what caught Ashen’s attention most was the image of Sothis within the dragon’s maw, lifeless and defeated.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Perfection,” he murmured, stepping forward with measured confidence.

He ascended the steps to his throne and seated himself with deliberate ease, his dragon-scaled hand trailing along the gilded armrest. Summoning his blade, he drove it into the ground before him, the sound resonating like a clap of thunder. His pose exuded dominance, the embodiment of absolute rulership. The storm outside seemed to bow to his power as lightning illuminated the room.

“Warg,” Ashen commanded, his voice a cold blade. “Where are the children of Byleth and Edelgard?”

Warg inclined his head low, his claws tapping lightly against the stone floor. “The highest chamber of the castle, my lord,” he answered with a growl of pride. “They are guarded at all times. The girl and the infant cannot escape. Should she attempt to flee through the window, she would surely fall to her death.”

Ashen’s predatory smile returned, a glint of satisfaction in his sharp eyes. “Well done,” he said, his tone laced with approval. “Take me to them.”

Without hesitation, Warg straightened and gestured for Ashen and Shamir to follow. The three ascended the towering fortress, passing halls lined with more soldiers bowing in silent submission. The air grew colder as they climbed, the storm outside intensifying with each step. Finally, they reached a massive iron door flanked by two heavily armored guards. Their spears crossed in unison, blocking the path.

“At ease,” Warg barked, and the guards stepped aside, lowering their weapons.

Warg turned to Ashen, bowing deeply. “My lord, the reason they are kept here is to ensure complete control. The girl cannot escape, and the boy is too young to act.”

Ashen nodded, his gaze flicking to the door. “Leave us.”

Both Warg and Shamir bowed low and retreated, leaving Ashen to face the iron barrier alone. With a casual motion, he pushed it open, the hinges groaning as the dim light spilled into the chamber.

Inside, Clainsiia sat on the edge of the bed, her small frame hunched over as she carefully dressed her baby brother, Jeralt, in fresh clothes. The boy cooed softly, unaware of the tension in the air. Clainsiia’s head snapped up as Ashen entered, her wide, defiant eyes locking onto his imposing figure. Instinctively, she clutched Jeralt closer, her arms forming a protective shield around him.

Ashen regarded her with cool detachment, his gaze appraising. “I see you’re not causing trouble.”

Clainsiia straightened, her voice trembling yet firm. “I saw what they did… all those people getting hurt… those monsters hurting them.”

Ashen regarded her with cold detachment, his eyes sharp and unyielding. “It is the price of being a ruler,” he said, his tone low and even. “War demands sacrifices. If you wish to win, you must do whatever it takes. Sentiment is a luxury, and luxuries cost lives.”

Clainsiia’s arms tightened around Jeralt, her small body quivering with defiance. “That doesn’t make it right. They were innocent!”

Ashen’s predatory smile faded slightly as he studied the girl, her fiery spirit reminding him of someone long buried in his memory. “Right and wrong are illusions,” he said. “Survival, power, victory—those are real. And I have news for you.”

Clainsiia shifted instinctively, shielding her brother with her body. “What news?” she asked warily, her voice still tinged with defiance.

Ashen’s gaze bore into hers, unflinching. “Your father, Byleth, has regained the goddess’s power,” he said, his voice softening, as if the weight of the revelation dampened his usual severity. “He and your mother, Edelgard, are alive.”

The words hit her like a tidal wave, her breath hitching as she clutched Jeralt closer. “Alive?” she whispered, tears brimming in her wide eyes. “They’re alive?”

Ashen opened his mouth as if to continue but stopped abruptly. His expression flickered with something unreadable, and his eyes shifted toward the window. Snowflakes were beginning to fall, swirling softly against the dim light of the chamber. He walked to the window, his dragon-scaled hand resting on the cold sill as he gazed outward.

Clainsiia blinked in confusion, the shift in his demeanor unexpected. “Why are you looking outside?” she asked, her curiosity overcoming her fear. “Do you… like snow? I... I like snow too.”

Ashen’s eyes remained fixed on the falling flakes, his voice cold and dismissive. “I didn’t ask.”

Clainsiia looked down, biting her lip, but a small, wistful smile played on her face as she glanced at her younger brother, Jeralt, nestled safely in her arms. “The first time I saw snow,” she began quietly, “My mother was carrying Jeralt then. I wanted to play in it so badly, but they told me not to go outside alone.”

Ashen’s posture didn’t change, but his hand, scaled and clawed, tightened slightly on the windowsill. Clainsiia pressed on, her voice growing softer, as if recounting the memory gave her comfort. “I found a shield that one of the knights had left behind. It was big and heavy, but I dragged it outside the gates of the kingdom. I climbed to the top of the snowy hill and used it to slide down. It was... exhilarating.” She laughed softly at the memory. “When my parents found me, I thought I’d be in so much trouble. But instead, they told me I was going to be a big sister.”

Her smile widened, her eyes shimmering with tears. “It was one of the happiest moments of my life.”

Ashen said nothing. His gaze was still locked on the snow, but his clawed hand rose slowly. He extended it beyond the sill, letting the delicate flakes melt against his scales. His expression, however, remained unreadable.

Clainsiia tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her wide eyes. “What about you? What was the first time you saw snow like?”

Ashen turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze meeting hers. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because,” Clainsiia said earnestly, her voice trembling with a mix of hesitation and hope, “you seem to like it. And... I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

Ashen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t lash out. Instead, he looked back at the snow, his voice low and distant. “I was very young,” he began reluctantly, “when I first saw snow. I grew up in a small village in the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. It was always cold there, but I hadn’t seen snow until after I was cast out.”

Clainsiia’s breath caught, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Sometime after that,” Ashen continued, his voice softening just slightly, “I was found by Rhea. She brought me to the monastery at Garreg Mach. Three months later, on the Red Wolf Moon, I wandered outside. I didn’t have anything warm. I’d grown up in warmth, never needing to understand cold. Snow was... foreign to me.”

His scaled hand flexed slightly, the memory pulling him further into himself. “I didn’t realize why I was freezing. I didn’t know what snow even was. Then Rhea found me. She rushed over, panicked, and wrapped me in her jacket. She... explained what snow was. Later, she took me to her quarters and made tea by the fire.”

Clainsiia listened intently, her grip on Jeralt tightening as if drawing strength from Ashen’s uncharacteristic vulnerability.

“She put me on her bed when I fell asleep,” Ashen added, his voice growing quieter. “The next morning, I woke up next to her. She stayed with me the entire night.” He fell silent for a moment, his hand retreating from the window. His gaze remained distant, as though the memory belonged to someone else entirely. “That was my first snow day.”

Clainsiia saw something flicker in his expression—an almost imperceptible sadness, buried beneath layers of his usual detachment. “That’s a nice memory,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth she hoped would reach him.

Ashen’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It was,” he admitted, his tone colder now, “from another lifetime.”

He turned to leave, his dragon-scaled hand brushing against the doorframe as he exited. Clainsiia watched him go, her mind swirling with questions. She looked down at Jeralt, who squirmed and made soft noises. “Do you think he has regrets?” she murmured, more to herself than her brother.

Jeralt, too young to understand, babbled happily, his small hand reaching up toward her face.

Clainsiia sighed, her gaze shifting back to the window where the snow continued to fall, soft and unrelenting. “What made him like this?” she whispered, her thoughts lingering on the fragmented pieces of Ashen’s past he had shared.
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The next four nights unfolded under a heavy shroud of grief and tension. Shez woke up to the sound of soft murmurs outside her tent, her body still aching from the battle. She blinked against the faint glow of candlelight that seeped through the tent's fabric and rubbed her temples, her memories of the fight with Ashen and his words about Jeralt swirling in her mind. She pushed herself up with a wince, muttering to herself, "How long have I been out?"

Stepping outside, she was greeted by a somber sight. The people of House Gloucester were gathered, their white candles flickering in the night, casting haunting shadows over their grief-stricken faces. Soldiers carried Lorenz’s lifeless body on a wooden stretcher draped with House Gloucester’s banner. Shez’s heart clenched as the procession moved toward a large pyre built of carefully stacked wood.

She watched in silence as the soldiers laid Lorenz’s body atop the pyre. Claude stood at the forefront, a torch in his hand, his golden eyes shadowed with sorrow. He stepped forward, his face a mask of grim resolve, and set the pyre ablaze. Flames consumed the wood and reached toward the heavens, a glowing tribute to the fallen noble. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and the quiet sobs of Lorenz’s people.

“How long… was I out?” Shez murmured, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the flames.

“Quite a while,” a familiar voice answered from behind her. She turned to see Edelgard, her white hair illuminated by the firelight, her expression a mix of sympathy and exhaustion. “You and Byleth have been recovering for days. Linhardt’s healing magic has helped, but it’s going to take time.”

Shez’s gaze shifted past Edelgard to where Claude stood near the blazing pyre, his posture stoic yet weighed down with sorrow. Beside him, Byleth stood silently, his eyes fixed on the flames. The faint, cold ache in her chest surged as memories of her fight with Ashen returned in a torrent. His mocking words about Jeralt, the man she had relentlessly hunted, reverberated in her mind.

The sound of Arval’s voice broke through the turmoil of her thoughts, whispering gently but with an undertone of urgency. “What are you going to do now, Shez?"

Shez swallowed hard, her throat dry, and clenched her fists. Her knuckles turned white, and the faint popping of her joints was barely audible beneath the crackling pyre. Edelgard stepped closer, her eyes scanning Shez’s tense expression. “You fought him, didn’t you?” she asked, her tone even but tinged with concern. “When we found you, you were unconscious, and the wounds… they were severe.”

Shez didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze flickered to Byleth again, and her jaw tightened as a wave of anger and grief surged through her. Edelgard noticed the way Shez’s fists trembled and the intensity with which she stared at Byleth.

“What’s on your mind?” Edelgard asked gently, but there was a firmness in her tone that brooked no evasion. “You’re angry. I can see it. Tell me why.”

Shez’s voice came out hoarse, but it carried a sharp edge. “What… was his father’s name?”

Edelgard froze, her breath hitching ever so slightly. The question hung in the air like a blade poised to strike. Shez turned to face her fully, her violet eyes blazing with a mix of anguish and fury. “You know,” Shez pressed, her voice rising. “You’re his wife. You should know! Tell me! Who was Byleth’s father?”

Edelgard hesitated, her lips parting slightly as though the words burned her tongue. She finally exhaled, the weight of the truth settling over her. “Jeralt Reus Eisner.”

Shez’s body went rigid, her mind reeling. Her breathing grew uneven as the name confirmed what she had feared. “Jeralt…” she muttered, her voice trembling. “He’s the one. He killed my mother. And now… now he’s dead, and I can never—”

“Shez,” Edelgard interrupted, her tone firm but sympathetic. “Byleth wasn’t involved. He told me everything. Jeralt acted alone. You need to understand that revenge—”

Shez spun on her heel, cutting Edelgard off. “Don’t tell me what I need!” she shouted, her voice breaking. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I promised her, Edelgard. I promised my mother I’d avenge her. And now… now I can’t.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Shez turned her back on Edelgard, her gaze once again landing on Byleth. The sight of him standing so calmly, oblivious to her inner storm, only fueled her rage. Ashen’s words about a “blood payment” echoed in her ears.

“I need to be alone,” she said finally, her voice low but resolute. Without another word, she walked off into the shadows, the weight of her unfulfilled promise pressing down on her like a stone.

Edelgard watched her go, her heart heavy with unspoken words. She turned and approached Byleth, who had been watching the pyre but shifted his gaze to her the moment she neared.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, concern flickering in his eyes.

Edelgard hesitated, her hand brushing against his arm. “Shez knows,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “She knows who your father was. When were you planning to tell her?”

Byleth’s expression softened, though his turquoise eyes betrayed a flicker of turmoil. He looked away, his gaze settling on the flickering pyre. “I didn’t know when,” he admitted, his voice low and steady, tinged with regret. “How do you tell someone that your father… took everything from them?”

Edelgard’s brows furrowed, her own heart heavy. “There’s no better time than now, Byleth. The truth will hurt, but it’s better than letting her drown in questions and anger. She needs to hear it from you.”

Byleth remained silent, the weight of her words sinking into his soul. After a long pause, he nodded. Without another word, he turned and began walking, his steps deliberate but burdened. Edelgard watched him go, silently hoping he would find the right words.

It took some time before Byleth found Shez. She was sitting by a fountain in the castle courtyard, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over the scene. Her violet hair framed her face as she stared into the water, her expression a storm of emotions. The soft sound of the water cascading into the basin mingled with the gentle rustle of leaves in the night breeze.

Arval’s voice echoed in her mind, calm but probing. “Do you hate him now, Shez? Knowing what you know?”

Shez’s hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She inhaled sharply before answering in her thoughts. “I don’t know. I just… I need to know. Was he there? Did he know? I need to hear it from him.”

As if summoned by her words, a shadow shifted nearby. She turned sharply, her gaze locking onto Byleth as he emerged from the darkness. His expression was calm, but there was a profound sadness in his eyes.

“Byleth,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Shez,” he replied softly, the gentle tone carrying in the still air. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind between them, as though the world itself waited for what would come next.

Finally, Byleth broke the silence. “I know you have questions,” he began, his voice steady but heavy with guilt. “But—”

Shez cut him off, her voice sharp. “Were you involved? The day my mother died—were you there?” Her words were laced with anger and desperation. “And how long have you known, Byleth?”

Byleth sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the truth. “I wasn’t there,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze. “I didn’t know about what my father had done until much later.”

“How can I believe that?” Shez shot back, her voice trembling. “You were one of his mercenaries, his son. How do I know you’re not just covering for him?”

Byleth hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Come with me,” he said, his voice steady but resolute. “There’s something you need to see.”

Chapter Text

It took a while, but everyone eventually gathered in a large tent, the air thick with anticipation. The muted glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the canvas walls, and the hushed murmurs among the group faded as Byleth entered, his presence commanding silence. His piercing eyes landed on Shez, who stood near the center, visibly tense but determined.

“What did Ashen tell you?” Byleth asked, his voice steady yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

Shez inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “Ashen told me…” She paused, scanning the room, her gaze catching on familiar faces—Edelgard, Claude, Dorothea, and even Caspar, who leaned forward expectantly. “…Ashen said he made The Rival of the Goddess.”

A ripple of shock swept through the group, expressions ranging from disbelief to grim realization. Edelgard’s eyes narrowed, her mind already racing. Claude folded his arms, his brow furrowed as though piecing together a puzzle, while Dorothea’s lips parted in silent astonishment. Caspar, ever forthright, broke the silence.

“How does that help us?” he asked, his confusion mirrored by others in the group. “I mean, we already know Ashen’s powerful, but a book? What’s the big deal?”

Shez’s gaze hardened, and her voice carried a sharper edge. “Think about it. What kind of mind creates something like The Rival of the Goddess? What if there are people who knew Ashen before… before he became what he is now? Before he became this god?”

Dorothea shook her head, her voice tinged with melancholy. “Shez, everyone who might’ve known Ashen before is gone."

Ashe, his usual soft-spoken demeanor giving way to a rare note of conviction, interjected. “If anyone from his past was still around, they might help us understand him better. Maybe even find a way to stop him.”

The tent fell into a contemplative silence. Byleth’s expression remained unreadable, but behind his stoic exterior, his mind worked furiously. The name Ashen had once carried—Kazamir—stirred something in his memory. A faint recollection, distant but persistent, took shape. His gaze flickered upward as realization struck like a lightning bolt.

Two people.

Ignatz, perceptive as ever, noticed the subtle shift in Byleth’s demeanor. “Professor, is something on your mind?” he asked hesitantly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room.

All eyes turned to Byleth, including Edelgard’s, her sharp intuition already sensing that he had uncovered something significant. She took a step closer, her voice quiet but firm. “You’ve thought of someone, haven’t you? Someone who might know more about Ashen. About Kazamir.”

Byleth met her gaze, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty. “I might. Two people, to be precise. They’re our best chance to learn about Ashen’s past.”

Edelgard’s expression tightened. “Do you think they’ll help us?”

“I don’t know,” Byleth admitted. “But it’s worth trying."

Claude leaned back, his arms still crossed, a smirk playing at his lips despite the tension. “And where exactly are these mysterious informants?”

Byleth’s answer was calm but resolute. “Magdred Way.”

The name hung in the air like a challenge. Claude let out a low whistle. “That’s quite the journey. If you’re going there, you’ll need speed. Take Adalinda—my wyvern. She’ll get you there in three days, tops.”

Byleth nodded in appreciation, but before he could speak, Claude was already on his feet, gesturing for him to follow. “Alright, let’s go get Adalinda.”

Edelgard and Byleth walked with Claude through the camp toward the wyvern’s enclosure. The crisp night air carried a faint chill, and the distant sounds of soldiers preparing for battle echoed faintly. When they reached the enclosure, they found the wyvern, a majestic creature with deep emerald scales, sleeping soundly under the moonlight.

Claude approached her with a soft smile. “Hey, girl… how are you doing?” he murmured, his voice affectionate.

Adalinda stirred at the sound of his voice, her massive head lifting slowly. Recognizing him, she gave a soft rumble and nuzzled against his chest, her golden eyes gleaming in the dark. Claude patted her neck gently. “That’s my girl. You’re going to help Teach out, alright?”

Edelgard watched the interaction with a rare softness in her expression, the faintest smile playing at her lips. “Is she always this friendly?” she asked, folding her arms as she observed the wyvern’s almost dog-like demeanor.

Claude chuckled, running his hand along Adalinda’s smooth, gleaming scales. “Oh, she’s a sweetheart. She’s thirteen years old now, which is practically a teenager for wyverns. Still, they keep that childish streak for a while. Don’t let her playful nature fool you, though—she’s fast. Fast enough to outrun anything Ashen might send your way.”

Byleth stood a step behind them, his face unreadable as usual, though there was a faint tension in his stance. Claude’s gaze shifted to him, his tone growing more serious. “So, Teach, where are you heading? You mentioned two people who might help, but you’ve been cagey about the details.”

Byleth hesitated, his lips pressed into a thin line. He glanced at Edelgard, silently asking for permission. Her crimson eyes met his, and after a moment’s thought, she gave him a small nod. He turned back to Claude, his voice steady but heavy with meaning. “Seteth and Flayn.”

Claude froze, his usual nonchalance stripped away in an instant. His golden eyes widened in disbelief. “Seteth and Flayn? You’re kidding…” His voice trailed off as the weight of the names settled over him. “I thought they were dead. We all thought they were dead.”

Edelgard unfolded her arms, her expression serious. “They nearly were,” she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. “During one of our most desperate battles, when they were losing too many knights, Seteth made a choice. He offered their lives in exchange for silence. If we spared them, they would go into hiding to protect Flayn.”

Claude’s brows knitted together as he absorbed the revelation. “And you let them go?” His tone was incredulous but not accusatory.

“I did,” Edelgard replied, her gaze unwavering. “Flayn’s life was at stake, and Seteth… he would have torn through anything to keep her safe. It wasn’t a decision made lightly.”

Byleth added, his voice quieter, “I helped them find a new home. Somewhere far from all of this. Seteth still holds his grudge against me, but they’re alive. And right now, they are our best chance to understand Ashen.”

Claude nodded slowly, his expression conflicted. “I can’t believe it… but if anyone would know something, it’s them" He met Byleth’s eyes. “You’re really going to see them?”

“I will,” Byleth affirmed. “I’ll gather all the information I can. Edelgard will lead in my absence.”

Edelgard’s lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t argue her role but crossed her arms. “I don’t mind being in charge, but someone needs to watch over you. I can’t let you face Ashen alone.”

Before Byleth could respond, a voice interrupted. “You’re not going alone.”

Shez stepped out from behind a nearby wall, her expression firm but tinged with concern. She had clearly overheard everything. “I’m coming with you. You’re still healing, and it’s not smart for you to face this by yourself.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed. “Shez, this isn’t—”

“She’s right.” Edelgard’s voice cut through his protest. Her crimson eyes glimmered with an emotion that was rare for her: fear. “I agree with Shez.”

Byleth opened his mouth to argue, but Edelgard stepped forward, her hands capturing his. “No,” she said firmly, cutting him off before he could begin. Her grip was gentle but unyielding, her slender fingers trembling ever so slightly against his calloused ones. “I almost lost you once, Byleth. And then I almost lost you again.” Her voice cracked, and the regret in her tone sliced through the air like a blade. “I won’t go through that a third time.”

He looked down at her, his heart aching at the vulnerability in her eyes. She was always so composed, so unshakable, but now she stood before him, fear etched into her every word. “El…” he began softly, but she shook her head, tears glistening at the corners of her eyes.

“Please.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she clutched his hands tighter, her thumbs brushing over the scars on his palms. “Don’t go alone. Let her go with you. Let someone protect you when I can’t.”

The plea in her voice was more than he could bear. Slowly, he brought one of her hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I won’t go alone,” he promised, his voice steady but filled with emotion. “I’ll take Shez. I swear it.”

Edelgard let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with the lingering fear in her eyes. She nodded, her hands still lingering in his as if afraid to let go.

Turning to Shez, Byleth gave a firm nod. “Get another wyvern. We leave immediately.”

Shez hesitated, glancing at the nearby dragons. Her eyes landed on a sleek silver wyvern standing beside Claude’s own mount. “Uh… I’ve never ridden one before,” she admitted, scratching the back of her head.

Claude grinned, his usual charm slipping back into place despite the weight of the moment. “Don’t worry about it. They’re easy to get along with. Just reach out your hand.”

Shez raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

“They might hesitate,” Claude admitted with a chuckle. “This one, though, has a habit of—how should I put it?—testing people. Might chomp your hand at first, but they never did that with Byleth.”

Shez shot him a sharp look. “Not exactly reassuring.”

In her mind, Arval’s voice echoed. “They sensed the goddess in him. Perhaps… they will sense something similar in you. I am, after all, a god as well.”

Taking a deep breath, Shez extended her hand toward the wyvern. The dragon’s nostrils flared as it sniffed her cautiously, its golden eyes locking onto hers. For a tense moment, it stood still, then lowered its head, pressing its snout gently against her palm. The tension in Shez’s shoulders melted as she laughed nervously. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

Claude blinked, visibly surprised. “That was… fast. Usually takes a while for them to warm up.”

Shez smirked, her confidence returning. “Maybe it’s my charm.”

Rolling his eyes, Claude waved her off as she climbed onto the wyvern’s back. Meanwhile, Byleth approached Claude’s own dragon, mounting it with practiced ease.

Edelgard stepped forward, placing a hand on Adrestia’s saddle as her gaze met Byleth’s once more. “Promise me you’ll be okay,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm.

Byleth leaned down, brushing his hand against her cheek. “I promise,” he said, his words filled with quiet conviction.

Edelgard turned to Shez, her expression sharpening. “Look after him.”

Shez nodded, her usual cockiness giving way to earnest determination. “I will.”

Byleth gave Edelgard one last glance, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Let’s go.” With a nod, the two took to the skies, the powerful beats of the wyverns’ wings lifting them into the air.

As they disappeared into the horizon, Claude approached Edelgard, his hands on his hips. “So, what now?”

Edelgard’s gaze lingered on the sky for a moment before she turned to him. “Do you really plan to stay in Fódlan?” she asked, her tone measured.

Claude shrugged, his easygoing demeanor returning. “With Lorenz gone, the Leicester Alliance doesn’t have a true ruler. So yeah, I’m sticking around for a while. Guess I’ll have to sign a few things here and there.”

Edelgard allowed a small smirk to grace her lips. “You do. But for now, we should rest. Tomorrow, we head to House Daphnel.”

Claude nodded but hesitated. “Soon, yeah. But there’s something I need to do first.”

As he walked away, Edelgard watched him with curiosity. He approached a soldier bearing the crest of House Gloucester and spoke in hushed tones. “I need you to deliver a message to someone,” he said firmly. The soldier saluted and departed, leaving Claude to stand alone for a moment before heading off to rest.
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The next day, Ashen sat on his throne, the massive structure of blackened stone and twisted steel casting long shadows across the hall. The faint flicker of torchlight reflected in his golden eyes, illuminating his expression—a mix of cold calculation and an undertone of restlessness. His sharp claws tapped rhythmically against the armrest, a steady reminder of his impatience. He was hungry, but it wasn’t just for food. His mind churned with thoughts of where to strike next, how to tighten his grasp over the scattered remnants of resistance. Yet, despite his musings, his stomach growled audibly, cutting through the silence like a blade.

He exhaled sharply and rose from the throne, his towering frame casting an imposing silhouette. He barked an order to the nearest soldier, his voice resonating with authority. “Bring the princess and the boy. I want to eat with them.”

The soldier bowed and quickly disappeared, returning moments later with Clainsiia and her younger brother, Jeralt, in tow. Clainsiia held Jeralt close to her, her expression a mixture of defiance and unease as she stepped into the hall. Ashen’s gaze swept over them, lingering on the boy’s innocent face before he motioned for them to follow him.

The three of them walked through the winding corridors until they reached the mess hall. It was a stark, utilitarian space, the air filled with the scents of cooked meat and freshly baked bread. Clainsiia couldn’t hide her surprise; the food smelled… good. Not the meager scraps she’d expected prisoners to be served.

Ashen gestured for them to sit. Clainsiia hesitated, clutching Jeralt tighter. “Why have you brought us here?” she demanded, her voice steady but her hands trembling.

Ashen tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Even prisoners must eat,” he said, his tone cold but not unkind. He extended his clawed hands toward Jeralt. “Give me the boy. You can eat with the others.”

Clainsiia froze, her protective instincts screaming against the idea. But Jeralt, wide-eyed and trusting, reached out toward Ashen. With a deep breath, Clainsiia handed him over, watching as Ashen’s scaled hand cradled the child with surprising gentleness. Reluctantly, she turned and joined the line of others waiting for food.

Shockingly, the food wasn’t the scraps one would expect for prisoners. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air, causing her stomach to churn in reluctant appreciation. But even with the surprising quality of the meal, the room was heavy with fear. The soldiers—these towering, scaled beasts—watched over the room with cold, piercing eyes, their very presence a reminder of the powerlessness of those who dined beneath their gaze.

Clainsiia reached the front of the line and took her tray, but her attention was quickly drawn to a small boy sitting in the corner, trembling. His thin frame and hollow cheeks betrayed his hunger, yet he clutched his tray without eating, his hands shaking so violently that the food threatened to spill.

Clainsiia’s heart ached. Her parents had taught her that a true ruler must care for her people, even in their darkest moments. She approached the boy slowly, her voice soft but steady. “Are you okay?” she asked, crouching to meet his wide, frightened eyes.

The boy flinched, his body pressing further into the wall as if he wished to disappear. “I... I didn’t mean to take too much... I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Clainsiia’s throat tightened. She placed her tray gently on the floor and extended an apple toward him, her expression warm. “It’s okay. I promise. You can trust me.”

Ashen, who had been watching from across the room, stood motionless. His eyes narrowed as he observed Clainsiia’s actions. She hadn’t even touched her food yet, and now she was offering it to another? He took a few steps forward, towering over the two. “Sit down,” he growled at her, his voice low and commanding.

Clainsiia glanced up at him briefly but returned her attention to the boy. Her hand remained steady as she held out the apple. “It’s okay,” she repeated to the boy, her voice unwavering. “You can take it.”

The boy’s eyes darted between Clainsiia and Ashen, clearly terrified. But Clainsiia smiled at him, the kind of smile that reminded him of something—someone—safe. Slowly, hesitantly, the boy reached out, his small fingers brushing against hers before snatching the apple. He devoured it with desperate hunger, the juice running down his chin as he ate.

“What’s your name?” Clainsiia asked, her tone gentle.

“Arthur,” the boy replied between bites, his voice still trembling.

Clainsiia nodded. “I’m Clainsiia von Esiner,” she said, her tone soft but proud. “Do you want the rest of my food? I’m not very hungry.”

Arthur froze mid-bite, staring at her in disbelief. “Why… why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice filled with suspicion and confusion.

Clainsiia’s expression softened. “Because no child should suffer like this,” she said quietly. “As the princess of the empire, it’s my duty to help those in need.”

Ashen watched the scene unfold with a stoic expression, but inside, something stirred. His cold exterior cracked ever so slightly as his eyes lingered on the trembling boy devouring the apple. Clainsiia’s words and actions were unsettlingly familiar, tugging at a deeply buried memory that he had long since locked away.

Ashen rubbed the back of his head, the sharp scales of his hand brushing against his own face. The sight of the children and Clainsiia’s kindness reminded him of a time when he too had witnessed such compassion—a time he cherished but could never return to.
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Flashback

Knights hurried across the stone pathways of Garreg Mach Monastery, their boots echoing through the cloisters. They were not armed as usual; instead, their hands were empty, their movements less threatening, almost cautious.

Seteth and Flayn stood near Rhea in the main hall, their faces tense but not panicked. Rhea, her serene expression masking a hint of concern, turned to them with a questioning look. “Seteth, Flayn, what is happening? Are we under attack?”

Flayn shook her head, her voice soft but insistent. “No, we’re not. The child you saved, Lady Rhea—he ran off somewhere. I was trying to bring him food when he woke up, but he got scared and fled.”

Seteth crossed his arms, his voice calm but firm. “I’ve instructed the knights not to use weapons or force. A frightened child in unfamiliar surroundings is bound to be wary, but they should have anticipated this.”

Before Rhea could respond, a familiar voice called out to her. “Rhea!” Jeralt, the stoic mercenary captain, approached with quick strides. This was before Byleth’s birth, back when Jeralt still served under the Church. His piercing gaze swept over the gathered knights. “What’s going on?”

Rhea explained briefly. “The child we rescued… he’s missing. He woke and panicked.”

Jeralt’s brows furrowed as he nodded in understanding. “That boy from a few days ago… I’ll help find him. A scared kid doesn’t need more people chasing him like prey.”

With that, Jeralt turned and ran off, his heavy armor clanking lightly as he disappeared into the halls. Seteth followed, his movements deliberate and swift. Flayn hesitated, glancing back at Rhea before heading in another direction to search.

Left alone for a moment, Rhea closed her eyes, thinking. Where would a frightened child hide? The monastery was vast, its nooks and crannies numerous. But something told her to try the mess hall.

The room was empty, the long wooden tables barren, save for the lingering scent of bread and roasted meat from earlier meals. As she walked deeper into the room, a faint sound reached her ears—a rustling, faint but persistent.

Rhea stopped and turned toward the source, her emerald eyes narrowing in curiosity. On the counter, where today’s baked goods were kept, a small hand darted up, fumbling into the basket of cookies. It grabbed one and quickly withdrew. "Hm, so there you are, child," she murmured, finding the sight of the small, sneaky hand oddly endearing. A child, frightened and alone, reaching for cookies in a place he didn’t understand—it was a poignant yet amusing image.

Walking quietly up to the counter, she watched as the hand reappeared, this time feeling around for another cookie. Anticipating the move, Rhea gently slid the basket toward herself, out of reach. The hand returned, fumbling around, but this time it landed only on the cold surface of wood.

“Wait, huh… oh come on! It was right there!” came a frustrated, muffled voice.

Rhea’s smile grew. She moved around the counter and peered beneath it. There, huddled in a cabinet with the door slightly ajar, was the boy. His black hair was messy and dull, his gray eyes wide with a mix of panic and determination. His clothes were tattered, his small form clearly worn from hardship.

“Hello, child,” Rhea said gently, her voice warm and soothing. She smiled down at him, her expression soft and inviting.

The boy’s eyes widened further, and without a word, he slammed the cabinet door shut. The sound echoed through the mess hall.

“Do not be afraid,” Rhea called softly, kneeling down beside the cabinet. “I promise, I won’t hurt you.”

From inside the cabinet came a muffled, trembling voice. “I don’t know you… I don’t know where I am… I just… I want to be alone.”

Rhea’s heart ached at the fear and mistrust in his voice. “That’s quite understandable, sweet child. You’ve been through much, haven’t you? But perhaps we could get to know each other?” she suggested, her tone gentle and encouraging. “I am Rhea. What is your name?”

The boy remained silent. His breathing was uneven, and she could hear faint sniffles from within the cabinet. He didn’t trust her—that much was clear—but Rhea was patient. She knew this would take time, and she wasn’t one to give up easily.

“You are in the Monastery of Garreg Mach,” she continued, hoping to provide some comfort by explaining his surroundings. “It is a safe place, protected by the Church of Seiros.”

For a moment, there was no response. Then, his muffled voice came through, trembling but curious. “Garreg… Mach? I’ve never heard of it.”

Rhea blinked, her surprise momentarily breaking through her calm demeanor. How could someone not know of Garreg Mach? Its history stretched back centuries, intertwined with the land itself, a beacon of faith and knowledge.

“You’ve never heard of Garreg Mach?” she asked softly, leaning closer to the cabinet. “Or the Church of Seiros?”

There was another pause, and then a simple, shaky, “No.”

Rhea’s expression softened further, though her surprise lingered. The Church of Seiros was known far and wide; its influence reached even the most remote villages. Yet here was a boy, entirely ignorant of it. She wondered where he could have come from, what life he had endured to remain so isolated from the world.

“Are you hungry, child?” she asked gently. The cabinet remained silent, but the soft rumble of his stomach betrayed him.

Rhea’s heart clenched. He hadn’t eaten in days, perhaps longer. His fragile form had already hinted at malnourishment, but now she could feel the urgency of his situation. Something else lingered in the air—a faint, almost imperceptible aura of magic, clinging to him like a thin veil. It was keeping him alive, but it was waning. Cookies alone wouldn’t save him.

“I will bring you something proper,” she said, her voice steady but warm. Rising gracefully, she moved to a nearby counter. With practiced hands, she prepared a wooden tray, placing roasted chicken, a small salad, an apple, and a slice of fresh bread alongside a handful of cookies. As she worked, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, and a familiar presence entered.

“Lady Rhea,” came the calm voice of Sophia, one of the monastery’s senior clerics. The pope-like figure approached with a serene expression. “Do you need assistance?”

Rhea turned to her with a small smile. “Sophia, could you prepare two cups of tea? My usual blend, if you would.”

“Of course, Lady Rhea,” Sophia replied, bowing slightly before departing.

Rhea turned back toward the cabinet, her soft footsteps echoing in the quiet room. She moved around the counter, the tray of food in her hands. “Sweet child,” she began, her voice gentle but firm, “please open the door. I have something for you.”

Silence greeted her, followed by a faint rustling from within the cabinet. “I… I can’t,” came the hesitant reply, barely above a whisper.

Rhea sighed softly, her patience unwavering. “I promise you, no harm will come to you. But you must eat. Your body needs it, child.”

When no response came, Rhea slowly knelt and reached for the cabinet door. As she gently pulled it open, the boy inside shrank back, his wide, frightened eyes locking onto her. The sight of the tray of food seemed to overpower his fear for a moment—his mouth watered visibly, and his stomach growled loudly, breaking the tense silence.

Rhea picked up the apple from the tray and held it out toward him. “You are hungry, yes? This is for you. But,” she paused, her voice steady but kind, “I cannot hand this to you while you stay in there. If you want this food, you will need to trust me. Please, come out.”

The boy stared at the apple, licking his lips, his small hands twitching as if to reach for it. But he remained rooted to the spot, his body trembling.

Rhea stood slowly and moved to a nearby table, setting the tray down carefully. “When you are ready, child. The food will be here.”

Just as she arranged the tray, Sophia returned, carrying two cups and a steaming teapot on a silver tray. She set them down with practiced grace. “Here is the tea you requested, Lady Rhea.”

“Thank you, Sophia.” Rhea’s gaze lingered on the cabinet, where the boy remained hidden.

Sophia followed her gaze, her brow furrowing. “Lady Rhea… who is that?”

Before Rhea could respond, there was movement. Slowly, cautiously, the boy emerged from the cabinet. His small frame was thin and frail, his clothes tattered and covered in dust. He approached the table hesitantly, his wide eyes darting between Rhea and Sophia.

Rhea turned to Sophia. “Leave us, please.”

Sophia hesitated but nodded, bowing before leaving the room.

The boy reached the table and climbed onto the chair, sitting stiffly. He stared at the food, his hands hovering as if unsure.

“Go ahead,” Rhea encouraged gently, sitting across from him. “Eat as much as you like.”

Tentatively, he picked up a piece of bread with his hands. Though silverware lay neatly beside the plate, he didn’t seem to notice or perhaps didn’t know how to use them. He tore into the bread with his hands, eating with an urgency that spoke of days without proper sustenance.

Rhea watched him with a warm smile, her heart aching for the boy. “I hope the food is to your liking,” she said softly. “May this be the start of new trust between us.”

The boy looked up briefly, crumbs falling from his lips. His gaze held a mixture of gratitude and wariness. After a moment, he swallowed and said quietly, “My name… it’s Kazamir.”

Rhea’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. “Kazamir?” she repeated, tasting the unfamiliar name. “That is a unique name. I’ve lived many years, but I’ve never heard one quite like it. It’s beautiful.”

Kazamir’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he looked down at his plate. “Why are you helping me?” he asked after a pause, his voice tinged with suspicion.

Rhea’s expression softened even further. “Because no child should suffer,” she replied, her tone gentle but firm. “The goddess views every life as precious—even a single strand of hair is important in her eyes. And,” she added with a small smile, “I do not like to see anyone, especially a child, in pain.”

Kazamir had finished his meal, his plate empty save for a few crumbs scattered across the wooden tray. Rhea reached for the teapot, her movements deliberate and calming, and poured the tea into the two delicate porcelain cups. The gentle steam curled upward, carrying the earthy and floral aroma of her favored blend.

“Have you ever had tea before, Kazamir?” she asked, sliding one cup toward him. Her voice was warm, but her eyes held a subtle curiosity.

Kazamir shook his head, his small hands hovering near the cup as though unsure how to approach it. “Never,” he admitted softly.

Rhea gave an encouraging smile. “It’s a little hot, so be sure to blow on it first.” She demonstrated, gently blowing across the surface of her own tea before taking a small sip. “There, like that.”

Kazamir mimicked her movements, his breath stirring the steam. He carefully lifted the cup, examining the handle with a hint of confusion before tentatively holding it. “Why does it have this… thing?” he asked, pointing to the handle.

Rhea chuckled softly, her laughter like the chime of a gentle bell. “It’s called a handle, dear child. It keeps your hands from getting burned when the tea is hot.”

Kazamir nodded, seemingly impressed by the practicality of it. He took a cautious sip, his eyes widening slightly as the flavor blossomed across his tongue. “It’s good,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise.

“I’m glad you like it,” Rhea said warmly. She poured a small glass of water and placed it beside him. “Here is some water as well, in case you get thirsty.”

Kazamir’s small hands wrapped around the cool glass, and he took a hesitant sip. His throat felt dry, as though the emotions he tried so hard to suppress had been lodged there for too long. The water soothed him, if only slightly, and he set the glass back down with a soft clink.

Rhea watched him closely, her gentle expression unwavering. After a moment, she asked the question that had been lingering in her mind. “Kazamir, why were you all by yourself when I found you?”

Kazamir froze, his gaze dropping to the floor as his shoulders tensed. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the hem of his sleeve, his small frame seeming even smaller under the weight of her question. “I…” he started, his voice barely a whisper. “I was kicked out of my village.”

Rhea’s brows knitted together in concern, but she remained silent, giving him the space to continue. He stared at the floor, the light of the room dimming in his eyes as he spoke.

“My father… he ruled the village. He was strong, kind… everyone looked up to him.” Kazamir’s voice trembled, his fingers tightening into fists. “But then they got sick—my father and my mother. I wanted to help. I tried to help.” He swallowed hard, his breath hitching. “But the spell… the spell I used…”

Tears welled up in his eyes and began to spill down his cheeks, leaving glistening trails on his pale skin. “It didn’t save them. It…” His voice cracked, and he choked on his words. “It killed them. I didn’t mean to! I didn’t mean to kill them! I was tricked!”

Rhea’s eyes widened, her breath catching at the raw anguish in his voice. Without hesitation, she stood and moved around the table, lowering herself to his level. She placed her hands gently on his trembling shoulders, her presence grounding him.

“What do you mean, Kazamir?” she asked softly, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Who tricked you?”

Kazamir hesitated, his gaze flickering to her face before dropping again. “Some older kids,” he admitted, his voice shaking. “They gave me the wrong book. They said it would help, that it would make me strong enough to save them. But it was a lie.” His voice broke again as more tears fell. “I just wanted to save them…”

Rhea’s heart ached as she looked into his tear-streaked face. She could see the fear in his eyes—the fear that she, too, would condemn him. He tried to stammer out more, his words spilling over each other in desperation. “And then they called me… they called me a failure. A failure of a son. A dastard child. And they threw me out…”

Kazamir’s sobs deepened, his small body shaking with the weight of his grief. Rhea pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him as she whispered, “Shh, sweet child. Shh. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.”

Her words were a balm to his shattered heart, and though his sobs continued, they softened as she gently rocked him. “You are not to blame for what happened to your parents,” she murmured, wiping his tears with the corner of her sleeve. “You were trying to save them, Kazamir. Your intentions were pure. Please believe me.”

Kazamir clung to her, the warmth of her embrace unlike anything he had felt in so long. Rhea’s voice softened further, her tone filled with unwavering reassurance. “For now on, this is your home.”

He pulled back slightly, his tear-filled eyes wide with confusion. “The mess hall?” he asked, his voice trembling but earnest.

Rhea chuckled softly, a sound so gentle it made his heart feel lighter. “No, sweet child. The monastery is your home now.”

Kazamir blinked, his tears slowing as the weight of her words began to sink in. “I… I don’t know anything about this place,” he admitted hesitantly.

Rhea smiled, a maternal warmth shining in her expression. “Then I will show you.” She stood gracefully and offered her hand to him. “Come, Kazamir.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his small hand hovering near hers. But then his eyes met her smile, and he felt something he hadn’t felt in so long—a mother’s warmth. Tentatively, he placed his hand in hers, her grip firm but gentle.

Hand in hand, they began to walk through the monastery. Rhea spoke softly, pointing out the gardens where flowers bloomed in vibrant colors, the grand library filled with endless knowledge, and the quiet chapel where peace seemed to radiate from every corner. With each step, Kazamir felt the burden on his heart grow lighter.
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Present day

Ashen’s eyes were closed, the cold air of the dining hall brushing against his scaled skin. When he opened them again, Clainsiia was standing right in front of him, her baby brother Jeralt nestled tightly in her arms. Her eyes held a mixture of concern and determination as she met his gaze.

“Are you mad at me… for giving up my food?” she asked softly, her voice hesitant but unwavering.

Ashen blinked, surprised by the question. For a moment, he didn’t respond, his golden eyes studying her intently. Finally, he asked, “Why did you help the boy?”

His voice was different this time—not cold, not commanding, but softer, almost curious. Clainsiia’s lips parted, taken aback by the gentleness in his tone. She wasn’t expecting such a question, much less from someone like him. She shifted Jeralt slightly in her arms, her thoughts searching for the right words.

“My father and mother… they always helped people,” she began, her voice steady but warm. “Especially my father. He used to say, ‘When someone is in need, help them the best you can. It doesn’t matter who they are.’” Her gaze dropped briefly to Jeralt, who rested his head on her shoulder. “It makes my heart feel warm when I know I’ve done my best for someone.”

Ashen was silent for a long moment. His claws, which had been tapping against his arm earlier, were now still. He blinked slowly, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as if he was turning her words over in his mind. “I see,” he finally said, his voice neutral but tinged with something deeper—something uncertain.

Without another word, he gently handed Jeralt back to her. Clainsiia took her brother, her arms wrapping protectively around the child as she asked cautiously, “Are you going to eat?”

Ashen shook his head. “I’ve lost my appetite.” He turned toward one of his best soldiers, a towering beast with thick scales and burning red eyes. “Make sure those who are afraid to eat get a good amount of food. We need the slaves strong if they’re to be of use.”

The beast cook, understanding the order, bowed deeply. Ashen turned back to Clainsiia and said, “Let’s head back to your room… child.” His voice was softer now, and Clainsiia tilted her head, her eyes searching his face. There was something different in his tone, something that hinted at an unfamiliar kindness. She couldn’t pinpoint it, but it lingered, making her chest feel heavy and strange.

Clainsiia glanced down at Jeralt, cradled snugly in her arms. She whispered to him, almost as if testing her own thoughts, “He’s showing kindness.” Her voice was barely audible, yet she felt the weight of her words as they left her lips. She glanced back up at Ashen, whose golden eyes momentarily flicked toward her. She saw no reaction but suspected her words hadn’t gone unheard.

“What made you change?” she asked quietly, her voice more curious than accusatory.

Ashen’s gaze hardened slightly, and his lips tightened. “What you said,” he replied simply. But his tone made it clear he wasn’t open to discussing it further.

Clainsiia frowned, unsure if he meant her story about her parents or something else. “What do you mean?” she pressed gently.

“Enough,” Ashen said, a faint edge to his voice, though it lacked its usual cold bite. He turned abruptly, motioning for her to follow. Despite the gruffness, she felt the shift in him—a hesitation she hadn’t seen before. Whatever she had said had truly struck a chord. She kept her thoughts to herself as she trailed behind him, Jeralt now fast asleep in her arms.

When they reached her room, Ashen opened the door and stepped aside to let her enter. The moment she did, he slammed the door shut behind her, the sound reverberating through the stone walls. Jeralt startled awake, his small cries filling the room.

“Shh, not now,” Clainsiia murmured, gently rocking him as she tried to calm him. But Jeralt’s cries only grew louder, his tiny fists flailing as tears streamed down his face.

Clainsiia set him down carefully on the bed and rubbed her temples, trying to think. “What do I do?” she whispered to herself, glancing down at her baby brother, who wailed uncontrollably. She covered her face with her hands, letting out a frustrated sigh. When she uncovered her face, Jeralt’s cries softened. He blinked up at her, his lips quivering but the sobs slowing.

“Wait…” she murmured, lowering her hands and then raising them quickly. “Boo!” she said softly, her voice playful. Jeralt’s cries turned to a hesitant giggle, his little hands reaching toward her.

Encouraged, Clainsiia repeated the action. “Boo!” she said again, grinning as Jeralt burst into laughter. The sound was pure and bright, filling the room like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. She continued the game, her own laughter joining his as they shared the simple joy of the moment.

Outside the door, Ashen paused. He had been on his way to the war room, his mind already shifting to strategy and battle. But the sound of laughter stopped him. For a moment, he stood still, his clawed hand resting against the cold stone wall. “Talk about family love,” he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a hint of something wistful. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away, his heavy steps echoing in the corridor.

When he reached the palace courtyard, he motioned for one of his soldiers to approach. The beast, a hulking creature with fiery eyes and jagged scales, bowed deeply. “What’s the date?” Ashen asked sharply, his tone regaining its usual authority.

“The second day of the Pegasus Moon, my lord,” the beast soldier responded, its deep voice reverberating through the air.

Ashen’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening into a scowl. His claws twitched at his sides, the sound of grinding metal audible as he clenched his fists. “The second day…” he muttered, his voice dangerously low. Fury began to simmer beneath the surface, his entire demeanor shifting from icy control to a storm barely restrained. He turned his head sharply toward the beast soldier, his gaze cutting like a blade.

“Listen closely,” Ashen growled. “I will be leaving immediately and will not return until the fourth day. I have business to attend to.”

The soldier lowered its head, unflinching in the face of Ashen’s wrath. “As you command, my lord. What are your orders for the palace?”

“Gather reinforcements from Helheim Mountain. Bring every beast to transform,” Ashen ordered, his tone final and brooking no argument. “Make sure they are prepared for the worst.”

The soldier thumped its chest with a clawed hand in a gesture of respect and obedience. “It shall be done, my lord.”

Without another word, Ashen turned on his heel, his movements rigid with barely contained anger. He strode toward the open courtyard, his boots striking the stone with resounding authority. As he stepped into the sunlight, his massive wings erupted from his back. With one powerful beat, he ascended into the night sky, the force of his takeoff shaking the ground beneath him.

Inside the palace, Clainsiia had just managed to lull Jeralt back to sleep when she caught sight of Ashen soaring upward through the window. She rose to her feet, her brow furrowing in curiosity. “Where is he going?” she murmured to herself, watching his figure shrink against the stars. There was an urgency in his flight that unsettled her.

She couldn’t help but think back to the softness she had glimpsed in him earlier, the way his tone had shifted when he called her “child.” It felt fleeting, like a fragile ember struggling to stay alight against the wind.

Chapter Text

It had been a long flight, and the wyverns’ powerful wings beat against the cold wind as Shez and Byleth soared high above the familiar landscape of Fódlan. The horizon was painted with the soft hues of dusk, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth below. Byleth’s sharp eyes caught sight of Garreg Mach Monastery.

He turned slightly, shouting over the wind to Shez, “We’ll need to land at the monastery. The wyverns need rest.”

Shez glanced at him, nodding in agreement as she adjusted her grip on the reins. “Got it!” she called back, guiding her mount to follow his lead.

The descent was steady, the wyverns gliding down with practiced ease. The closer they got to the monastery, the more the details came into focus—the stone walls bearing marks of battle, the statues standing sentinel like guardians of the past. They landed in the courtyard, and a small group of knights, clad in patched but well-kept armor, approached to take the wyverns for care and rest.

“Thanks,” Byleth muttered to the knights, watching as the creatures were led away. His gaze lingered on the worn stone beneath his feet, memories stirring unbidden. He hadn’t been here since… since Ashen. The name was a bitter taste in his mouth, a shadow that loomed over him even now.

“How long do you think we’ll need?” Shez asked, brushing strands of wind-tossed hair out of her face.

Byleth shook his head slightly, his voice subdued. “An hour. Maybe two. The wyverns need it, and we could use the break.”

Shez’s violet eyes studied him for a moment. “You haven’t been here since…” She didn’t finish, but the weight of her words lingered.

“Since Ashen took my children,” Byleth finished for her, his tone grim. He looked around, the memories of that dark day flashing through his mind like ghosts. “I didn’t think I’d ever come back.”

“I can’t blame you,” Shez said quietly, her usual energy tempered by the gravity of the moment. “But maybe being here will help.”

Byleth glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. He nodded toward the mess hall. “Since we’re here, we might as well eat. The mess hall should still have something.”

Shez gave him a small smile and shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’m starving anyway.”

Together, they made their way through the courtyard, the sound of their boots echoing faintly against the worn stone. The monastery felt almost eerily quiet compared to the vibrant energy it had once held. Entering the mess hall, they were greeted by the faint aroma of stews and baked bread. The tables were sparsely filled, a stark contrast to the bustling crowds they both remembered from years past.

Grabbing trays, they each picked out a modest meal—some warm soup, a hunk of bread, and a small plate of cheese. The simplicity of the food felt like a distant echo of the lives they used to lead here. They chose a quiet corner table, sitting across from each other. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was a weight to it, as if the air was charged with unspoken thoughts.

As they ate, Shez’s expression shifted slightly, her violet eyes narrowing as if she were listening to something far away. Arval’s voice echoed softly in her mind, smooth and deliberate.

“Since you’re here, Shez, why not search for clues about Ashen? The monastery has seen countless secrets. Perhaps it still holds some answers.”

Shez blinked, pausing mid-bite. She glanced up at Byleth, who was staring intently at his own bowl, his expression distant. Then his jaw tightened ever so slightly, and his eyes flickered—a sure sign that Sothis was speaking to him.

“Byleth, while we’re here, perhaps we should investigate further,” Sothis’s voice murmured in his mind, her tone contemplative. “Ashen’s connection to this place may run deeper than you realize. Rhea had a way of hiding knowledge where others would not think to look.”

Both Shez and Byleth raised their heads at the same moment, their eyes locking. A charged silence hung between them before they both spoke in unison.

“I think we can find clues about Ashen here.”

The synchronicity of their words caught them both off guard. Shez tilted her head, a faint grin tugging at her lips despite the seriousness of the moment. “Okay, that was weird.”

Byleth allowed himself a faint smile. “What made you think that?”

Shez leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the table. “I was thinking—Ashen knew Rhea, right? Maybe Rhea had some notes or information on him. She was big on keeping records.”

Byleth nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s possible, but if Rhea did have notes, most of them were likely gone thanks to that thief. Still…” His voice trailed off as he considered the possibilities. “There could be something. Something overlooked.”

“Exactly,” Shez said, a spark of determination in her voice. “I’ll check the library. If anyone left records about Ashen, they’d probably be buried in some forgotten stack of books.”

Byleth pushed his empty tray aside and stood, his movements deliberate. “I’ll check Rhea’s old quarters. If there’s anything personal she kept, it might still be there. We’ll meet back here once we’re done.”

Shez nodded, rising from her seat and slinging her sword over her back. “Alright. Let’s find some answers.”

With a shared look of determination, they left the mess hall, parting ways in the quiet corridors of the monastery.
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Shez moved swiftly toward the library, her boots echoing faintly in the stillness of the ancient halls. The scent of old parchment and polished wood enveloped her as she entered the cavernous room, its towering shelves casting long shadows under the dim torchlight. She made her way toward the far corner, her gaze focused on a particular shelf.

Her fingers brushed across the spines of aged tomes until they rested on a book with a title etched in faded gold: The Rival of the Goddess. Shez pulled it free, its weight familiar in her hands. Without hesitation, she placed it back on the shelf, pressing it inward until a faint click echoed.

The shelf shifted slightly, and with a groaning sound, a hidden doorway slid open, revealing the secret room beyond.

“Back to this again?” Arval’s voice murmured in her mind, smooth yet curious. “What makes you think this place has anything left to offer?”

Shez stepped inside, her hand brushing against the cold stone walls as her violet eyes scanned the room. “Call it a hunch,” she said softly. “Sometimes secrets are where you least expect them. Maybe this room holds more than we found before.”

The chamber was sparse, its walls lined with faint etchings that seemed to whisper forgotten tales. A stand in the center held a collection of notes, yellowed with age. Shez approached it, her heart quickening as she carefully lifted one of the pages.

Nothing. The notes were indecipherable scrawls, fragments of old prayers and records. She moved the stand slightly, hoping it might trigger some hidden mechanism, but the room remained stubbornly silent.

“Perhaps this room’s secrets were just the old notes,” Arval mused.

Shez sighed, letting the paper fall back into place. “You’re probably right,” she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. She stepped back toward the entrance, glancing over her shoulder one last time before sliding the secret door shut behind her.

Her gaze fell once more on The Rival of the Goddess. Something about the book lingered in her thoughts. She reached for it, tucking it under her arm.

“We’ll take this,” she said decisively. “It might be useful when we run into the people Byleth’s meeting. Better to have it than leave it.”

Arval hummed in agreement. “Prudent. Information can be a weapon, after all.”

As Shez made her way back toward the courtyard, she muttered, “I hope Byleth’s having better luck than me.”
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It was quiet as Byleth entered Rhea’s old quarters. The air felt heavier here, the weight of history pressing against his chest. Sothis’s voice was the first to break the silence, soft and almost wistful.

“Do you remember the first time you came here?” she asked, her tone tinged with a rare gentleness. “You were so nervous. I could feel it radiating off you.”

Byleth gave a faint nod, his hand resting on the doorframe as his gaze swept across the room. “I didn’t know what to expect from Rhea,” he admitted, his voice low. “My father told me not to trust her, and I didn’t understand why. Back then, everything felt...uncertain.”

Sothis hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps he feared what you would learn. Or maybe he feared for you. Either way, you’ve grown much since then.”

Byleth stepped inside, his boots brushing against the worn carpet. The room was unchanged, yet it felt alien, as though the passing years had stripped it of the warmth it once held. He moved toward a small table, his eyes scanning a stack of books resting upon it.

“History and storybooks,” he murmured, flipping through one of the covers. The pages revealed familiar texts—tales he’d read countless times in the monastery’s library. He let the book close with a quiet thud. “Nothing new.”

“You’ve always been thorough,” Sothis remarked with a hint of teasing. “Perhaps the drawers and dressers hold more secrets?”

Byleth moved to the dresser, pulling open each drawer with methodical precision. They were empty, save for a few scraps of fabric and a stray feather. His search turned up nothing of value, and he exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping slightly.

“Not much here either,” he muttered.

Sothis’s voice, calm yet insistent, broke through his disappointment. “Check the closet."

Byleth turned toward the closet, its wooden doors weathered but sturdy. He opened it slowly, the hinges creaking in protest. Inside, the space was sparse, containing only a few ceremonial robes and an old chest. He knelt, his hand brushing over the chest’s surface, but it was locked. Disappointed, he stood, his eyes catching on a yellowed piece of paper wedged in the corner of the closet.

He reached for it, unfolding it carefully. The note was short and written in an elegant, familiar hand.

“Mother, I am heading to the Holy Tomb to pray for forgiveness. Be back in an hour.”

Byleth read it aloud, his voice carrying a faint echo in the quiet room.

Sothis was silent for a moment, her presence steady in his mind. “Forgiveness? For what, I wonder?”

Byleth stood still, the yellowed note trembling slightly in his grasp. He felt the weight of Sothis’s words settle in his chest, the mystery clawing at the edges of his mind. “I don’t know,” he whispered, the words more to himself than to her.

“You should find Shez,” Sothis suggested, her voice soft yet resolute. “Perhaps together you can piece this puzzle together. She has a way of uncovering things others overlook.”

Byleth nodded, folding the note carefully. With one last glance around Rhea’s quarters, he stepped out, the door closing behind him with a faint creak.
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Back at the mess hall, the dim light of candles flickered against the worn stone walls as Byleth approached Shez, who was seated at a table surrounded by open books and scrolls. She was leaning over one particularly worn tome, her brow furrowed in concentration. The clatter of his boots on the stone floor drew her attention, and she looked up, her expression softening.

“Any luck?” Byleth asked, his voice quiet but steady.

Shez let out a small sigh, pushing the book aside. “Not really. But I did find this.” She held up a thick, weathered book, its leather cover cracked with age. The title, The Rival of the Goddess, was barely legible, etched in faded gold letters. “If we’re going to be chasing down these mysteries, I figured it couldn’t hurt to bring it along. Might give us some context if we run into the people we're trying to see."

Byleth nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s a good idea.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the yellowed note. “I found this in Rhea’s quarters. It looks like Ashen went to the Holy Tomb years ago.”

Shez tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “The Holy Tomb? Where’s that?”

“It’s underground, beneath the monastery,” Byleth explained, his gaze distant as memories stirred.

Shez stood, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. “Then let’s head there now. No point in waiting around.”

Byleth agreed, and together they made their way toward the entrance to the underground passage. The air grew colder as they descended the winding staircase, the faint smell of earth and stone growing stronger with each step. Byleth lit a torch, the warm glow pushing back the encroaching darkness.

“It’s been so long since I’ve been down here,” Byleth admitted, his voice echoing faintly in the narrow corridor.

The cold, damp air seemed to wrap around them, and the faint torchlight barely illuminated the worn stone walls. His expression was unreadable, his mind clearly lost in memories.

Shez glanced at him, her curiosity piqued by the tone of his voice. “What happened last time you were here?” she asked, her voice soft but probing.

Byleth’s steps slowed, and he turned his gaze toward her. For a moment, it seemed as though he wasn’t going to answer, but then he sighed. “Rhea brought me and my students here. She showed us everything—the relics, the history, even the throne where Sothis once sat.”

Shez raised an eyebrow. “The throne of Sothis? That sounds... intense.”

“It was,” Byleth replied, his tone tinged with a somber weight. “But that wasn’t all. That day, Edelgard revealed herself as the Flame Emperor. She didn’t want to fight us—she only wanted to destroy the Crest Stones. But... I made a choice.”

Shez tilted her head, her gaze softening. “So why Edelgard?”

Byleth stopped mid-step, his breath catching in the chill of the subterranean corridor. He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the torchlight, but his mind seemed miles away. Memories stirred—a familiar warmth wrapped in ambition, her voice cutting through the doubts he didn’t know he carried.

He finally spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Before we were... what we are now, she once asked me what I would use my power for. If given the choice, would I wield it for myself? For the world? I told her... I’d use it for my students and for her. Especially for her.”

Shez’s expression shifted, a small smile gracing her lips. “Looks like it paid off,” she said gently, glancing at him with an approving look before they continued their descent.

As they arrived at the Holy Tomb, the cold air seemed to press heavier against their skin. The damage from the battle twelve years ago was stark—a testament to the chaos that had unfolded there. Stones were cracked and displaced, and the faint scorch marks of battle still lingered, ghosts of a past neither could ignore.

Shez ran her fingers over a nearby column. “Do you really think we’ll find anything here?” she asked, her voice carrying both hope and skepticism.

Byleth scanned the room, his sharp gaze taking in every detail. “We have to try.”

The two split up, each navigating the ruined expanse of the tomb. They overturned every tombstone and checked every alcove, their movements precise yet tinged with growing exhaustion. The silence was broken only by the scrape of stone against stone as they worked.

After a while, Shez sighed, pausing to lean against a cracked pillar. Her fingers brushed against the strap of her satchel, her fatigue evident.

Arval’s voice echoed softly in her mind. “You seem tired.”

Shez frowned slightly. “I’m fine. It’s just... moving tombs made of solid stone isn’t exactly a walk in the park.”

Byleth, noticing her weariness, approached. “Are you okay?” he asked, his tone as calm and steady as ever, though his concern was clear.

Shez straightened, brushing off his worry with a tired smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just... these stone tombs aren’t making it easy.”

In the back of Byleth’s mind, Sothis’s voice emerged, her tone warm but firm. “She needs to rest. Tell her to sit on the throne.”

Byleth hesitated for a moment before nodding. “You should take a break. Go sit on the throne for a bit.”

Shez gave a tired nod, brushing her hair back from her face. “Alright, but don’t slack off while I’m gone.” She gave him a small smirk, attempting to lighten the mood before making her way toward the throne.

The steps leading to the ancient seat of Sothis were uneven, each carrying the weight of years of history and battles long past. Shez’s footsteps echoed faintly as she climbed, her eyes scanning the intricate carvings along the walls. When she reached the top, she paused for a moment, her gaze falling on the throne. It was massive, imposing, and etched with symbols of the goddess. She placed her hand on its armrest, feeling the cold, ancient stone beneath her fingers.

Arval’s voice echoed softly in her mind. “This throne... It’s not just for sitting. Perhaps there’s more to it.”

Shez frowned, her fingers idly tracing the surface. “You think there’s some kind of mechanism? Maybe a hidden lever or button?”

Arval’s tone grew more curious. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

“I doubt I’ll have to lift anything,” Shez muttered under her breath, her voice laced with skepticism. But as her hands moved across the throne’s surface, she felt something—a faint groove near the base of the split in the stone. She knelt, squinting to see the faint outline of a hidden compartment. Pressing her palm against the groove, she felt a slight shift. With a low rumble, the lower side of the throne opened.

Her heart quickened as she leaned back and shouted, “Byleth! You need to see this!”

Down below, Byleth froze at the sound of her voice. Sothis’s voice chimed in his mind, her tone tinged with intrigue. “She’s found something. Go to her.”

Byleth ascended the steps quickly, his sharp eyes immediately falling on the now-exposed compartment beneath the throne. He crouched beside Shez, noting the small, ornate chest nestled within. The craftsmanship was intricate, marked with symbols of the Immaculate One.

“Help me get it out,” Byleth said, his voice steady despite the unease building within him.

Together, they pulled the chest free. It was surprisingly heavy, and as they placed it on the ground, Shez noticed the lock sealing it shut.

“Locked,” she noted. “Got any keys hidden in that cloak of yours?”

Byleth pulled out his dagger instead. “No, but this should do.”

Carefully, he inserted the dagger into the lock, angling it with practiced precision. There was a faint click, and the lock gave way. Byleth exhaled and placed the dagger aside before lifting the lid of the ornate chest.

Inside, the first thing they noticed was a painting. It was aged but preserved remarkably well, its colors still vibrant despite the passing years. The image depicted Rhea, serene and majestic as always, but beside her stood a young boy. He had striking black hair and piercing gray eyes, a stark contrast to her ethereal presence.

Shez leaned in, her brows furrowing. “Do you think... that could be Ashen?”

Byleth didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the painting. There was an undeniable sense of familiarity, a connection he couldn’t explain but felt deeply. After a moment, he carefully set the painting aside to reveal more of the chest's contents.

A sword rested beneath the painting, its blade gleaming despite its age. The symbol of the Immaculate One was etched into the center of the blade, radiating an otherworldly aura. Alongside it were stacks of old parchments, detailing history, battle strategies, and techniques far beyond anything Byleth had seen. But what caught his attention most was a journal. Its leather cover was worn, and the name “Kazamir” was etched faintly into its surface.

Byleth carefully picked up the journal, his fingers brushing over the name. “This must be his,” he said quietly.

Shez watched him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and unease. “What’s inside?”

Byleth hesitated but eventually opened it. The first few pages were filled with notes written in an elegant hand, detailing theories and experiments. But as he flipped further, his eyes narrowed, and his expression darkened. He began reading aloud, his voice steady but laced with tension.

“Rhea, my mother... if you read this, I... I know about your tests. I know you’re trying to recreate the goddess... your mother. I will do what I can to never fail you. I stole a human heart, and I know about Sitri having the Crest of Flames.”

Byleth froze, his voice faltering. “Sitri...” he murmured, the name lingering in the air like a haunting echo.

Shez stepped closer, her concern evident. “Byleth? What is it?”

Byleth’s hands tightened around the journal as he continued silently, his expression growing more pained with each word. He finally reached a passage that caused him to draw in a sharp breath.

“You buried the goddess’s Crest Stone within her, for you created her. And I know about you giving Jeralt your blood so he could live... both their bloods, a smithing stone, and a human heart. That’s all I’ll need to make the heart of the goddess... I know this is forbidden, but I want to make you hap—”

The sentence was unfinished. The words trailed off, as if the writer had been interrupted. Byleth’s hands trembled slightly as he let the journal slip from his grasp, landing on the stone floor with a muted thud.

“Byleth!” Shez said, her voice sharp with worry. She crouched to pick up the journal, her eyes searching his face. “Are you okay?”

Byleth stood, his hand running through his hair as he processed the words still ringing in his mind. The pieces of the puzzle Rhea had kept from him were finally fitting together, but they painted a picture he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. Another secret, buried in shadows, tied him irrevocably to her—a truth that explained her strange protectiveness and her desire for him to sit on Sothis' throne.

“I was created by her,” he admitted, his voice heavy with resignation. “My father, Jeralt... my mother, Sitri... everything about my existence was a part of her plan. And now, Ashen...” His gaze dropped to the journal, its secrets bleeding into his thoughts like a poison.

Shez froze, her usual confidence momentarily overtaken by shock. The weight of Byleth's words hung in the air, and her curiosity burned brighter. She reached for the journal, flipping through its pages hurriedly. “There’s more,” she said, her voice almost trembling as she noticed additional entries, marked by dates scrawled hastily at the top of each page. She began to read aloud.

“After some time, after mother stopped me…I convinced her to give me the crest stone I created, and so she did. I said I was going to destroy it, but I lied to her. I ran to a room and locked the door. Mother had a few knights, and they were trying to stop me. It was just me and the heart in the room. I was trying to figure out how I could make this work…I didn’t know how to create a body for the goddess to return, but yet…there was just my body. I saw a knife and stabbed myself enough to see my heart. When I put the goddess’s crest stone in me, it wrapped around mine, and I healed myself…but then I died. And after a while, I…I woke up on my mother’s lap. She had tears and was smiling to see me alive…but I looked different. My hair and my eyes were light green, and I realized I now held the powers of the progenitor god herself. Though I couldn’t bring the goddess back in person…I was filled with joy to obtain her powers…and with this power, I promised to change Fódlan for a bright future!”

Shez’s voice faltered, her breath hitching as she turned the next page, only to find it blank. “There’s nothing else,” she muttered, flipping through page after page of emptiness. “The journal’s only halfway full, but it’s as if he never got to finish it.”

Arval’s voice echoed faintly in her mind, contemplative yet sharp. “A dead end. Or perhaps…something left unfinished on purpose.”

“Shez?” Byleth asked, his tone calm but laced with curiosity.

She shook her head, holding the journal out for him. “That’s all there is. It’s like he never had the chance to finish it. But we learned…something about him. About you.”

Byleth’s expression darkened as he accepted the journal, turning it over in his hands. “It doesn’t add up,” he admitted after a moment. “Rhea’s notes—the ones she wrote before the thief stole them—mentioned that she once thought Kazamir was worthy to have Sothis’s power. Yet here, he claims he created the heart himself and implanted it in his own body. Rhea didn’t want him to have it. If that’s true…what is the truth?”

Shez tilted her head, frowning. “There’s only one way to know. We need to confront Seteth and Flayn, ask them directly.”

Byleth nodded, his determination evident as he carefully picked up the journal and the Sword of the Creator. “We’ll take this and present it to them. If there are answers to be found, they might know more than we do.” He glanced at Shez, who was holding the painting that had been stashed alongside the journal, her expression unreadable.

Together, they ascended from the dim, oppressive tombs. The air grew lighter as they moved closer to the surface, though the weight of their discoveries remained heavy on their shoulders. Byleth, his thoughts swirling, reached out mentally to Sothis. "Sothis, do you remember anything about this? About how you met Ashen?"

Her voice, soft yet laden with thought, resonated in his mind. "It is… hazy, but I do recall. He appeared before me suddenly, with my powers already within him. His green eyes and hair marked him as touched by my essence, but how he came to hold such power... I never knew. When we met, he was already imbued with it. I wish I could give you more, child, but it seems even I was in the dark."

Byleth’s grip tightened on the journal as they neared the monastery’s surface. Hopefully, we’ll uncover more soon. We need to know who he truly was—and why.

As they emerged into the morning light of the monastery’s courtyard, Byleth turned to Shez. “How long do you think we were down there?”

Shez shielded her eyes against the sun, thinking for a moment. “A few hours, at least. Enough for the monastery to have settled into its usual routine.” She lowered her hand, giving him a lopsided grin. “You know, the dragons around here probably could use some rest. Maybe we should take a breather ourselves—save some energy for whatever tomorrow throws at us.”

Byleth nodded, appreciating the practicality of her suggestion. “Agreed. Let’s not exhaust ourselves before we even begin.” He glanced toward the training grounds, his instincts pulling him toward the familiar comfort of practice. “A little sparring, perhaps, before we call it a day?”

Shez smirked. “Trying to keep up with me, are you?”

As they moved to the training grounds, Byleth felt Sothis stir within him. Her voice was quiet but insistent. "Byleth, keep a closer watch on Shez. There is… something about her."

He glanced at her spectral form, hovering just at the edge of his vision. "Why? What do you sense?"

Sothis’s expression was unreadable, her eyes narrowing. "I cannot say for sure. But there is a spark within her—one that feels oddly familiar. Just… watch her. Carefully."

Byleth’s brows furrowed as he turned his attention back to Shez, who was already stretching and preparing for their bout. He didn’t respond to Sothis but made a mental note to heed her warning.

The sparring session was intense yet invigorating. The clash of steel and the swift movements seemed to lighten the weight of their discoveries, if only temporarily. By the time they finished, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting the monastery in warm hues of orange and gold. Exhausted but satisfied, they decided to retire for the evening.

Chapter Text

The next day, after arriving at House Daphnel, Edelgard surveyed her troops with a keen eye, sensing the weariness that clung to their bones. “Everyone, take a break,” she announced firmly, her voice carrying across the bustling encampment. As her command was obeyed, the soldiers dispersed, seeking moments of respite in the morning sun.

Petra sat alone, her gaze fixed on the ground, lost in a tumult of emotions. The weight of her secret pressed heavily on her, and she struggled with the desire to continue fighting beside her friend and the reality of her pregnancy. Caspar, noticing her distant look, settled beside her, his presence a silent pillar of support.

“They will have to know, Petra,” Caspar murmured, his voice low but earnest. “We will have to come clean.”

Petra nodded, the conflict visible in her eyes. “I know this, Caspar. But my heart... it still longs to stand in battle with her.”

Caspar squeezed her hand gently. “I understand. But this,” he said, touching her stomach lightly, “this is more important. And we both know it.”

With a heavy heart, he stood, kissing her hand with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with his usually boisterous demeanor. “I will let you talk to Edelgard. I’ll be training with the troops,” he added, his tone carrying a promise of return.

Petra watched him walk away, her resolve hardening. Before approaching Edelgard, she took a moment to kneel and close her eyes, whispering prayers in the tradition of Brigid. She sought the spirits’ guidance to wing her fights and gain the strength she needed for the conversation ahead.

Finishing her prayers, Petra stood and walked determinedly towards Edelgard, who was coordinating with some officers. “May we speak privately?” Petra asked, her voice steady despite the inner turmoil.

Edelgard noticed the seriousness in her friend’s demeanor and nodded. “Of course, Petra. Is something wrong?”

Petra led her around a large oak tree, ensuring privacy. Once secluded, the gentle rustling of leaves above them seemed to echo the gravity of the moment. "Edelgard, before I reveal what weighs on my heart, I must ask you something," Petra began, her voice carrying a mix of resolve and vulnerability.

Edelgard, sensing the seriousness, furrowed her brow in concern. "What is it, Petra? You can ask me anything."

"Do you see me as a close friend? One who will stand by your side until the end?" Petra's eyes searched Edelgard's, seeking confirmation of a bond she hoped was mutual.

Edelgard's expression softened, touched by the question. "Of course, Petra. You know this. But why do you ask?"

Petra's gaze dropped, a shadow of sadness passing over her features. Silence fell for a moment, heavy and expectant. Edelgard, her intuition piqued, pressed gently, "Petra, what aren't you telling me?"

Taking a deep breath, Petra met Edelgard's gaze again, her voice barely a whisper. "I am with child."

Edelgard's eyes widened in surprise, the air between them thick with tension and unspoken fears. For a moment, words failed her, the shock rendering her unable to grasp the gravity of her friend's confession amidst the chaos of war.

"How long have you known?" Edelgard finally managed, her voice a mix of concern and disbelief.

"Almost five weeks," Petra admitted, her eyes not leaving Edelgard's.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Edelgard asked, a hint of hurt threading through her words.

"I intended to share it with everyone at the mess hall, but then—" Petra's voice faltered, the memory of that day clouding her expression.

"Ashen showed up," Edelgard finished for her, the name of the enemy hanging heavily in the air. A profound silence enveloped them, filled only by the distant clatter of armor and low murmurs of soldiers.

Edelgard sighed, the weight of command and friendship converging in her heart. "I am grateful that you want to stand by my side, Petra, but this—" she paused, choosing her words with care, "this is more important. You are carrying not just the future of your people but Caspar's child."

Petra's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her voice trembling. "I know the risks, Edelgard. You and I have been friends for so long. You have watched over me like a sister, and you have kept your promises—freeing Brigid from the vassalage to the Empire. I owe you everything."

"I understand," Edelgard said softly, her tone laced with emotion. "But—"

Petra cut her off, her resolve hardening. "If I do not fight alongside you now, what future will our children have with Ashen looming over our homelands? What will happen to our homes if Ashen wins? What will happen if I am not here to help you, my dearest friend?"

Edelgard stood silent, the conflict visible in her gaze. She had seen Petra grow from a young, unsure princess into a formidable warrior and leader. The decision before them was torturous—weighing the future against the fierce urgency of now.

"Is it worth the risk, Petra? If something were to happen to you..." Edelgard's voice broke slightly, the thought of losing Petra, not just as a comrade but as the person she had come to cherish deeply, was unbearable.

Petra reached out, her hand gripping Edelgard's firmly. "As Queen of Brigid, I am sure of my duty—not just to my child, but to our cause, to your children, and to stand beside a dear friend."

Edelgard looked into Petra's determined eyes, her own resolve wavering in the face of such steadfast courage. She could see the resolve of a queen, a warrior, and a friend all mingled in Petra's gaze. Overcome with emotion, Edelgard stepped forward. "Thank you, Petra. For your bravery, for your friendship, for everything."

Petra closed the small distance between them, embracing Edelgard tightly. The rustling of the leaves above them seemed to bless their moment, a gentle breeze caressing their faces. Edelgard, feeling the warmth of Petra's presence, smiled, hugging her friend back. This was more than camaraderie; it was a sisterhood forged in the fires of adversity.
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In the distance, Caspar watched Petra and Edelgard from a secluded vantage point, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. His heart swelled with pride and relief seeing Petra share her news with Edelgard and receiving her supportive response. Beside him, Linhardt approached quietly, catching the tail end of the emotional exchange.

"You did well, Petra," Caspar murmured to himself, his eyes never leaving the two women.

Linhardt crossed his arms, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "She convinced Edelgard then? It's risky but expected," he said, nodding slightly.

Caspar turned to his friend, a smirk lighting up his face. "Yeah, they're close. And Petra—she's tough. She'll fight through anything."

A momentary silence fell between the two men as Caspar’s thoughts drifted towards the future, the upcoming challenges of war mingling with the personal milestones ahead. His gaze softened, and turning to Linhardt, he broached a subject he had never ventured into before. "Linhardt, I’ve got a question."

Linhardt raised an eyebrow, expecting another tactical query. "Do tell."

"How... How do you think I'd be as a father?"

Linhardt blinked, taken aback by the shift from their usual discussions about battle strategies to something profoundly personal. "Fatherhood? That's... not what I expected. Repeat that?"

Caspar exhaled, his usual bravado tempered by genuine vulnerability. "Yeah, how to be a good dad. I mean, I’m excited, really excited, but also pretty scared. You always have solid advice on fighting; figured you might have insights on this too."

Understanding dawned on Linhardt’s face, and he paused, considering his words carefully. "Caspar, that’s something quite different. There isn’t a one-size-fits-all advice I can give. Every father is different. Perhaps it’s best you talk to those who’ve been through it."

Caspar’s initial disappointment faded as he considered Linhardt’s suggestion. A chuckle escaped him. "Guess I should have realized. Asking dads for dad advice, right?"

Linhardt smiled gently. "Exactly. And think about this—our fathers likely had the same questions when they were expecting us."

Their laughter mingled with the evening breeze, a light moment in the midst of brewing storms. Caspar looked back at Petra and Edelgard, his heart swelling with a mixture of fear, pride, and anticipation. He knew that no matter the uncertainties of the future, the bonds they shared—their camaraderie, their friendship, and the love for their families—would guide them through.
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Leonie was hunting, the quiet of the forest only interrupted by the rustle of leaves underfoot. She pulled out her bow, a futile attempt to distract herself from thoughts of Shamir. Now, with Shamir's memory erased by Ashen, the betrayal felt raw, gnawing at her from inside. As Leonie spotted a deer through the trees, she nocked an arrow, her hands trembling slightly. Shamir's echoing words, "worthless, worthless, worthless," reverberated in her mind, growing louder with each heartbeat. With a strained breath, Leonie released the arrow, but it veered off, missing the deer completely. The animal, startled, bounded away into the thick underbrush.

Frustration boiling over, Leonie snapped her bow against her leg, the wood splintering with a crack that mirrored the fracture in her heart. As she stood there, panting, a voice behind her broke the silence.

"I can see your frustration," said Claude, emerging from the shadows of the trees. His eyes were calm but concerned.

Leonie whirled around, her face flushed with anger and despair. "Is it that obvious?" she snapped.

Claude nodded slowly. "I understand how you feel, but you gotta focus on the—"

"Focus?" Leonie interrupted, her voice rising. "How can I focus when I'm fighting someone I was close to? How can I fight someone I made captain for my company? How can I fight someone who is stronger and more skilled?"

She sank to her knees, the broken bow forgotten beside her. "I'm worthless," she muttered, her voice breaking.

Claude approached softly, the leaves muffling his steps. He crouched down beside her, his voice gentle yet firm. "You're not worthless, Leonie. I know it feels overwhelming, but I understand what you’re going through."

Leonie looked up, her eyes glistening with tears of frustration and pain. "What do you mean? How could you understand?"

"I had a brother," Claude began, his voice carrying a weight of unresolved sorrow. "He always saw me as the lesser one, constantly overshadowed by his achievements. I believed him for the longest time, thought I was worthless too."

Leonie's brow furrowed as she listened, her breathing still heavy.

"But," Claude continued, "I had to find strength, prove not just to him but to myself that I wasn't what he said I was. Sadly, things didn’t end the way I hoped." His eyes clouded with a hint of regret and distant pain.

Confusion etched on her face, Leonie's voice was a whisper. "What happened?"

There was a pause, heavy and laden with history. "I had to face him, Leonie. Two years after Teach disappeared, it came to a point where I had to stop him."

"Did you... did you kill him?" Her voice was almost inaudible.

Claude nodded slowly, the memory clearly paining him. "It was the hardest choice I've ever made. But I tell you this because I want you to know that there are other ways, Leonie. You can still reach Shamir. You can show her who you are, show her you're not worthless."

Leonie wiped her tears, looking up into Claude’s earnest eyes. "But how can I help her remember who she was?"

Claude placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "By being the strong, determined Leonie I know. Show her the strength of your spirit. Don’t give up on her, or yourself."

He stood, reaching into his cloak. "There's one more thing," he said, pulling out a beautifully crafted bow. "Teach gave me this a while back when we were heading to House Gloucester. He said he held it for you for a while until you’re confident in your strength. You may not feel confident now…but I’m sure you will soon."

He handed her The Inexhaustible, a legendary bow she and Byleth had retrieved from The Immovable at Lake Teutates five years prior. "Take care, Leonie."

As Claude walked away, Leonie examined the bow. Its craftsmanship was unlike any other, and as she ran her fingers over the intricate carvings, a new sense of determination began to build within her. Clutching The Inexhaustible, she stood up, her resolve hardening.

She spotted a deer through the trees, its coat shimmering under the filtered sunlight. Leonie nocked an arrow to the bowstring, her stance steady, her breathing controlled. As she released the arrow, it flew true, striking the deer cleanly.

Watching the deer fall, Leonie felt a surge of confidence. She vowed then and there, "I will get Shamir back."
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At another part of the area, Ignatz was meticulously preparing tea, his hands steady and precise, as if each motion were a brushstroke on canvas. The scent of chamomile filled the air, a gentle reminder of quieter, safer times. As he set the cups on the small table nestled among the trees, Lysithea approached, her steps light and curious.

"Perfect timing," Ignatz remarked with a soft smile as he glanced up at her.

Lysithea's brows knitted in confusion. "Why is that?" she inquired, her voice laced with the usual hint of impatience that softened around Ignatz.

"I was just about to invite you to join me for tea," he explained, gesturing to the steaming cup. "Would that be okay?"

"I would like that," Lysithea responded, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she sat down beside him. The warmth of the tea seemed to thaw the chill of the forest, and she wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into her skin.

As they sipped their tea in companionable silence, Ignatz's gaze wandered to his sketchpad resting beside him. Unconsciously, his fingers itched for the pencil, and before he knew it, he was drawing Lysithea, capturing the serene way the dappled sunlight danced across her face.

Lysithea noticed his focus was elsewhere and leaned over to peek at his sketchpad. "Are you drawing me again?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Caught, Ignatz blushed deeply, his voice faltering. "I... yes, I should have asked. I'm sorry."

She chuckled lightly, easing the tension from his shoulders. "It's fine, Ignatz. I've actually grown quite fond of your art, especially lately," she teased gently, referring to his recent works that had gained some attention within their circle.

Ignatz's cheeks reddened even more as he recalled the piece she mentioned. "Ah, the portrait of the goddess... I used your face for that painting," he admitted, still embarrassed.

Lysithea laughed, her eyes bright with genuine affection. "I know, and it's fine, really. I'm flattered you thought of me for it. Besides, I'm glad you’re pursuing your dream of painting."

"Thank you, Lysithea," he said sincerely, his confidence bolstered by her support. "I hope, after all this—after the war—I can dedicate more time to my art."

"That would be wonderful," Lysithea mused, her gaze distant yet hopeful. "You captured Edelgard and her family so beautifully. It would be a shame not to continue."

Ignatz nodded, his mind already wandering to landscapes and portraits yet to be created. Hesitating for a moment, he looked at Lysithea with newfound determination. "Would you... maybe consider traveling with me after all this is over? For inspiration, for new sights to paint?"

Lysithea's eyes softened, and her smile widened at the thought. "Of course, Ignatz. I would like that very much."

Their conversation drifted to future plans, to art and beauty and hope—a stark contrast to the strife that surrounded them.
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In a tent, Edelgard, Ferdinand, and Ingrid huddled around a large, weathered map spread across a wooden table. The flickering lantern light cast long shadows, lending an air of gravity to their discussion. Ferdinand, ever poised and confident, tapped a gloved finger against the map.

“We’ve gathered a substantial force now,” he noted, his voice calm but resolute. “And we’re not far from Aillel. If Ashen has left anything behind, it’s an opportunity we can’t afford to overlook.”

Ingrid crossed her arms, her cerulean eyes scanning the map. “The question is whether he left anything of value. If he did, we need to investigate thoroughly. Whatever resources or intelligence we can find may prove vital.” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “If we leave now, we could reach Aillel by sundown.”

Edelgard, standing with her arms behind her back, nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. Once we’ve assessed the area, we’ll set up camp. But Ingrid—how far is your home from there?”

Ingrid’s gaze faltered, drifting to the ground as memories of her homeland tugged at her thoughts. “Not far,” she murmured. “We could reach it in a matter of hours.”

Her voice was steady, but the slight tremor didn’t escape Edelgard’s or Ferdinand’s notice. Edelgard’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly, her concern evident. Ferdinand, always attuned to subtle shifts in demeanor, leaned forward.

“Ingrid, is something troubling you?” he asked gently, his amber gaze searching her face.

For a moment, Ingrid’s eyes lost their usual focus, clouded with concern. The shadows from the lantern danced across her features, highlighting the tension in her expression. With a deep breath, she regained her composure and met Ferdinand's gaze. “It’s nothing... I am fine,” she replied, her voice steadier than her eyes suggested.

Edelgard, observing the exchange, stepped closer, her presence commanding yet reassuring. “Ingrid, if there’s something on your mind, please share it with us. We rely on each other’s strength.”

The room fell silent, save for the soft crackling of the lantern. Ingrid’s eyes drifted to the map spread out on the table. Her finger traced the winding paths leading to her homeland—a gesture laden with unspoken fears. Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel... we should consider visiting my home. If Ashen's forces are moving, and given the sightings near my lands, it's plausible they might target House Galatea next. Besides, we are to meet Byleth and Shez there anyway.”

Edelgard leaned over the map, her brow furrowed in thought. “Do you think Ashen would strike there specifically?”

Ingrid nodded slowly. “It's a strategic point, and the recent activity... it seems more than coincidental. I’m merely considering all possibilities.”

Crossing her arms, Edelgard gave a firm nod. “Then it’s settled. We’ll head to House Galatea. It’s a sound strategy, and your intuition has never led us astray.”

Surprise and relief washed over Ingrid’s face, followed by a grateful smile. “Thank you, Edelgard. I... I appreciate this more than you know.”

As Ingrid stepped out of the tent, Ferdinand turned to Edelgard, his voice tinged with curiosity. “Do you think Ashen will truly strike there?”

Edelgard’s gaze was distant, thoughtful. “Perhaps. But even if he doesn't, meeting Byleth will strengthen our position.”

Ferdinand chuckled softly, an amused glint in his eye. “I saw that look, Edelgard. Planning something for Ingrid?”

There was a brief pause as Edelgard considered her response, then with a slight smile, she confessed, “Byleth and I... we’ve always admired her dedication. It’s time we supported her, not just as a knight but as a friend.” She glanced at the map once more, then decisively rolled it up. “Let’s get everyone ready. We move out at dawn for House Galatea.”

Nodding, Ferdinand followed her out of the tent, their steps echoing softly in the night. Their figures blended into the darkness, united by a shared resolve to face whatever challenges awaited them.

Chapter Text

The sun was sinking lower on the horizon, bathing the sky in deep shades of crimson and violet. Shez and Byleth soared through the evening air on their dragons, the rhythmic beat of their wings a steady backdrop to the quiet tension between them. The dense canopy of the forest below stretched endlessly, shadowed and mysterious.

Arval’s voice broke the silence, appearing beside Shez in a faint, shimmering form. “Are we there yet? This flying business isn’t exactly… engaging.”

Shez glanced at Byleth, who sat upright on his dragon, his gaze focused on the distant treetops. “Only Byleth knows,” she replied with a shrug, her voice edged with fatigue. “So, no. We’re not there yet.”

Byleth’s eyes scanned the terrain below. Suddenly, he straightened in his saddle, his sharp gaze narrowing. “Smoke,” he shouted, his voice cutting through the cool evening air. He pointed to a thin trail of gray rising from the forest. “We’re landing. Over there.”

Without hesitation, the two directed their dragons into a steep descent. The wind whipped past them as they closed the distance, landing softly amidst the thick undergrowth. The dragons growled low as their claws touched the ground, the scent of pine and ash mingling in the crisp air.

Sothis’s voice echoed in Byleth’s mind, her tone both reflective and cautious. “It has been too long since you’ve seen Seteth and Flayn. Are you prepared for what awaits? They may not welcome you with open arms.”

Byleth’s jaw tightened, her words resonating deeply. “Seteth may be wary, but I have to know the truth. About Ashen. About everything.”

Both dismounted, their boots crunching softly on the forest floor as they began to walk. The faint scent of burning wood grew stronger with each step. Shez broke the silence, her voice light but probing. “How much farther?”

“Not far,” Byleth replied, his tone distant. “Five minutes, maybe less.”

They pressed on, the light dimming around them as the thick forest seemed to close in. The sound of rustling leaves and snapping twigs accompanied their steps until a faint noise broke through the stillness.

Shez paused, tilting her head. “Did you hear that?”

Byleth nodded, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. “It sounded like… chopping.”

Turning his head, Byleth’s sharp eyes caught sight of a figure just beyond a clearing. Seteth stood there, his back to them, methodically chopping wood. The steady thud of the axe striking the logs reverberated through the stillness.

Byleth and Shez approached cautiously, the tension between them palpable. As they stepped into the clearing, Seteth stopped mid-swing, sensing their presence. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Byleth.

The silence stretched unbearably long before Seteth spoke, his voice cold and guarded. “What do you want, Byleth?”

Byleth straightened, his tone steady but earnest. “I need your help.”

Seteth’s expression hardened, his hands tightening around the axe. “If you’ve come to ask me to fight alongside you after what you did to Rhea, you can turn around and leave.”

Without another word, he gathered a few chopped logs in his arms and began walking toward a small cabin nestled among the trees. Shez stepped forward, her voice cutting through the tense air. “We’re not here to ask you to fight. We need your help… to know about Ashen.”

Seteth froze mid-step, then turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know who this Ashen is, and I have no interest in learning. Leave me be.”

He continued toward the cabin, his pace brisk. The door stood ajar, and just as he reached it, Byleth’s voice rang out, steady and sharp. “What about Kazamir?”

Seteth froze, the name halting him in his tracks. His shoulders stiffened, and a visible shiver ran through him. Slowly, he turned to face them, his eyes wide with shock. “How… how do you know that name?”

Byleth stepped forward, his expression resolute. “Ashen is Kazamir.”

Seteth’s eyes widened, his composure breaking for the briefest moment. Before he could respond, a sharp clattering noise came from within the cabin—ceramic shattering against wood.

Shez turned her head sharply toward the cabin, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her weapon. “What was that?” she asked, her voice low and wary.

Before Seteth could answer, the door creaked open, revealing Flayn. Her pale green hair glimmered faintly in the fading light, and her usually serene face was etched with worry. She clutched the edge of the doorframe as though to steady herself, her wide eyes darting between Byleth, Shez, and her father. Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“The one named… Ashen is Kazamir?” she asked, her tone laced with both fear and confusion.

Seteth turned fully now, his stern facade softening slightly as he glanced at Flayn. “Flayn…” he began, but words seemed to fail him.

Shez stepped forward cautiously, reaching into her bag. “Does this mean anything to you?” she asked, pulling out a worn, leather-bound book. The title glinted faintly in the dim light: Rival of the Goddess.

Seteth froze, his breath catching audibly. His gaze fixed on the book, and a wave of profound sadness washed over his face, aging him visibly. He closed his eyes, as though trying to collect himself, before whispering, “Kazamir… wrote that.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice pressing. “What was Kazamir, Seteth?”

Seteth exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping under an invisible weight. “Come inside,” he said at last, his voice tinged with reluctant resignation. “If Kazamir has returned… then there are things you must know.”

Byleth and Shez exchanged a brief glance before following him inside. The cabin was modest but warm, with a faint scent of herbs and pine lingering in the air. A small fire crackled in the hearth, and the remnants of broken teacups lay on the wooden floor. Flayn moved quickly to clean up the mess before beginning to prepare fresh tea, her movements quiet but tense.

Seteth stood near the fire, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. His shoulders were taut, his stance guarded. As the crackling filled the room, he turned to face them, his expression severe but tinged with unease.

“How did Kazamir return?” Seteth’s voice was low and steady, but there was an undercurrent of dread that even he could not hide.

Byleth stepped forward, his tone grave. “A woman—someone who was part of Those Who Slither in the Dark—somehow survived. She found him, freed him, and stole Rhea’s notes from Garreg Mach.” His eyes flickered with intensity as he continued, "Ashen killed her after he was free." 

Flayn, who had just finished clearing the broken shards, poured tea into four cups with deliberate precision. The steam curled upward as she spoke, her voice soft but trembling. “She… she used the book, didn’t she? Rival of the Goddess.” Her emerald eyes darted toward the worn leather tome still clutched in Shez’s hands. “Where… where was it found?”

Shez hesitated, her fingers tightening around the book. “It was just… lying there,” she admitted, her voice unsure. “In the middle of the library. Right next to the big globe. It led to a secret room.”

Byleth’s piercing gaze shifted to Seteth, his expression resolute yet tinged with a silent plea. “Who was Kazamir?” His voice was steady but carried an undercurrent of desperation. “In Ashen’s book… in the notes Rhea left behind, she said Kazamir was worthy to hold the goddess within him. But his own notes say something else. He wrote that Rhea didn’t want him to go through with it. Why?”

The room fell silent, the weight of the question pressing against the walls. Seteth took a deep breath, his hand tightening around the handle of his teacup. The faint clink of ceramic against wood was the only sound as he raised it to his lips, taking a slow sip. The fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across his face as he struggled with the burden of a truth long hidden.

Flayn broke the silence, her voice gentle but insistent. “Father… we must tell them. You know as well as I do how dangerous Kazamir is—how much more dangerous he might become. Please.”

Seteth’s green eyes softened slightly as he looked at his daughter. Her plea was earnest, and he knew she was right. With a heavy sigh, he set the cup down and turned to face them fully. His shoulders were tense, his face etched with lines of conflict and resignation.

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice low and deliberate. “I’ll tell you everything.”

The fire crackled louder, the room’s warmth juxtaposed against the cold truth Seteth was about to unveil. His eyes grew distant, lost in a memory that still haunted him.

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Flashback 

The memory began with the serene quiet of Garreg Mach’s courtyard. The sun was high, casting a golden glow across the stone walls as Seteth walked with deliberate purpose. His sharp eyes surveyed the area, ensuring everything was in its proper place for Rhea’s imminent return. He adjusted a few arrangements along the path leading to the monastery entrance, the perfectionist in him unwilling to allow even the smallest imperfection to mar her arrival.

A sudden commotion pulled him from his task. The heavy doors of the monastery burst open, and there she was—Rhea, rushing inside with a bundle clutched tightly to her chest. Her face was pale, her movements frantic as she cradled what appeared to be a child.

“Rhea!” Seteth called, hurrying toward her. “Who is this child? What’s going on?”

“There is no time!” she exclaimed, her voice strained. “Find a healer and send them to my quarters immediately!”

Without waiting for a reply, she sprinted down the hall, her robes flowing behind her. Seteth stood frozen for a moment before snapping into action, his heart pounding. He barked orders to the nearest attendants, summoning a skilled healer before following Rhea to her private chambers.

When he entered the room with the doctor in tow, the sight before him was unlike anything he had ever seen. The child Rhea held was heartbreakingly fragile—so thin that every rib and joint was painfully visible beneath his pale skin. His breathing was shallow, his body limp and unresponsive.

“Do something!” Rhea pleaded, her voice breaking.

The healer knelt beside the child, their hands glowing with a soft light as they worked to stabilize him. Minutes felt like hours as Seteth stood by, helpless. Finally, the healer sat back, exhaustion evident on their face. “He will survive,” they said, “but he needs nourishment and rest.”

Relief washed over Rhea’s face, but her hands trembled as she gently laid the child on the bed. For the next few days, she rarely left his side, ensuring he had what he needed to recover. Seteth visited often, observing quietly.

When the child finally woke up, he was nowhere to be found, prompting a frantic search throughout the monastery. Every knight was deployed, scouring each corner and shadow for signs of the lost child. He was eventually found hiding in the cabinets of the mess hall, curled up among sacks of flour and grains.

Rhea, upon finding him, carefully coaxed him out with gentle words and the promise of food. After feeding him and spending time together, she began to introduce him to the monastery and the surrounding town.

Afterward, she spent time showing him around Garreg Mach, introducing him to its grand halls and serene courtyards. “This will be your home now,” she told him as they walked. “There’s no need to run anymore. You’re safe here.”

As they passed through the monastery’s gardens, Seteth and Flayn approached, both of them looking relieved and slightly out of breath from searching. Flayn’s face lit up when she saw Rhea with the boy. “Lady Rhea! You found him!” she exclaimed, hurrying over.

Kazamir immediately tensed, ducking behind Rhea’s robes. He peeked out cautiously, his wide eyes filled with apprehension. Rhea crouched down to his level and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Kazamir,” she said reassuringly. “These are good people. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Seteth watched the boy carefully, noting how his thin shoulders shook despite Rhea’s comforting words. After a long pause, Kazamir hesitantly stepped out from behind her. His small, hesitant steps brought him closer to Seteth and Flayn. He stopped a few feet away, his head bowed.

“I’m… sorry,” Kazamir whispered, his voice barely audible.

Seteth’s brow furrowed in surprise. “Sorry? What are you apologizing for?”

Kazamir’s voice trembled as he spoke again. “For running away… and for hiding. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. Please forgive me.”

Flayn knelt down so that she was eye level with him, her emerald eyes soft with kindness. “Oh, little one,” she said gently, “there’s no need to be sorry. You were scared, weren’t you? That’s all right. We all get scared sometimes.”

Kazamir nodded hesitantly, but his face remained solemn. “Still… I caused trouble. I’m sorry.”

Rhea smiled softly at his sincerity and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, Kazamir. You didn’t cause any trouble. From now on, this is your home, and we’ll make sure you’re cared for.”

She turned to Seteth. “We’ll prepare a room for him in the west wing. Can you oversee the arrangements?”

Seteth nodded, his expression thoughtful as he studied the boy. “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

The preparations for Kazamir’s room began in earnest. Seteth personally ensured that every detail was attended to—soft bedding, warm lighting, and shelves for books should the boy take an interest in reading. The monks and attendants worked efficiently, but Seteth lingered, observing quietly as the boy stood to the side, watching the activity with wide, uncertain eyes.

Kazamir’s small hands fidgeted with the hem of his worn tunic, and his gaze darted around the room like a cornered animal, unsure whether to flee or stay. The sight tugged at Seteth’s heart. The boy was trying his best to be brave, but his unease was evident.

When the room was nearly finished, Seteth approached him, his footsteps soft on the stone floor. “Kazamir,” he said gently, lowering himself slightly to the boy’s level, “are you feeling all right? This must all be… quite new for you.”

Kazamir looked up at him, his small frame stiffening. His lips parted as though to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he nodded hesitantly, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Y-yes… I’m fine,” he stammered, though his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

Seteth placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, his tone calm and reassuring. “It’s all right to feel unsure. I promise you, Kazamir, this place is safe. Lady Rhea and everyone here will ensure that you are cared for. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

The boy’s shoulders relaxed slightly at Seteth’s words, and after a moment, he looked up with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” Kazamir murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. Then, after a pause, he added, “Can… can I learn about this place? Its history, I mean?”

Seteth tilted his head, intrigued. “You want to learn about Garreg Mach and its history?” He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Do you not know anything of your own history, Kazamir?”

Kazamir shook his head, his expression growing somber. “I don’t… know much.

I’m only seven,” he admitted softly, his voice tinged with a sadness that felt far too heavy for a child his age.

Before Seteth could respond, the soft sound of footsteps approached. Rhea and Flayn entered the room, their presence bringing a warmth that seemed to ease the tension in the air. Rhea smiled kindly at Kazamir, while Flayn carried a tray with a cup of steaming tea and a small plate of bread and cheese.

“Is everything all right here?” Rhea asked gently, her gaze shifting between Kazamir and Seteth.

Seteth straightened, shaking his head slightly. “No, there’s no problem. Kazamir was just asking about Garreg Mach’s history—about Fódlan’s history in general. It seems he has a curious mind.”

Kazamir glanced down at the floor, his small hands clasped tightly together. “I just… want to understand,” he said softly. Then, after a hesitant pause, he continued, “And I want to get stronger.”

The room fell silent at his words. Rhea and Flayn exchanged a glance, their expressions tinged with surprise and curiosity. Seteth’s sharp eyes studied the boy intently. “Stronger?” he asked. “What do you mean by that, Kazamir?”

The boy hesitated, his gaze darting nervously to Flayn before returning to the ground. “I… I know some magic,” he admitted quietly. “I want to learn more. To be better.”

Seteth raised an eyebrow, surprised by the admission. “You know magic?” he asked, his tone incredulous but not unkind. “At your age? Show us, if you can.”

Kazamir blinked, taken aback by the request. He looked to Flayn, who offered him an encouraging smile. “You may borrow one of my books,” she said, setting the tray down and retrieving a small tome from her satchel. She handed it to him gently. “Here. Will this help?”

The boy accepted the book with trembling hands, his small fingers brushing over its worn cover. He opened it carefully, scanning the pages for a moment before lifting his hand. His movements were tentative, almost shy, as he focused intently. A small flame flickered to life above his palm, dancing and glowing with an inner warmth that lit up his face.

Seteth’s eyes widened slightly, and even Rhea’s serene composure faltered for a moment as she watched the display. “Remarkable,” Seteth murmured, his tone filled with quiet awe. “For one so young to wield such power…”

Flayn clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with admiration. “How wonderful!” she exclaimed softly. “You have a gift, Kazamir.”

Rhea’s expression softened, a smile spreading across her face. “Indeed,” she said, her voice warm and full of conviction. “Kazamir, there is great potential within you. I would like to help you achieve it.”

Kazamir looked up at her, his eyes wide with a mix of hope and apprehension. “Help me?” he asked. “How?”

“You will be my private student,” Rhea explained gently. “We will nurture your abilities and guide you. When the time comes, you will join others in their studies and training. But for now, we will focus on unlocking your potential.”

A slow smile spread across Kazamir’s face—a smile that seemed to erase years of pain and uncertainty in an instant. “Thank you,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “I… I’ll do my best.”

As the warmth of the moment settled over the room, Kazamir glanced at Seteth and Flayn, his small face clouding slightly. “There’s something else,” he said hesitantly. “I… I was tricked by my village... They… kicked me out of my village for tricking to killing my parents.”

Seteth’s expression darkened, a storm of questions brewing in his mind. "Why would anyone frame a child so young? What could they have hoped to gain? " Yet as he looked at Kazamir’s determined face, he saw something else—a glimmer of strength and resilience that gave him hope.

“You’ve been through much, Kazamir,” Seteth said gently. “But here, you’ll have the chance to grow into the person you’re meant to be. I believe you will make a fine student—and perhaps, one day, much more.”

Kazamir’s eyes brightened, his small frame standing a little taller. “I’ll prove it,” he said firmly. “I’ll make you all proud.”

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Present

Byleth leaned forward, his gaze unwavering as he asked the question that lingered in the heavy silence. “Was that the first day you met Kazamir?”

Seteth nodded slowly, his expression distant. “Yes,” he replied, his voice thick with memory. “He was very young when he came to us—a mere child. But even then, there was something about him… something that set him apart.”

Shez, standing near the hearth, crossed her arms thoughtfully. “You mentioned he had nightmares as a kid. Nightmares of what?”

Before Seteth could respond, Flayn spoke up, her soft voice tinged with sorrow. “He dreamed of the people from his village,” she said, her hands clutching the edge of the table. “They… tortured him. Those memories haunted him deeply. But…”

She paused, her expression softening as a faint smile touched her lips. “There was one night that warmed my heart, even in the midst of his suffering.”

Byleth leaned in, his curiosity piqued. “What happened?”

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Flashback

The moon hung high in the night sky, its silvery light filtering through the stained-glass windows of Garreg Mach. Flayn had been unable to sleep, the stillness of the monastery pressing heavily on her. She wandered the dimly lit halls, her delicate footsteps echoing softly, when a small figure caught her attention.

Kazamir stood before Rhea’s door. He raised a trembling hand and knocked gently, his thin frame illuminated by the faint light of the corridor.

The door creaked open, revealing Rhea in her night robes, her hair loose and cascading over her shoulders. She blinked down at Kazamir in surprise. “Kazamir?” she asked gently. “What’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated, shifting on his small feet. His wide eyes were red-rimmed, and he clenched his fists as though summoning courage. “I… I’ve been having nightmares,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rhea crouched to his level, her expression softening with maternal concern. “Nightmares?” she repeated. “What kind of nightmares, dear one?”

Kazamir’s lip quivered, and his voice broke as he spoke. “The people… from my village. They hurt me. Over and over. I can’t stop seeing it.”

Flayn, watching from the shadows, felt her heart ache at the raw pain in his voice. She saw Rhea gently place her hands on his thin shoulders, her emerald eyes shimmering with empathy.

“Oh, Kazamir,” Rhea murmured, her voice as soothing as a lullaby. "You could of told me."

Kazamir sniffled, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice trembling. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Rhea’s smile was sad but unwavering. “You are not a bother, Kazamir. Never.” She straightened, drawing him into the soft light of her room, leaving the door open so Flayn could see them especially Rhea who had taken him in, each illuminated by kindness. “Come,” Rhea said gently, “stay with me tonight.”

Kazamir hesitated, but the gentle warmth in her tone seemed to dissolve his fears. He nodded slowly, allowing Rhea to guide him into her room. The door closed softly behind them, and Flayn lingered outside, her chest tight with emotion. Through the door, she heard the murmur of their conversation fade into silence.

That night, Kazamir stayed in Rhea’s room. And when the nightmares returned in the following weeks, he would find his way back to her, seeking comfort in her presence until the nightmares eventually ceased.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Present

Flayn’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she recounted the memory. “He found solace in Lady Rhea’s kindness,” she said softly. “She became a refuge for him—a source of peace in his turbulent world.”

Shez, leaning against the wall, frowned thoughtfully. “I have a question,” she said, her tone more curious than probing. “How did Kazamir become such a skilled duelist? I mean, if he came to you so young, when did he start learning to fight?”

Seteth exhaled, setting his teacup down on the table. “Kazamir was always eager to learn,” he said, his voice tinged with pride and melancholy. “When he was twelve, he asked to be trained in combat. He didn’t want to rely solely on magic—he wanted to master the blade. Even at that young age, he was a prodigy. He defeated knights far older and more experienced than himself. Not even the highest-ranking knights could best him.”

Byleth’s brow furrowed in thought. “Who trained him to surpass even the strongest knights?” he asked.

Seteth took a deliberate sip of his tea, his gaze steady on Byleth. “Your father,” he said simply. “Jeralt.”

Byleth blinked, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a mix of disbelief and quiet emotion. “My father… trained him?”

Seteth nodded, his eyes searching Byleth’s face. “Jeralt was a man of many secrets. I suspect there are things he never told you about his past or his connection to this monastery. He had a Crest, as you well know, and it granted him a life far longer than most. When I knew him then, he didn’t even wear that signature beard of his. A younger Jeralt was… strikingly formidable.”

Byleth stared into the flames crackling in the hearth, the revelation settling heavily upon him. He was beginning to understand where Ashen’s extraordinary combat prowess had come from, but the thought that his own father had been the one to mold Kazamir’s skills left him with more questions than answers.

Shez, meanwhile, sipped her tea and frowned. “Okay,” she said, her tone carrying a touch of exasperation, “but what does this have to do with Kazamir?" 

Seteth placed his cup down and folded his hands on the table, his gaze distant. “Apologies. This brings back… many memories. Jeralt was reluctant at first, but Kazamir was persistent—relentlessly so. When Kazamir was twelve, he came to us and declared that he wanted to train as a knight.”

Seteth’s eyes grew wistful, tinged with a subtle sorrow as he continued. “He wasn’t like other children. He had already mastered an astounding array of magical disciplines: light, dark, fire, lightning, ice, even advanced healing. He could ride a horse, a Pegasus, and a wyvern. But he craved more. He didn’t want to be just another mage. He wanted to wield the blade and stand as an equal among knights.”

Byleth leaned forward, captivated despite himself. “And my father agreed?”

Seteth smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the fire. “At first, he was skeptical. I recall the scene vividly.”

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Flashback 

The afternoon sun bathed the training grounds in a golden glow. The air was thick with the earthy scent of sweat and leather, mingling with the faint aroma of the nearby flowering gardens. Kazamir stood before Jeralt, a boy of only twelve but with a presence far beyond his years. His piercing eyes shone with determination as he straightened his posture, holding the gleaming sword that Rhea had just entrusted to him.

Jeralt, his arms crossed and brow furrowed, regarded the boy skeptically. “Are you sure about this, kid?” he asked, his deep voice carrying a mixture of doubt and intrigue. “You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that. But wielding a blade isn’t like casting magic or flying a Pegasus. This is a whole different world.”

Kazamir nodded resolutely. “I’ve mastered light magic, dark magic, fire, lightning, ice, and healing,” he declared, his voice steady but filled with quiet pride. “I can ride horses, Pegasi, even wyverns. But I don’t want to stop there. I want to be stronger. I want to protect those I care about.” His grip on the sword tightened as he looked Jeralt directly in the eye. “Please… teach me.”

Jeralt studied him for a long moment. The boy’s eyes held a warrior’s fire, but beneath that, Jeralt could see something deeper—a raw, unshakable need to protect, born from pain and loss. This wasn’t just ambition driving him. It was something far more profound.

Jeralt sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine,” he said at last. “But we’re starting with the training dummies. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

Kazamir’s face hardened. “No,” he said firmly, surprising Jeralt. “I don’t want to fight dummies. They don’t move, don’t think. They won’t help me learn what I need to know. Please, let me face a knight.”

Jeralt raised an eyebrow. “A knight?” he repeated, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Kid, you wouldn’t last a minute against one of them.”

Kazamir didn’t back down. “Then teach me how to fight like one. Teach me how to win.”

Jeralt chuckled, shaking his head. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. All right, kid. If you’re so eager to prove yourself, your first match will be against me.”

Kazamir’s eyes widened in shock. “You?” he stammered. “You’re one of the best knights in Garreg Mach! Shouldn’t I start with someone… less experienced?”

Jeralt smirked, a confident gleam in his eyes. “If you want to win in battle, kid, you’ve got to face someone stronger than you. Let’s see where you’re at.” He shifted his stance, the leather of his gloves creaking as he tightened his grip on the training sword. “You can use your powers if you want. Show me what you’ve got.”

Before Kazamir could respond, the heavy training ground doors creaked open. Seteth and Rhea entered, their presence commanding immediate attention. Rhea’s gaze softened as she caught sight of Kazamir standing with Jeralt, his small frame dwarfed by the imposing knight.

“Are we interrupting something?” Rhea asked, her voice gentle but curious.

Kazamir’s expression immediately brightened. “Of course not, Mother,” he said, his voice filled with warmth. Ever since Rhea had formally adopted him at the age of seven, Kazamir had called her “Mother.” It was a title he cherished, one that symbolized the love and stability she had brought into his life.

Jeralt glanced at Rhea, then back at Kazamir, a faint smirk still playing on his lips. “The kid here wants to duel the knights,” Jeralt explained, crossing his arms. “If that’s the case, I’ll train him myself.”

Seteth frowned, his arms folding across his chest. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he said cautiously. “Kazamir is still very young.”

Kazamir turned to face Seteth, his green eyes blazing with determination. “I have to at some point,” he said firmly. “Why not now?”

Rhea’s gaze lingered on her son, her expression thoughtful and conflicted. She stepped closer, her robes flowing softly around her. “I understand your desire to grow stronger, my son,” she said gently. “But are you certain this is what you want to do?”

Kazamir nodded, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “I know I’m still young,” he admitted, his voice trembling slightly. “But I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to be strong. I don’t want to fail…” His voice faltered, and he looked away for a moment before meeting her eyes again. “I don’t want to fail you, Mother. Not like I lost my parents.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Kazamir’s words sinking into the hearts of everyone present. Rhea’s expression softened, her eyes shimmering with maternal love. She stepped closer, placing her hands gently on his small shoulders. “You will not fail me,” she said softly but with unwavering conviction. “You are my son, Kazamir. I know the strength you hold within you.”

Her hands left his shoulders briefly as she reached into the folds of her robes, producing a finely crafted scabbard. Its intricate design gleamed faintly in the sunlight that filtered through the high windows. She held it out to him with both hands. “If this is truly what you wish to do, then you will need this.”

Kazamir’s eyes widened in awe as he held out his trembling hands to accept the sword. The scabbard was cool to the touch, the craftsmanship exquisite. Slowly, he pulled the blade free. It was a beautiful, gleaming silver sword, its edge sharp and flawless. Etched into the middle of the blade was the symbol of the Immaculate One, radiating a quiet power.

“Thank you, Mother,” Kazamir whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Rhea stepped forward, wrapping him in a gentle hug. Her warmth and presence filled him with a strength he hadn’t realized he needed. For the first time in a long while, he felt loved, he felt capable, and—most importantly—he didn’t feel like a failure.

As she pulled back, Kazamir gave her a small, determined smile. He turned to face Jeralt, his grip on the sword tightening. “I’m ready,” he said, his voice steady and resolute.

Jeralt’s sharp eyes studied the boy, his expression unreadable. Then, he smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “You’ve got spirit, kid,” he said, gripping his own training sword with ease. “But let me make one thing clear: it’s going to take years before you can beat someone like me. You sure you’re ready for that kind of commitment?”

Kazamir nodded without hesitation. “I know,” he replied, his voice unwavering. “That just means I’ll keep getting stronger until the day I win.”

Jeralt chuckled, shaking his head. “All right, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Kazamir didn’t wait for another word. With a sharp intake of breath, he charged at Jeralt, his small frame moving with surprising speed. The silver blade in his hands gleamed as he swung with all the strength his twelve-year-old body could muster.

Jeralt deflected the blow effortlessly, the clash of metal ringing through the training ground. “Not bad,” he said, his tone almost playful. “But you’re leaving yourself wide open.”

Before Kazamir could recover, Jeralt’s training sword tapped against his ribs, the blunt edge halting him in his tracks. Kazamir stumbled back, gripping his side and gritting his teeth in frustration.

“Keep your guard up,” Jeralt instructed, stepping back to give the boy space. “Again.”

Kazamir wiped sweat from his brow, his determination burning brighter with each failed attempt. He charged again, this time feinting to the left before pivoting to strike from the right. Jeralt blocked him with ease, countering with a swift movement that knocked Kazamir off balance.

Time after time, Kazamir attacked, and time after time, Jeralt bested him. But the boy never stopped. Each defeat only seemed to fuel his resolve, and as the sun dipped lower in the sky, his swings grew sharper, his movements faster.

Finally, as dusk settled over the training ground, Kazamir collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving with exertion. His sword fell from his trembling hands, clattering onto the dirt. Jeralt approached, his shadow falling over the boy.

“Well?” Jeralt asked, his voice calm but firm. “Had enough?”

Kazamir shook his head, his hands curling into fists. He looked up, sweat and dirt streaking his face, his eyes blazing with an intensity that belied his exhaustion. “I’ll… never give up,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. “Not until I beat you. Not until I prove myself.”

Jeralt studied him for a long moment before a rare smile softened his rugged features. He extended a hand, pulling Kazamir to his feet. “You’ve got a long way to go, kid,” he said, his tone carrying a note of respect. “But you’ve got what it takes. We’ll keep working on it.”

From that day forward, Kazamir threw himself into his training with a fervor that left even the most seasoned knights in awe. Under Jeralt’s guidance, he honed his skills with the blade, learning to read his opponents and strike with precision. When he wasn’t training with Jeralt, he sparred with knights of every rank, starting with the lowest and gradually working his way up to the strongest.

He studied tactics late into the night, pouring over maps and tomes with a hunger for understanding. His relentless determination and sharp mind set him apart from his peers, but what made him truly exceptional was his unshakable will—he never gave up, no matter how impossible the odds seemed.

Years passed, and Kazamir grew not only in skill but in character. By the time he was old enough to join a class at the Officer’s Academy, his choice shocked everyone. Instead of joining the Blue Lions, a house tied to his homeland of Faerghus, or the Golden Deer, known for their focus on strategy, he chose the Black Eagles. It was an unexpected decision, and whispers spread through the halls of Garreg Mach. Yet Kazamir remained steadfast, his reasons his own.

In the Black Eagles, Kazamir thrived. Missions alongside his classmates tested him in ways his training never could. He proved himself time and again, not just with his strength, but with his quick thinking and ability to inspire others. He grew smarter, stronger, and braver, but most importantly, he found the love and encouragement from Rhea that had always been his foundation. Her belief in him was a constant light, guiding him through even the darkest moments.

Kazamir’s abilities didn’t go unnoticed. During his time at the academy, he uncovered ancient secrets in Garreg Mach’s library, including a mysterious connection to the goddess herself. In a sacred ceremony just before graduation, Kazamir gained the goddess’s power—a feat that cemented his place as someone extraordinary. The goddess’s blessing amplified his already impressive strength, and he quickly adapted to his newfound abilities.

As graduation approached, anticipation buzzed in the air. The students of the academy would finally showcase the culmination of their training. For Kazamir, the day was more than a milestone—it was his moment to show the world who he truly was.

Wearing his Officer’s Academy uniform, Kazamir stood apart from the rest. Unlike the black and gold of his classmates or the unique garb of the house leaders, his uniform gleamed with pristine white where the black would be, and light green in place of the gold. It mirrored the unique green of his hair and eyes, a gift—or perhaps a burden—from the goddess’s blessing.

As he adjusted his gloves, the grand doors of the training hall creaked open, and a figure stepped inside. Rhea. Her presence alone commanded the attention of all within, her robes flowing with an elegance only she possessed. When she saw her son, her expression softened with pride and love.

She walked toward him, her emerald eyes shining with emotion. “Kazamir,” she said softly, her voice warm with affection. “Ten years… You have grown into a handsome young man.”

Kazamir turned to her, his face breaking into a smile. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, bowing his head slightly. But his tone turned somber as he added, “There’s just one more test I must complete.”

Rhea reached out, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “Are you ready, my beloved son?”

Kazamir nodded, his resolve unshaken. “I am.”

Her hand lingered for a moment before she leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. “No matter what happens here,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly, “know that I am proud of you. I love you, Kazamir.”

Her words settled into his heart, steadying him like a fortress against doubt. “Thank you, Mother,” he said, his voice steady with gratitude.

The great doors opened again, this time revealing the grand training grounds. The arena was packed with students from every house, their voices a low murmur of anticipation. Kazamir stepped forward into the sunlight, the weight of countless eyes upon him. But his gaze immediately locked on two figures.

“Impressive, kid,” came a familiar voice. Jeralt stood in the center of the arena, his spear resting casually against his shoulder. His rugged face bore a faint smirk, but his sharp eyes carried a glint of respect. Beside him stood Sitiri, her hair catching the light as she smiled warmly at Kazamir. She stepped forward, her expression gentle yet playful.

“Be careful,” she said, her voice carrying just enough teasing to soften her concern.

Kazamir gave her a small, lopsided smile and kissed her hand with reverence. “I will,” he promised.

As Sitiri walked toward the students of the Black Eagles, Jeralt spoke again. “The new look suits you, kid,” he said, gesturing at Kazamir’s green hair and matching uniform. “Guess it’s fitting for someone who’s come this far.”

Kazamir smiled, his expression warm but tinged with resolve. “I can’t ever thank you enough, Jeralt Reus Eisne,” he said earnestly. “If it weren’t for you beating me all those years ago, I wouldn’t have come this far. Each battle, each lesson… it’s all led me here.”

Jeralt gave a low chuckle, his rugged face softening. “Glad to hear it,” he said, his voice carrying a note of pride. But then his expression grew serious, his piercing eyes locking onto Kazamir’s. “This is your final test, kid. Are you ready?”

Kazamir’s smile turned into a confident smirk. He pulled the sword from its scabbard—the same blade Rhea had entrusted to him a decade ago. It gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, its edge sharp and filled with the memories of countless battles. He held it in one hand, his other arm raised to steady his stance. “I’m not the same little boy you took down years ago,” he said firmly. “This time, the student will win.”

Jeralt tilted his head slightly, his piercing eyes narrowing as he pointed his spear at Kazamir. “We’ll see about that, kid.”

The crowd fell silent, their murmurs fading into a tense, expectant hush. Kazamir and Jeralt began to move, circling each other slowly, deliberately. Each step was measured, their gazes locked in unwavering focus. The air between them seemed to crackle with anticipation, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone watching.

Kazamir shifted slightly, his boots crunching against the dirt, and Jeralt mirrored him, their circling growing tighter. The question hung unspoken in the air: Who would strike first?

Suddenly, as if by a silent agreement, both of them moved at once. The clash of steel and iron rang out, sharp and clear, echoing through the arena. Kazamir’s blade met Jeralt’s spear in a flurry of precise strikes and deflections, their movements a blur of controlled power.

Kazamir swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming for Jeralt’s shoulder, but the older knight blocked it deftly with the shaft of his spear, countering with a quick thrust that forced Kazamir to pivot and dodge. Blow for blow, they traded strikes, their attacks growing fiercer and faster with each exchange.

Kazamir’s eyes burned with determination as he summoned a blast of ice magic, shards of frost forming in the air before hurtling toward Jeralt. Jeralt reacted instinctively, raising his free hand as a burst of fire erupted to counter the icy assault. The heat clashed with the cold, steam hissing into the air.

Kazamir’s lips quirked into a grin. “When did you learn magic?”

Jeralt smirked back, his spear spinning deftly in his hands. “I’ve known this stuff for longer than you’ve been alive, kid. I’m a lot older than I look.”

Kazamir chuckled, a spark of excitement lighting his expression. “Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting.”

He channeled fire into his sword, the blade igniting with a brilliant orange glow. Charging forward, he brought the fiery blade down in a powerful swing, forcing Jeralt to block with the reinforced shaft of his spear. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the ground, dust rising in a fine cloud around them.

Jeralt’s eyes flickered with something close to pride as he parried another strike. “You’ve improved,” he said, his voice steady even as their weapons collided with unrelenting force. “But do you really think you can beat me?”

Kazamir didn’t respond immediately, his focus unyielding as he pressed the attack. But as the exchange continued, Jeralt’s experience began to show. He caught Kazamir off guard with a swift feint, sweeping his legs out from under him. Kazamir hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Jeralt raised his spear, its blunt tip poised just above Kazamir’s throat. “Looks like it’s over,” Jeralt said evenly.

But Kazamir’s emerald eyes burned with defiance. “Watch this,” he said softly.

Kazamir’s Crest glimmered faintly, the ancient power of the Divine Pulse flowing through him. Time itself stuttered, and the world around him froze. The dust from the arena hung suspended in the air, Jeralt’s spear frozen in its descent. Kazamir inhaled deeply, his mind racing as he rewound the moment. Seconds slipped backward like water retreating from the shore.

When time resumed, Kazamir was no longer lying on the ground. He stood upright, gripping his sword tightly, his expression resolute. Jeralt’s spear was still mid-swing, but now Kazamir was ready.

Jeralt’s eyes flickered with something close to pride as he parried another strike. “You’ve improved,” he said, his voice steady even as their weapons collided with unrelenting force. “But do you really think you can beat me?”

Kazamir’s gaze locked onto his mentor. His voice rang clear, cutting through the tense air. “It’s not that I think I can win. It’s that I know I will.”

The arena seemed to hold its breath as Kazamir sheathed his sword. Jeralt’s brow furrowed in confusion, his grip on the spear tightening as he charged forward. Kazamir stood motionless, his eyes closed, his hands resting calmly at his sides.

The spear thrust toward him like a bolt of lightning. But just as it was about to strike, Kazamir spun. His movements were fluid, almost ethereal, as he evaded the attack by a hair’s breadth. In the same motion, he unsheathed his sword with a blinding flash, the blade slicing cleanly through the spear’s shaft. The splintered wood clattered to the ground as Kazamir stopped, his blade resting lightly against Jeralt’s neck.

The crowd erupted into stunned silence.

Jeralt’s eyes widened, his usually unshakable composure faltering as he stared at the broken spear in his hand. “How…?” he muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “How did you do that?”

Kazamir smirked, his emerald eyes sparkling with confidence. “I told you,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with triumph. “The student always surpasses the master, eventually.”

He lowered his sword and sheathed it with a satisfying click. The weight of what had just happened settled over the arena, and Jeralt finally stepped back, shaking his head with a mixture of amazement and pride.

“Well done, Kazamir,” Jeralt said, extending his hand. “You’ve earned this victory.”

Kazamir grasped his mentor’s hand firmly, the two warriors sharing a moment of mutual respect. Cheers erupted from the crowd, the students rushing forward to surround Kazamir. Their voices mingled with excitement and disbelief as they clamored to understand how he had managed such an incredible feat.

Kazamir looked past the throng of students to where Rhea stood. She watched him with an expression of pure, unguarded pride. A soft smile graced her lips, and her emerald eyes shimmered with emotion. Kazamir met her gaze and returned the smile, his heart swelling with gratitude. She had always believed in him, and today, he had proven her faith well-placed.

As the students continued to cheer, Rhea descended from the stands, her regal presence silencing the crowd as she approached. When she reached her son, she extended her arms and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “You were magnificent, my beloved son,” she whispered, her voice trembling with joy. “You are truly a blessing.”

Kazamir held her close, the warmth of her embrace grounding him in the moment. “Thank you, Mother,” he said softly. “I couldn’t have done it without your guidance.”

Seteth and Flayn soon joined them, their expressions a mix of astonishment and pride. Seteth extended a hand, his typically stern face softened by a rare smile. “Congratulations, Kazamir. You’ve surpassed all expectations.”

Instead of shaking his hand, Kazamir stepped forward and hugged Seteth, surprising him. Flayn giggled softly at her father’s stunned expression before Kazamir turned to her. “Thank you for always believing in me, Flayn,” he said warmly, pulling her into a gentle hug as well.

As the crowd’s cheers surged once more, Kazamir turned to face them. He raised a hand, his voice strong and confident as he addressed his fellow students. “This victory isn’t just mine,” he said. “It belongs to all of us who strive to be better every day. To those who push forward despite their fears and doubts. We’re stronger together, and together, we’ll shape a brighter future for Fódlan.”

The students erupted into applause, their admiration for Kazamir palpable. As the noise swelled around him, he glanced back at Rhea. Her eyes glistened with tears of joy, her smile radiant. In that moment, Kazamir knew he had not only earned his place in Garreg Mach but also cemented his legacy as one of the greatest students the monastery and all of Fódlan had ever known.

the official cover is here

Chapter Text

Present

Byleth remained silent, the weight of Seteth’s story pressing heavily on him. Kazamir had been something truly special—a prodigy, a protector, and a man who had earned the respect and love of so many, even his own father, Jeralt. The knowledge that Jeralt had trained Kazamir in combat left Byleth at a loss for words. He held the worn journal in his hands, its leather cover rough against his fingertips. He finally broke the silence, his voice steady but tinged with uncertainty.

“These notes,” Byleth began, holding the journal out to Seteth, “are they true? Did Kazamir really… create a copy of the Crest of Flames and place it inside himself?”

Seteth accepted the journal with trembling hands, his green eyes scanning the faded pages. He read in silence for several moments, the flickering firelight illuminating the subtle changes in his expression—shock, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of regret. He finally closed the journal and exhaled deeply, his voice heavy with truth.

“Yes,” Seteth admitted, his words deliberate. “The notes are true. Kazamir was not born with the Crest of Flames… but he created one. He was brilliant in ways that often left us in awe—and terrified us as well. He used forbidden magic, blood and smoothing stone to replicate the Crest of Flames, embedding it within himself.”

Byleth’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing in thought. “But why? Why would Rhea make it sound like she gave the Crest to him?”

Seteth set the journal down, his hands folding on the table as he met Byleth’s gaze. “Because she wanted to protect certain moments of the past,” he said softly. “Rhea loved Kazamir. He was her son in every way that mattered, but she also saw in him a reflection of her greatest hopes—and her deepest fears. She wanted to shield him from scrutiny, to ensure that history remembered him as her chosen champion, not as someone who had defied the natural order to become something greater.”

Shez, who had been listening intently, leaned forward, her curiosity plain. “What else was Kazamir like?” she asked. “If he was so kind, smart, patient, strong… what made him special to all of you?”

Seteth took a sip of his tea, his gaze distant as he seemed to delve into the depths of his memory. “Kazamir was many things,” he said quietly. “He was a noble knight, a brilliant scholar, a compassionate friend. After he graduated, he dedicated himself to helping others, particularly the students who came after him. He didn’t become a professor—he believed his role was to guide them from the shadows, to ensure their success without overshadowing them. He was humble, despite his gifts.”

Shez frowned, her arms crossing over her chest. “But there’s something I don’t get,” she said, her tone probing. “If Kazamir was all those things… what made him become a god?”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Seteth placed his teacup down with deliberate care, his gaze dropping to the table. Flayn’s expression mirrored his, her emerald eyes brimming with an unspoken sorrow. They both looked away, as if the answer was too painful to voice.

Byleth’s sharp eyes darted between them. “Why won’t you tell us?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration. “What happened to Kazamir?”

Seteth exhaled heavily, his voice tinged with resignation. “It depends,” he said softly. “It depends on how you view it. Some might say he claimed a title, while others would say… it was the moment he became what Kazamir is now.”

Shez tilted her head, her brow furrowed in confusion. “And what is he now?”

Flayn spoke up, her voice trembling but steady. “He is no longer the man we once knew. He… changed. But before that, he went by a different title. A title he chose for himself.”

Byleth’s gaze sharpened, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “What title?”

Seteth sighed deeply, his eyes clouded with a mixture of pain and regret. “The God of Revenge,” he admitted quietly, his words heavy with sorrow.

The room fell into an almost unbearable silence. The crackling of the fire seemed deafening as Byleth and Shez exchanged uneasy glances. Then, Seteth’s voice broke through the stillness, thick with the weight of memory.

“It was a peaceful night,” Seteth began, his tone distant, as though he were speaking from the depths of a dream. “A year had passed since Kazamir’s graduation. Life at the monastery had returned to a semblance of normalcy. The students studied, the knights kept watch, and the world felt, for a moment, at peace.”
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Flashback

It was a peaceful night. A year had passed since Kazamir’s graduation from the Officer’s Academy, and the monastery had settled into a rhythm of tranquil normalcy. The stars sparkled in the sky, the moon casting a silvery glow over Garreg Mach’s stone walls. Knights patrolled the grounds, their armored footsteps echoing faintly through the stillness. Students and clergy alike were deep in slumber, the monastery steeped in an almost sacred quiet.

The tranquility was shattered by a thunderous explosion. A fireball erupted near the main gate, sending flames and debris soaring into the night sky. The alarm bell rang out, its piercing toll cutting through the chaos.

Seteth bolted upright in his bed, his heart pounding as the muffled cries of knights reached his ears. Throwing on his robes, he rushed out of his quarters. The acrid scent of smoke filled the air as he reached the hallway, his mind racing. He turned a corner and froze, spotting a familiar figure sprinting toward the gate—Kazamir.

“Kazamir!” Seteth called, his voice tight with urgency.

Kazamir glanced back briefly, his green eyes fierce and determined. “Stay inside, Seteth!” he shouted, his voice carrying a commanding edge. “I’ll handle this.”

Seteth hesitated, torn between his instincts to protect and his trust in the young man he had come to see as family. Before he could reply, Kazamir was gone, disappearing down the smoke-filled corridor.

Kazamir emerged into the courtyard, where knights scrambled to organize a defense. Fires flickered on the horizon, and the sound of clashing steel echoed in the distance. Near the gates, he spotted Alois, who was rallying a group of soldiers. Kazamir sprinted toward him, the silver pommel of his sword gleaming in the moonlight.

“Alois!” Kazamir called, his voice cutting through the chaos.

The older knight turned, relief washing over his face at the sight of Kazamir. “Kazamir! Thank the goddess you’re here. A band of bandits has attacked the outer gates. They’ve already breached the first line of defense. We’re trying to regroup, but it’s chaos out there.”

“Where’s Captain Jeralt?” Kazamir asked, scanning the area.

Alois shook his head, his expression grim. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. He might still be on patrol in the forest.”

Kazamir frowned, his mind racing. He placed a firm hand on Alois’s shoulder. “Help as many people as you can. Get the students and clergy to safety. No jokes, Alois. This is serious.”

Alois nodded, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with a steely resolve. “Understood, Kazamir. Be careful out there.”

Kazamir turned toward the gates, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. The massive iron gates stood open, revealing the battlefield beyond. Bandits swarmed the outer courtyard, their weapons glinting in the firelight. They moved with unnerving precision, their ranks far more organized than any Kazamir had faced before.

He closed his eyes briefly, murmuring a prayer under his breath. “Goddess Sothis, be with me. Guide my hand and give me strength.”

When he opened his eyes, the air around him seemed to hum with energy. His knights—Kazamir’s Fist, a group of elite warriors who had pledged themselves to his cause—appeared at his side, their armor shining with an ethereal glow. Kazamir raised his sword high, his voice ringing out with unwavering conviction.

“For the Church of Seiros!” he bellowed. “Charge!”

The knights surged forward, their battle cries echoing through the night. Kazamir led the charge, his sword cutting through the first bandit he encountered with lethal precision. He moved like a force of nature, his blade a blur as he deflected strikes and countered with devastating efficiency. Two bandits came at him simultaneously, one wielding a mace, the other a spear. Kazamir parried the spear with his sword, spinning to avoid the mace before driving his blade into the spearman’s chest. He turned swiftly, slicing through the mace-wielder in one fluid motion.

But these bandits were unlike the usual rabble he had fought before. Their armor was well-crafted, their weapons deadly and precise. They fought with the discipline of a trained militia, and their numbers seemed endless. Kazamir’s knights fought valiantly, but the tide of the battle was far from certain.

As Kazamir dispatched another foe, his sharp eyes caught sight of a figure standing apart from the chaos. The man wore a golden mask that gleamed in the firelight, and his hands were encased in gauntlets that radiated a sinister energy. The gauntlets—the Dragon Claws—were legendary relics, said to have slain a mighty beast in ages past. The masked leader stood tall, his presence commanding, as he surveyed the battlefield.

Kazamir’s gaze locked onto the figure, his instincts screaming that this was the mastermind behind the attack. He strode forward with purpose, the chaos around him dimming as his focus narrowed. The cries of clashing steel and the roar of flames faded into the background. With each step, Kazamir’s grip on his sword tightened, determination etched into his every movement.

The masked leader turned his head, sensing Kazamir’s approach. He stood still, his imposing figure framed by the burning horizon. His voice, when it came, was deep and unyielding, laced with contempt. “Ah, the prodigy of the monastery. I was hoping we would meet.”

Kazamir halted a few paces away, his blade at the ready. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice steady despite the fury simmering beneath. “Why are you attacking Garreg Mach?”

The leader tilted his head, his mask catching the firelight. “My name is of no consequence,” he replied coolly. “What matters is my purpose. As for these men…” He gestured to the bandits fighting in the distance. “They are from my village. People who have suffered under the Church’s negligence and lies. They fight because I command them to, though some… may require encouragement.”

Kazamir’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Encouragement?” he repeated, his tone sharp with anger. “You’re forcing your own people to fight and die for you? This isn’t justice—it’s madness! These people deserve protection, not slaughter.”

The leader chuckled, the sound cold and hollow. “And what protection has the Church ever offered them?” he retorted. “We were left to starve while the archbishop sat in her gilded halls. No more. Tonight, I end the tyranny of the Church.”

Kazamir’s expression hardened, his voice rising with conviction. “You call this ending tyranny? You’re no savior—you’re a monster. Forcing your people to die for your vendetta goes against everything the goddess stands for. You’re blind if you think this is justice.”

The leader’s body tensed, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. “And what do you know of justice, boy? Do you think protecting the Church will save you from the truth of their sins? I’ll tear down their falsehoods and expose their corruption for all to see.”

Kazamir stepped forward, his blade gleaming in the firelight. “Your quarrel is with the Church, not with these innocent lives. But if you think I’ll let you harm the archbishop—if you think I’ll let you harm my mother—you’re gravely mistaken.”

The leader laughed, a dark and bitter sound. “Your mother? So the prodigy reveals his weakness.” He raised his gauntlets, their dark energy crackling ominously. “Very well. If you stand in my way, then you’ll fall like the rest of them.”

The air between them grew heavy as they sized each other up, the tension palpable. Without warning, the leader lunged, his gauntlet-clad fists striking with devastating force. Kazamir dodged to the side, his sword flashing as he countered with a precise slash. The blade glanced off the gauntlets, sparks flying as the two clashed.

The duel was fierce and unrelenting, each combatant testing the other’s skill and resolve. The leader’s gauntlets crackled with power, each strike leaving the air trembling. Kazamir moved with practiced grace, his sword an extension of his will as he parried and countered. Despite the leader’s strength, Kazamir’s determination never wavered.

The battle carried them across the battlefield, their movements a blur of speed and precision. At one point, Kazamir stumbled over the body of a fallen knight. Beside the lifeless form, a young child cowered, clutching a wooden toy. Kazamir’s heart clenched, and he acted without hesitation.

He sheathed his sword and knelt, lifting the child into his arms. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice gentle despite the chaos around them. “I’ll protect you.”

The leader charged toward him, his gauntlets raised to strike. Kazamir turned, shielding the child with his body as the attack bore down on him. With a surge of strength, he drew his sword in a single, fluid motion, deflecting the blow and forcing the leader back. He set the child down gently, his emerald eyes blazing with resolve.

“Get to safety,” Kazamir urged, his voice steady. “I’ll handle this.”

The child nodded, tears streaming down their face, and ran toward the safety of the monastery. Kazamir turned back to the leader, his grip on his sword tightening.

The leader’s mask gleamed ominously, his voice dripping with disdain. “Sentimental fool. That compassion will be your undoing.”

Kazamir’s expression darkened. “Maybe,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But it’s also my strength.”

With a roar, Kazamir surged forward, his sword arcing through the air with a force that seemed to shake the ground. The leader raised his gauntlets to block, but the sheer power of the strike sent him staggering back. Kazamir pressed the attack, his movements a seamless blend of precision and ferocity.

Their duel reached a fever pitch, the clash of blade and gauntlet echoing across the battlefield. Kazamir feinted left, then pivoted sharply, his sword slicing cleanly through the leader’s golden mask. The mask shattered, fragments scattering to the ground as a deep gash appeared across the leader’s face. Blood dripped down his cheek, mingling with the sweat and soot that coated his skin.

The leader stumbled back, his hand instinctively rising to touch his scarred face. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. Kazamir stood tall, his sword pointed at the leader, his voice unwavering.

“This ends now,” Kazamir declared, his emerald eyes burning with resolve. “Surrender, or I will ensure you never harm another soul.”

The leader straightened, lowering his hand from his scarred face. The remnants of the shattered mask revealed sharp, weathered features and cold, calculating eyes. Kazamir’s breath caught in his throat, his grip tightening on his sword as recognition dawned.

The leader raised an eyebrow, his voice tinged with curiosity and disdain. “What’s the matter, boy? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kazamir didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the man’s face, his mind racing back to a memory he had buried deep—a memory of anguish, confusion, and betrayal. The scar, the jawline, even the cruel glint in those eyes—it was unmistakable.

“You…” Kazamir’s voice trembled, low and dangerous, as he took a step forward. His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. “You murderous dastard!”

The leader tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “I see I’ve struck a nerve. But tell me, boy—what am I guilty of this time?”

Kazamir’s rage ignited like a roaring inferno. His voice rose, filled with a venom he had never known before. “You framed me! You tricked me into killing my parents!”

For the first time, the leader faltered. His smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of unease. He stepped back instinctively, his voice growing defensive. “What madness are you spouting?”

But Kazamir’s fury was uncontainable. With a guttural roar, he charged, his blade swinging with relentless ferocity. The leader barely managed to evade the onslaught, his movements growing more frantic with each passing second. “Murderer! Dastard!” Kazamir bellowed, his strikes fueled by years of suppressed anguish.

The leader stumbled, his footing unsteady as he struggled to fend off Kazamir’s relentless attacks. “What’s gotten into you?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “You’ve lost your mind!”

But Kazamir was beyond words. His strikes came faster, heavier, each one driving the leader further back. Finally, the leader raised his gauntlet to block a downward slash, but Kazamir shifted at the last moment. With precision born of fury, he swung his blade low, severing the man’s hand at the wrist.

The leader screamed in agony, blood spurting from the stump as his gauntlet fell to the ground with a dull clatter. He stumbled back, clutching his wounded arm, his once-commanding presence crumbling into desperation. He tried to retreat, his feet dragging through the dirt as he scrambled to escape Kazamir’s relentless pursuit.

Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the night air. “Brother!” A woman’s voice rang out, filled with anguish and fury. Kazamir turned his head slightly, just in time to see a woman rushing toward him, her sword raised high. Her eyes burned with a mix of terror and determination as she aimed for his head, her blade gleaming in the firelight.

Kazamir moved instinctively, raising his shield to meet her attack. The clash of steel echoed sharply, the impact reverberating through his arm. The woman’s strikes were wild but powerful, fueled by desperation as she tried to defend the fallen leader. She screamed again, “Run, brother! Get away!”

The leader, clutching his bleeding wrist, didn’t hesitate. He turned and fled, his steps uneven and frantic as he disappeared into the shadows. Kazamir, focused on the woman before him, didn’t notice the coward’s escape. His emerald eyes burned with unrelenting fury as he blocked her blows with precision, his shield deflecting each desperate strike.

“Stand down,” Kazamir growled, his voice low and deadly. But the woman’s attacks only grew more frantic, her desperation palpable as she screamed again for her brother.

In one swift motion, Kazamir’s hand darted forward, catching the woman by the throat. Her eyes widened in shock and fear as his grip tightened, lifting her off the ground with ease. She dropped her sword, her hands clawing at his armored gauntlet as she struggled for breath.

“Please!” she gasped, her voice strained and desperate. “Brother… help me!”

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. The leader, now mounted on a horse in the distance, looked back only once, his eyes wide with fear. He spurred his steed forward, his figure vanishing into the night as the woman’s cries grew weaker.

Kazamir’s grip tightened, his rage consuming him. The woman’s struggles became feeble, her legs kicking weakly as her breath escaped her in ragged gasps. Finally, with a sickening snap, her neck broke, her body going limp in his grasp. Kazamir released her, letting her lifeless form fall to the ground with a dull thud.

He stood there for a moment, his breath heaving, his mind clouded with fury. Then, snapping back to the present, he turned his gaze toward the horizon. In the distance, he saw the leader fleeing on horseback, the coward’s silhouette barely visible against the flickering flames. Without hesitation, Kazamir gave chase, his heart pounding as he vowed to end this once and for all.
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The aftermath of the battle at Garreg Mach left the monastery shaken to its core. The surviving bandits had been taken prisoner, their terrified faces pale under the watchful eyes of the knights. It was from their trembling lips that Seteth and Jeralt first learned of the village—Kazamir’s childhood home. They spoke of its people being forced into servitude, coerced into the attack. The leader had promised liberation, but instead, he delivered only death and despair.

Kazamir had vanished after the battle, his trail obscured by the chaos of the night. Days passed, and still, there was no word from him. When the prisoners revealed the location of the leader’s village, Seteth and Jeralt assembled a small group of knights to investigate. They rode tirelessly, their hearts heavy with unspoken fears.

It took them three days to reach the village. As they approached, the acrid stench of smoke and charred wood filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. The scene before them was nothing short of a nightmare.

The village was ablaze. Flames licked hungrily at the remnants of homes, their wooden frames collapsing into ash and rubble. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, some clutching weapons, others lifeless in positions of desperate flight... including children. The cries of the dying had long since faded, leaving only the crackling of fire and the faint rustle of wind.

Jeralt dismounted first, his boots sinking into the blood-soaked earth. He crouched beside a body, his sharp eyes narrowing as he examined the fresh stab wounds. The blood was still wet, the edges of the wounds clean and precise. “This wasn’t the bandits,” he muttered, his voice grim. “This… this is something else.”

Seteth stepped forward, his expression a mixture of horror and disbelief. His eyes swept across the devastation, pausing on the small forms of children lying lifeless among the ruins. His stomach churned, and his fists clenched tightly. “Who could have done this?” he whispered, his voice thick with anguish.

A scream pierced the air, sharp and raw with terror. Without hesitation, Jeralt and Seteth ran toward the sound, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The knights followed, their armor clinking as they moved.

They burst into a clearing near the center of the village, where the flames burned hottest. There, surrounded by the inferno, stood Kazamir. His once-pristine white clothing was soaked in blood, the crimson stains stark against the soot and ash. His sword hung at his side, its blade dripping with fresh blood.

Kazamir’s emerald eyes were fixed on the figure before him: the leader. The man was on his knees, his face pale and streaked with tears. His remaining hand clutched at his chest, where blood seeped from a shallow wound. He looked up at Kazamir, his expression a mixture of confusion and terror.

“What… what are you?” the leader stammered, his voice trembling.

Kazamir didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted to his own hands, where his veins glowed faintly beneath his skin. The blood of the goddess pulsed through him, its power both a blessing and a curse. He clenched his fists, then looked back at the leader, his expression cold and unyielding.

“Tell me, Kenric,” Kazamir said, his voice low and eerily calm. He stepped closer, his presence towering and suffocating. “Do you remember when you set a child up to kill his parents?”

The leader’s eyes widened in sudden recognition, the pieces of the puzzle snapping into place. “You…” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “Kazamir… it’s you…”

Kazamir’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Yes,” he said softly. “It’s me. The boy you destroyed. The boy you turned into a weapon against his own family.” His voice rose, filled with fury. “And now, I am your reckoning. I am the God of Revenge.”

Kenric, trembling and broken, tried to speak, but no words came. His lips quivered as his body sank lower, a crumpled heap at Kazamir’s feet. Tears streamed down his face as he reached out feebly, his bloodied hand grasping at the dirt.

Kazamir’s emerald eyes burned, flickering like embers in the darkness. He raised his sword slowly, the weight of justice—or vengeance—pressing heavily on his shoulders. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before plunging the blade downward. The first strike was precise, the steel piercing Kenric’s chest with a sickening crunch. The leader’s body jerked, his scream echoing briefly before it was swallowed by the roaring flames.

Again.

The sword rose and fell, each thrust fueled by years of pent-up anger and torment. Again and again, the blade pierced Kenric’s body, blood splattering across Kazamir’s hands and face. By the fifth strike, Kenric’s lifeless form lay motionless, but Kazamir did not stop. He stabbed again, his breathing ragged, his vision blurred by tears of rage. Six. Seven. Eight.

Each thrust was accompanied by a guttural roar, a primal cry of anguish that reverberated through the burning village. The blood-soaked ground seemed to absorb Kazamir’s pain, the earth drinking deeply of his sorrow. Nine. Ten.

Finally, Kazamir halted, his chest heaving as he stood over Kenric’s lifeless, mangled body. His sword dripped crimson, the blood pooling at his feet. The flames surrounding him cast an otherworldly glow, their heat licking at his skin but not breaking through his resolve.

Kazamir’s eyes shifted downward to his trembling hands, now stained deep red. His reflection in the blood-soaked blade caught his gaze—and for a moment, he didn’t recognize himself. Slowly, he lifted his head, his gaze drawn to the edge of the clearing.

Seteth and Jeralt stood frozen, their expressions a mixture of shock and horror. Seteth’s green eyes widened in disbelief, his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Jeralt’s usually unshakable composure cracked, his brow furrowed deeply as he gripped his weapon tightly, his knuckles white.

Kazamir’s emerald eyes and hair began to shimmer faintly, the green hues twisting unnaturally. For a fleeting moment, they blazed a vivid, blood-red, a stark contrast to his usual serene colors. The change lasted only seconds before the emerald returned, but the image burned itself into Seteth’s and Jeralt’s minds.

Before either could speak, a faint, desperate noise broke the silence—a soft, pained whimper. Kazamir turned his head sharply, his expression unreadable as he spotted a child crawling through the rubble. The boy’s small frame was covered in soot and blood, his wide, tear-filled eyes fixed on Kazamir.

The sight ignited something cold and dark within Kazamir. This village, its people—all of them had supported Kenric. All of them bore the guilt of what had been done to him. Kazamir stepped toward the child, his sword dragging slightly on the ground, leaving a streak of blood in its wake. The boy’s sobs grew louder, but he didn’t flee; he simply couldn’t.

Kazamir loomed over the child, his blade rising with deliberate slowness. His voice, low and devoid of mercy, cut through the crackling flames. “No one from this village will escape punishment. Not one.”

The sword gleamed as it reached its apex, poised to deliver the final blow. The child squeezed his eyes shut, his trembling hands clutching at the scorched earth. But just as Kazamir’s arm tensed to strike, a strong, steady hand gripped his wrist.

“Enough!” Seteth’s voice was firm, his grip unyielding as he held Kazamir’s arm in place. His green eyes bore into Kazamir’s, a mixture of pleading and resolve shining within them. “This is enough, Kazamir!”

Kazamir’s gaze locked with Seteth’s, his expression cold and detached. For a long, tense moment, neither man moved. Then, slowly, Seteth spoke again, his voice softer but no less resolute. “This isn’t who you are. This isn’t our way. The child is innocent.”

Kazamir’s sword arm wavered, the weight of Seteth’s words pressing against the fragile balance of his emotions. He stared at the trembling child below him, his mind a storm of rage, pain, and doubt. The seconds stretched into an eternity before, finally, Kazamir lowered his sword. The blade clattered to the ground, the sound echoing like thunder in the stillness.

Without a word, Kazamir stepped back, his shoulders slumping as though the weight of the world had finally crushed him. His gaze remained fixed on the ground, avoiding the shocked and horrified eyes of Seteth and Jeralt.

Seteth knelt beside the child, his expression softening as he whispered words of comfort. The boy clung to him, his small body trembling as he buried his face in Seteth’s robes.

Kazamir turned away, his steps heavy as he walked toward the edge of the burning village. He didn’t look back, even as Seteth called his name. The flames illuminated his retreating figure, casting long shadows that seemed to reach out like grasping hands.

The knights moved swiftly to extinguish the fires and tend to the survivors. They rebuilt what they could, salvaging fragments of homes and lives amidst the ashes. But the memory of that night would linger like a scar on the hearts of all who witnessed it.

From that day forward, Kazamir would carry a new title—one whispered with awe and fear: The God of Revenge.
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Present

The room was silent, the weight of Seteth’s story hanging heavily in the air. Shez and Byleth sat in stunned silence, their faces reflecting a mixture of shock and disbelief. Flayn’s usually serene face was etched with sadness, her emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She broke the silence, her voice trembling as she spoke.

“Rhea understood what Kazamir did,” Flayn said softly. “After all, she herself avenged her mother by killing Nemesis thousands of years ago. But the innocent being killed...” Her voice faltered, and she glanced away, her hands clasped tightly together. “That was unacceptable. Still, Kazamir believed the entire village should be destroyed—they had, after all, condemned him as a child."

She paused, her gaze dropping to the table. “Rhea asked him to return his sword,” she continued. “But the next few days...” Her voice broke, and she abruptly cut herself off, a shadow of pain crossing her face.

Shez tilted her head slightly, her voice gentle but probing. “What happened in those next few days?”

Flayn shook her head, struggling to regain her composure. “I don’t know how to describe it,” she murmured. “But it was as if he... became something else entirely. Someone who wasn’t Kazamir anymore. And yet...” She trailed off, her voice thick with sorrow. “How could someone so kind, so noble, turn into what he is now?”

Byleth’s gaze shifted to Sothis, who floated beside him. Her spectral form glimmered faintly in the dim light of the room, her expression uncharacteristically somber. There was a flicker of regret in her eyes, a sorrow that seemed to span centuries.

Seteth, who had been watching Byleth intently, noticed the subtle shift in his gaze. His green eyes narrowed slightly before they dropped to the sword strapped to Byleth’s back. “Before I answer any further questions,” Seteth said quietly, “I must see that sword. Please, Byleth, allow me to examine it.”

Byleth nodded, unsheathing the blade and holding it out to Seteth. The older man’s breath hitched as his hands closed around the hilt. His eyes widened, and his usually calm demeanor cracked as recognition dawned.

“This is...” Seteth’s voice faltered, and he looked up at Byleth with an expression of disbelief. “I never thought I’d see this sword again. Kazamir’s blade... How did you come to possess it?”

Before Byleth could respond, Shez reached into her bag and pulled out a folded canvas. She carefully unfurled it, revealing a painting of a young boy with bright emerald eyes and hair the color of sunlight. “I found this,” she said, placing the painting on the table.

Flayn’s eyes widened in shock, and she quickly grabbed the painting, her hands trembling. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at the familiar face. “This...” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I painted this. I can’t believe it’s still here.”

Tears spilled onto the canvas as she clutched it to her chest. “I wish Kazamir were back,” she cried, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “It’s my fault he went down to the tombs. I showed him the way. I thought he was going to pray for forgiveness, but...”

“Flayn!” Seteth’s voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. “That is enough.”

Flayn’s head snapped up, her tear-streaked face defiant. “No, Father,” she said, her voice rising. “We can’t keep ignoring the truth! I took him there. I thought I was helping him, but instead, I led him to his downfall. He had so much regret in his eyes. He wanted forgiveness. But after that... he was never the same.”

She stood abruptly, clutching the painting as she moved toward the door. Her shoulders trembled as she turned back to look at them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, before disappearing down the hallway.

Seteth sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. His usually composed demeanor had crumbled, leaving behind a man burdened by grief. “Flayn and Kazamir were very close,” he admitted, his voice weary. “She’s carried this guilt for far too long.”

Byleth, still holding the worn journal in his hands, glanced at Seteth. “You mentioned the tombs,” he said carefully. “What happened there?”

Seteth’s expression grew heavy, the weight of the past etched into every line of his face. He took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the table. “Flayn took Kazamir to the entrance of the tombs,” he admitted. “But before he went in, he gave her a letter.”
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Flashback

The entrance to the tombs was eerily quiet, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the ancient stone walls. Kazamir stood at the threshold, his hands trembling slightly as he held a sealed envelope. The flames danced on his emerald hair, still untouched by the transformation to come.

Flayn stood beside him, her delicate features creased with concern. “Kazamir,” she said softly, her voice tinged with hesitation. “Do you want me to give this to Lady Rhea now?”

Kazamir looked down at the letter in his hands, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he nodded, his voice quiet and strained. “Yes. Please. She needs to have this.”

Flayn’s worried eyes searched his face. “Will you be all right? You’ve… been through so much. I don’t want you to carry this burden alone.”

Kazamir managed a small, faint smile, though his gaze remained distant. “I’ll be fine,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “I just… I need some time. Time to pray. To ask for forgiveness.”

Flayn hesitated, stepping closer. “Kazamir… do you regret what happened?”

At her words, his gaze fell to his hands, stained with memories no amount of washing could erase. His voice trembled as he spoke. “All of Fódlan calls me the God of Vengeance,” he said bitterly, his words heavy with self-loathing. “But the truth is… I don’t feel like a god. I feel like a monster. Those children… those innocents… I killed them. They didn’t deserve to die.”

Tears welled in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of his grief. “I just want to pray,” he whispered. “Maybe… maybe the goddess will forgive me.”

Flayn’s heart ached for him. Without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace. “Kazamir,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “We’re here for you. Always. Lady Rhea, Father, me—we love you. You’re not alone.”

Kazamir hesitated, then hugged her back, his arms trembling. “Thank you, Flayn,” he murmured. “I… I won’t be long.”

Flayn pulled back, wiping a tear from her cheek. She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “We’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

Kazamir gave her a small, grateful smile before turning and stepping into the darkness of the tombs. Flayn watched him until the shadows swallowed him whole, then turned and made her way to Rhea’s quarters. She found the room empty, so she placed the letter carefully on the archbishop’s dresser.
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Hours passed, and the monastery fell into uneasy stillness. When Rhea eventually returned to her quarters and found the letter, she read it in silence. Her emerald eyes widened, and her hands trembled as she clutched the paper. Without hesitation, she called for Seteth and the two of them descended into the tombs to find Kazamir.

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Together, they descended into the tombs, the air growing colder and heavier with each step. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls, amplifying the unease that coiled in Rhea’s chest. Seteth led the way, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon, his every sense alert for signs of danger.

As they reached the heart of the tombs, the sight before them made Rhea’s breath catch. There, on the ancient throne of the goddess, sat Kazamir. His eyes were closed, his body unnaturally still, as if he were in a deep slumber. The flickering torchlight made his pale skin seem almost translucent, his emerald hair glinting faintly.

“Kazamir,” Rhea called gently, her voice trembling as she stepped closer. “You’ve been down here for quite a while. I understand you’re in pain… that you carry regret. But it’s time to come back. Please, my son.”

Kazamir said nothing, his eyes remaining shut. Seteth, his brow furrowed with concern, called out as well. “Kazamir, can you hear us? Are you all right?”

Still, there was no response. Seteth exchanged a worried glance with Rhea before stepping closer. As he reached the edge of the dais, Kazamir’s eyes snapped open. A cold, unnatural white filled the orbs, devoid of pupils or any trace of humanity. Seteth stumbled back in shock, his voice barely a whisper. “By the goddess…”

Rhea’s composure cracked, and she rushed to Kazamir, gripping his shoulders. “Kazamir! What is wrong? Speak to me!”

For a moment, the light in his eyes seemed to flicker, and then they returned to their usual emerald green. Relief surged through Rhea, but it was short-lived. Kazamir suddenly clutched his head, a guttural cry escaping his lips. His body convulsed, and he fell from the throne onto the cold stone floor.

“Rhea, step back!” Seteth commanded, pulling her away as Kazamir writhed.

But Rhea struggled against his grip, her voice breaking. “He’s my son, Seteth! I can’t abandon him!”

Kazamir’s cries grew louder, shifting into something deeper—inhuman. His body began to change before their eyes. His skin split and peeled away, revealing glistening, iridescent scales beneath. His fingers elongated, dark claws growing from their tips. His hair shifted from green to a vivid orange, and his eyes turned into slitted golden orbs. Razor-sharp teeth protruded from his mouth, and as his screams turned into roars, the sound echoed with a resonance that made the very air tremble.

Rhea broke free of Seteth’s grasp, rushing to Kazamir as he collapsed, his monstrous transformation seemingly complete. She knelt beside him, her trembling hands brushing against his scaled chest. “Kazamir… my son… please, say something. Anything.”

There was no response, no pulse beneath her fingertips. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered, “This must be a side effect of the crest… I… I’ve lost you.” Her trembling hand reached for the knife at her side, and with a desperate cry, she plunged it into his chest, aiming to remove the replicated Crest of Flames embedded within him.

The blade struck true, and Rhea pulled it free, holding the glowing Crest Stone in her trembling hands. But as she stared at Kazamir’s lifeless body, the despair in her heart consumed her. Her voice cracked, raw and filled with grief, as she whispered, “You were my hope… my child. I’ve failed you.” Her sobs echoed in the hollow stillness of the tomb, a haunting melody of anguish that seemed to reverberate off the ancient stone walls.

Seteth’s voice broke through the silence, trembling with disbelief. “Rhea… look.”

Rhea’s tear-filled gaze snapped to Kazamir’s chest. The gaping wound where she had struck him began to shift, the flesh knitting itself back together with an almost grotesque fluidity. She gasped, her hands trembling as she placed them over his chest, feeling the faint pulse of a heartbeat beneath her fingers. Relief flooded her, but it was fleeting.

Kazamir’s hand shot out like a vice, his claws closing around her throat with terrifying strength. Rhea choked, her emerald eyes wide with shock and terror as he lifted her effortlessly from the ground. His once gentle gaze had been replaced by an inhuman fury, his golden eyes glowing with an intensity that made her blood run cold. He stared deep into her soul, his voice a guttural snarl that echoed with raw, unbridled anger.

“Am I a failure to you, Mother?” he growled, each word laced with venom. His grip tightened, his claws digging into her flesh as he held her suspended in the air. “You told me I could never fail you. Were those words a lie?”

Rhea’s hands clawed at his arm, her voice strangled and broken. “Kazamir… you’re not… a failure…”

Seteth stepped forward cautiously, his voice calm but firm. “Kazamir, listen to me. This isn’t who you are. Let her go. Please.”

Kazamir’s head snapped toward Seteth, his golden eyes narrowing. With a snarl, he threw Rhea toward him. She collided with Seteth, and they both tumbled to the ground in a heap. Rhea gasped for breath, clutching her throat as Seteth steadied her, his eyes never leaving Kazamir.

Kazamir looked down at his hands, his claws trembling as he stared at them in horror. He stumbled backward, his breath ragged. “What… what is this?” he whispered, his voice cracking with despair. “What have I become?”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and bolted toward the stairs, his movements clumsy and frantic. He ascended the stone steps two at a time, his claws scraping against the walls as he struggled to escape the suffocating confines of the tomb.

The cold night air hit him like a slap as he burst onto the surface. The moon bathed the monastery in pale light, its serene beauty a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within Kazamir’s soul. The knights stationed nearby froze at the sight of him, their eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

“Monster!” one of them shouted, raising his sword. The others followed suit, their weapons glinting menacingly in the moonlight.

Kazamir raised his hands, his claws glinting as he took a step forward. “Put your weapons away,” he commanded, his voice low and trembling with suppressed rage. “I am Fódlan’s future ruler.”

A great axe knight stepped forward, his heavy weapon gleaming in the moonlight. His voice boomed across the courtyard, cutting through the tense silence. “No beast like you is our future! You’re no ruler—you’re a monster!”

Kazamir’s gaze flicked toward a shattered mirror lying discarded near the knights. In its jagged fragments, he caught sight of his reflection: slitted golden eyes, glistening crimson scales, and twisted claws that had replaced his hands. His breath hitched, the weight of his transformation crashing over him like a tidal wave. He stared at himself, the grotesque visage a mockery of the man he once was.

He clenched his fists, green blood oozing from the wounds as his claws dug into his palms. His mind spiraled, the words of the knight echoing in his thoughts. Monster… Beast… Failure…

Kazamir’s chest heaved as a maelstrom of emotions consumed him: hatred, pain, sadness, all swirling into a dark abyss. Memories flooded back—of the villagers casting him out, condemning him, forcing him to survive alone. Now, he thought bitterly, even the goddess had abandoned him. His rage burned hotter, his mind latching onto a singular thought. Rhea. She set me up to fail. Her promises were lies. Her love—false.

His jaw clenched, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could hear it, the word failure reverberating in his mind like a taunt, a haunting refrain that would not cease. But then, something inside him snapped. His anguish crystallized into a single, consuming purpose. He would not fail. He would rise above it all—not as a man, but as a god.

The great axe knight stepped closer, his voice cutting through Kazamir’s haze. “Who are you?” he demanded, his grip tightening on his weapon. “What are you?”

Kazamir’s head tilted slowly, his glowing eyes locking onto the knight. “I am the God of Vengeance,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent chills down the spines of all who heard it.

Before the knight could respond, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the tension. Rhea and Seteth emerged from the tomb’s entrance, their faces pale with worry and dread. Rhea’s eyes locked on Kazamir, her hands trembling. “Kazamir,” she called, her voice pleading. “My son, please stop this.”

Kazamir’s gaze snapped to her, and the sight of her only fueled the fire raging within him. His blood boiled, his claws flexing as his rage mounted. He took a step toward her, his body trembling with barely contained power. The glow on his neck intensified, spreading across his skin like molten veins. It seared him, a burning pain that he welcomed. The glow grew brighter, and with it, his fury reached its breaking point.

“I am the God of Revenge!” Kazamir roared, his voice shaking the very ground beneath their feet.

The knights around him recoiled, but it was too late. Kazamir’s mouth opened wide, and a torrent of fire erupted forth, engulfing the soldiers in a searing inferno. Their screams pierced the night, their forms consumed by the flames. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the air.

“Kazamir, stop!” Rhea cried, rushing toward him, her arms outstretched. “This isn’t you!”

Kazamir turned sharply, his claws lashing out. His fist collided with her chest, the force sending her sprawling to the ground. She gasped in pain, her eyes wide with shock as she looked up at him. “Kazamir… what are you doing?”

His lips curled into a sneer. “Don’t call me that,” he spat. “I see you for what you truly are now, Seiros.”

Rhea’s breath caught, her emerald eyes widening in disbelief. “What did you say?”

Kazamir’s voice grew colder, the bitterness in his tone cutting deeper with every word. “You are no mother of mine. You are the daughter of the goddess, the liar who used me, set me up to fail.”

Seteth stepped forward, his voice firm but tinged with sorrow. “We never intended to—”

“Silence, Cichol,” Kazamir growled, cutting him off. “The Hammer of Judgment, the goddess’s enforcer. You’re no better than her.”

A soft cry drew Kazamir’s attention, and his golden eyes snapped to Flayn, who stood frozen in fear at the edge of the courtyard. Her hands clutched at her chest, her lips trembling. “Kazamir…” she whispered. “What… what’s happened to you?”

Kazamir’s expression twisted into something unrecognizable—anguish and rage combined. “You,” he snarled. “You showed me the way to that tomb. You set me up for this!” His voice broke, trembling with fury. “Cethleann, the Benevolent One. Another child of the goddess, here to watch me fall.”

Tears streamed down Flayn’s cheeks as she shook her head. “No,” she cried, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please, Kazamir—”

“Enough!” Kazamir bellowed, his voice shaking the very heavens. “You’ve all conspired against me, just like the people of my village. There is only one way to end this.”

Pain shot through Kazamir’s back, and he let out a guttural cry. His shoulders arched, and with a sickening crack, massive wings tore from his flesh. They spread wide, shimmering with the same crimson hue as his scales. He lifted into the air, his shadow falling over the courtyard like a harbinger of doom.

His gaze locked onto Rhea, and his voice turned to a cold, unyielding decree. “Vengeance begins with you.”

Raising his claws, Kazamir summoned a bolt of crackling thunder, its energy surging toward Rhea with deadly intent. She closed her eyes, bracing for the strike. But as the lightning neared, a figure leapt in front of her. Jeralt’s shield absorbed the brunt of the bolt, the force driving him to one knee. Sparks danced along the edges of his shield as he gritted his teeth, his weathered face resolute.

Kazamir’s golden eyes narrowed, his lip curling into a sneer. “Another one of Seiros’ pawns,” he growled, his voice dripping with disdain. “What makes you think you can stop me, Blade Breaker?”

Jeralt’s gaze locked onto Kazamir, his expression grim but unwavering. “I don’t know what you’ve become,” he said, his voice steady. “But I won’t let something like you harm anyone here. Not Rhea, not the students… no one.”

For a moment, Kazamir’s sneer faltered, his eyes flickering with recognition. “You,” he hissed, his voice sharp and venomous. “Another who might have set me up to fail. Another tool of Seiros. Tell me, Jeralt Reus Eisne—will you beg for your life when I end you?”

Jeralt stiffened, his sharp instincts catching something familiar in Kazamir’s voice. His brow furrowed, confusion briefly mingling with his resolve. “That voice…” he murmured. “No. It can’t be.”

“Die, Blade Breaker!” Kazamir roared, charging forward with blinding speed. His clawed hand slammed into Jeralt’s shield, the force sending the seasoned knight sprawling. Jeralt crashed into a nearby pillar, the impact cracking the stone as he slumped to the ground, coughing.

Kazamir flew toward him, his claws closing around Jeralt’s throat. He lifted the knight effortlessly, his grip tightening. “What chance do you have against me?” he snarled. “Once I’m finished here, I’ll find Sitri and ensure her blood—and that of her unborn child—is on the sword I wield.”

Jeralt’s eyes widened, his breath catching. Rage ignited within him, a fire he hadn’t felt in decades. With a roar, he drove his fist into Kazamir’s face, the impact forcing the monstrous figure to release him. Jeralt dropped to the ground, grabbing a discarded spear and lunging forward. The weapon found its mark, piercing Kazamir’s shoulder.

Kazamir snarled, wrenching the spear free and tossing it aside as if it were nothing. “You dare?” he growled, his voice reverberating like thunder. He grabbed Jeralt and hurled him into a brick wall. The structure crumbled under the impact, leaving Jeralt coughing and bloodied amidst the rubble. Kazamir pulled the spear from his shoulder and let out a deafening roar, his fury shaking the ground.

Before Kazamir could advance, he felt a sharp pain in his back. Turning, he saw Rhea, her face etched with determination, the tip of her sword embedded in his flesh. His expression twisted into a snarl as he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her into the air. “You lied to me,” he growled, his golden eyes blazing with unholy fire. “You said I wouldn’t be a failure, but you’ve lied to everyone in Fódlan. Your lies will be your downfall, Seiros.”

Rhea’s body began to glow, a radiant light emanating from within her. Her voice, though strained, rang with divine authority. “This ends now,” she declared. In a blinding flash, her form shifted, transforming into the towering, majestic figure of the Immaculate One. Her emerald eyes glowed with otherworldly light as she roared, the sound shaking the heavens.

Kazamir stood his ground, his crimson-scaled form unmoving. His golden eyes burned with fury and disdain, unshaken by her transformation. “Your theatrics do not impress me, Seiros,” he growled. “I have risen above you.”

With a thunderous cry, Rhea charged, her massive claws tearing through the ground as she lunged at him. But as she swung her enormous arm, Kazamir caught it mid-swing. The force sent a shockwave rippling through the air, but he held firm, his claws digging into her scales.

Rhea’s eyes widened in disbelief as she felt her strength falter against his grip. “How…?” she gasped.

Kazamir’s voice was cold and unyielding. “Because a new god has been born,” he said, his grip tightening as he flung her arm upward, forcing her off balance. He raised his hand, casting Fimbulvetr, an intense, icy spell that engulfed her in a freezing tempest. “So ends the hope of Seiros,” he declared.

The ice storm surged, and as Rhea struggled against the biting cold, Kazamir seized her tail with both hands. With a roar of effort, he spun her massive form in a wide arc, the ground trembling beneath the force. Releasing her with a final heave, he sent her crashing into the stone walls of Garreg Mach. The wall shattered on impact, sending debris raining down as Rhea’s massive form slumped to the ground.

Flames erupted around her as Kazamir unleashed his fiery wrath, the searing heat burning through her scales. Rhea let out a pained roar as the fire scorched her, her body writhing in agony. Unable to maintain her dragon form, she shifted back into her normal body, her once radiant robes now charred and torn. Weak and trembling, she began to crawl away, her voice barely a whisper. “Kazamir… please… stop…”

Kazamir descended slowly, his movements deliberate as he approached her crumpled form. His eyes gleamed with malice as he looked down at her. “Stop?” he sneered. “You speak of stopping now, after all the lies and betrayals? You never loved me. All you did was set me up to fail.”

Rhea’s trembling hands reached out, her emerald eyes brimming with tears. “Kazamir… my son…”

Kazamir’s lip curled in disgust. “Don’t call me that.” He raised his clawed hand, ready to strike the final blow. But before he could bring it down, a sharp blast of ice struck him squarely in the chest, sending him hurtling into a nearby tree. He growled, his claws digging into the ground as he steadied himself. His eyes snapped to the source of the attack.

Standing a short distance away was Sitri who was three weeks pregnant, her gentle face resolute despite the fear that flickered in her eyes. Her hands glowed faintly with ice magic, and her voice rang out, firm yet pleading. “Kazamir, stop this path you’ve chosen. It’s not too late to turn back.”

Kazamir let out a guttural roar, his rage boiling over as he charged at her. The ground shook beneath his steps, his fiery breath building in his chest. As he neared, Sitri shouted, “Jeralt, now!”

From the shadows, Jeralt emerged, his arm pulling back as he hurled a spear with all his might. The weapon struck Kazamir’s leg, piercing through the crimson scales and halting his advance. Kazamir stumbled, snarling in pain, as Sitri raised her hands once more. Ice began to encase his legs, creeping upward with relentless determination.

Kazamir struggled against the encroaching frost, his wings flaring as he attempted to take flight. But before he could, Jeralt rushed forward, driving a sword into his back. The force of the blow sent Kazamir crashing to the ground, his wings folding painfully back into his body.

“I’m sorry, Kazamir,” Jeralt said quietly, stepping back. “But there’s no other choice.”

The ice continued to rise, reaching Kazamir’s shoulders as he growled in defiance. His eyes locked onto Rhea, who was slowly standing, her body trembling. “This isn’t over,” Kazamir snarled, his voice like a vow. “I will return… for you…” As the ice reached his neck, Kazamir closed his eyes, his body stilling as the frost sealed him completely.

Seteth and Flayn arrived moments later, their faces pale with shock. Rhea stumbled toward the frozen figure, her trembling hands resting on the ice. Pain radiated through her as tears streamed down her face. “My son…” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Seteth placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Rhea, he is lost to us. We must secure him somewhere far from here.”

Rhea’s expression hardened, a mixture of sorrow and determination. Her body shimmered as she transformed back into her dragon form, the Immaculate One. With great effort, she lifted the frozen Kazamir, her claws careful yet firm. She spread her wings, her gaze turning to Seteth and Flayn.

“I will take him to Helheim Mountain,” she said, her voice reverberating with grief. “There, he will remain..." With a powerful leap, she ascended into the sky, the ice-encased figure of Kazamir held tightly in her grasp. The moonlight bathed her massive form as she disappeared into the distance, her anguished roar echoing through the night.

Chapter Text

Present.

And once again, there was just silence. The room seemed to hold its breath as Seteth, Flayn, Byleth, and Shez sat in the heavy stillness, the weight of Kazamir's tragic past pressing down on them all. Seteth's green eyes glistened faintly, his usually composed demeanor cracking as he leaned forward, clasping his hands tightly together. His voice, low and filled with sorrow, broke the silence.

"Rhea took Kazamir to the cave in Helheim Mountain," he began, each word deliberate, as though speaking them out loud solidified their painful truth. "She believed that no one would ever go there, that the isolation would ensure his power could never harm anyone again."

Byleth looked at Seteth, his expression clouded with thought. Slowly, he spoke, his voice calm but carrying an edge of disbelief. "Until a month ago," he said softly.

His gaze dropped to the worn journal in his hands, its edges frayed from time and use. "I still can’t believe my parents fought him," he added, his voice thick with emotion. "And now, somehow, it’s fallen to me to finish what happened thirty-five years ago."

Shez cleared her throat, her voice cutting through the silence. "Not just you," she said firmly. "We will finish what started thirty-five years ago." Her piercing eyes locked onto Byleth’s, her determination unwavering.

Byleth looked at her, her words grounding him. Slowly, he nodded, the faintest glimmer of gratitude flickering in his otherwise somber expression. She was right—he wasn’t alone. He had to remember that, even in the face of a battle as overwhelming as this.

Shez turned to Seteth, her tone softening. "You should check on Flayn. She… she seemed really shaken up. She might need you."

Seteth’s green eyes lingered on her for a moment before he sighed and stood, his usual composed demeanor weighed down by the sorrow that hung heavy in the air. "I will. Excuse me." With that, he left the room, his footsteps echoing softly as he walked down the hall.

As the room fell silent once more, Byleth leaned back, his thoughts swirling like a tempest. Kazamir’s story was a tragedy—a tale of a boy who had once been filled with potential and hope, only to be consumed by the shadows of his past. Byleth couldn’t help but wonder how long Kazamir had clung to his thirst for revenge. Was it immediate, or had it festered over years of regret and anguish? Could he have let go of it, with Rhea’s guidance? Or had his fate been sealed the moment his village betrayed him?

He thought about Kazamir’s journey—from a hopeless child, shunned and cast out, to a figure who nearly became a ruler under Rhea’s care. And then, the fall—how the echoes of his past had come to haunt him, warping him into something unrecognizable. A god, but not the kind of god that inspired hope or peace. The God of Vengeance. What could have changed, Byleth wondered, if someone had reached him in time?

What could have changed, Byleth wondered, if someone had reached him in time? Could a kind word, a moment of compassion, or a hand extended in friendship have saved him? Or had his destiny always been written in the stars, marked by flames and vengeance?

The silence was broken by Shez, her voice soft but firm. “What if there’s something left of his village?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the worn journal in Byleth’s hands. “What if someone survived?”

Byleth looked at her, his brows furrowing. “Why?” he asked, his voice even but tinged with curiosity. “What are you thinking?”

Shez hesitated, her hands clenching slightly. “If anyone survived… maybe they’d know more about him. About who he was before everything went wrong. Maybe… there’s something we’re missing. Something that could help us understand.”

Byleth considered her words, his gaze dropping to the journal again. “But his village…” he began, his voice heavy with doubt. “It was burned so long ago. What are the odds of people who knew him survived? And even if they did, after what he did, do you think they’d have anything good to say about him?”

The question hung in the air, unanswered. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its flickering light casting long shadows across the room. Seteth and Flayn re-entered, their faces solemn but composed. Flayn’s eyes were red, but she held herself with quiet strength.

Byleth looked at her, his voice gentle. “Flayn, are you all right?”

She nodded slowly, her gaze falling to the painting still on the table. “I will be,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

Turning his attention to Seteth, Byleth asked, “How far is Kazamir’s village?”

Seteth hesitated, his green eyes flickering with unease. Finally, he spoke, his voice measured. “Not far. A few hours’ journey from here.”

Shez leaned forward, her curiosity evident. “Could you take us there?” she asked, her tone earnest.

Seteth was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant as if weighing the consequences. He knew what Kazamir’s return meant for all of Fódlan. He posed a threat unlike any other, and every step taken toward understanding him felt like treading on the edge of a blade.

At last, Seteth sighed deeply. “I cannot involve Flayn in this. Nor do I wish to take part of this war. But…” He glanced at Byleth and Shez, his resolve firming. “I suppose it would do no harm to take you to the village. We’ll leave at dawn. I have spare rooms for you to rest tonight.”

Byleth inclined his head in gratitude. “Thank you, Seteth.”

Seteth said nothing more. He stood, his movements deliberate, and left the room. The faint sound of his footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into silence.

Flayn lingered, her eyes returning to the painting. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over the image of Kazamir’s youthful face. Tears glimmered in her eyes once more, but she blinked them away.

Shez watched her, her voice quiet but sincere. “It wasn’t your fault… His heart sadly changed. But it wasn’t your fault.”

Flayn nodded, though the motion was small and hesitant. Without another word, she turned and left the room, her footsteps light as she retreated to her chambers.

Byleth glanced at Shez, his voice low. “After we check the village, we’ll need to head to House Galatea.”

Shez nodded, her determination unwavering. Together, they left the room, heading to the guest quarters Seteth had prepared for them. The walk was silent, the weight of what they had learned pressing heavily on their shoulders. When they reached their rooms, Shez gave Byleth a small, reassuring nod before retreating inside. The door closed softly behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After hours of restless silence, Shez lay in her bed, the weight of the evening pressing heavily on her mind. The firelight from the nearby hearth flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the stone walls. Her thoughts churned with the details of Kazamir’s story, a tragic and complex web of hope, betrayal, and vengeance.

As her mind wandered, she noticed a faint glow near the window. Sitting there, gazing out at the starry night sky, was Arval, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

Shez sat up, her voice soft as she addressed him. “Arval, are you all right?”

Arval turned slowly, his glowing eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he hesitated, as if weighing whether to speak. Finally, he sighed, his voice low and contemplative. “I’m not sure. After… everything we’ve learned about Kazamir, it’s heavy. I… I feel bad for him. Even though what he’s done is wrong, I can’t help but see the fear that drove him to it. The fear of failure. The desperate hope to become something greater than the pain that defined him.”

Shez’s brow furrowed as she considered his words. “Fear doesn’t justify what he’s done, Arval. No matter how much pain or fear he’s felt, he’s still taken innocent lives. He’s still causing harm.”

Arval nodded, though his gaze grew distant again. “I know. But… can anyone be redeemed? Do you think someone like him could ever see what they’ve done and truly change?”

Shez tilted her head, studying him curiously. “What makes you ask that?”

Arval hesitated, glancing back out the window. “I wonder if there’s hope for anyone who’s lost their way. Whether they can look back at their past and decide to be better. Or if some people are too far gone to turn back.”

Shez leaned back against the headboard, her tone thoughtful. “I think it depends on the heart of the person. If they truly want to change, and if they’re willing to face the pain of what they’ve done, then maybe. But it’s not an easy path. And not everyone has the strength to walk it.”

Arval turned toward her, his luminous form flickering faintly. “The heart of the person…” he repeated softly. He fell silent, his gaze contemplative as Shez lay back down. As she drifted off to sleep, his words echoed in the quiet room. “It depends on the heart of the person…”

Arval stayed by the window, his thoughts spinning. His connection to Kazamir’s story was deeper than Shez realized. Memories stirred within him—memories of Epimenides, the father whose dark legacy he carried. His gaze turned upward to the sky, where he imagined Sothis. Could she ever forgive him for being tied to Epimenides? Could she ever look past his origins to see the being he’d become?

The moon hung heavy in the sky, its pale light spilling through the room where Byleth lay asleep. But within the confines of Byleth’s mind, Sothis remained awake, her arms crossed and her emerald eyes distant. The tale of Kazamir stirred something deep within her—an ancient sorrow, a flicker of recognition she couldn’t quite place. She had been alive for eons, but there were still pieces of her existence that felt like jagged fragments, sharp and incomplete. Kazamir’s name, his story—it all felt like something she should remember but couldn’t fully grasp.

As her thoughts swirled, an image surfaced in her mind—vivid and unbidden.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Flashback

Sothis had been resting on her throne in the ethereal plane, her form almost indistinct against the backdrop of shimmering light. She had been sleeping for what felt like an eternity, her memories a haze of forgotten time. Yet, as always, the deep ache of something missing gnawed at her soul.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, she was met with the sight of a young man standing in the gloom of the tomb. His emerald hair glinted faintly in the otherworldly glow of the chamber. Sothis sat up, yawning as she stretched. “What could have brought you here?” she asked, her tone light but tinged with curiosity.

The man before her looked equally surprised. His wide green eyes scanned the chamber before landing on her. He stumbled back, clearly disoriented. “Where am I?” he asked, his voice shaking.

Sothis tilted her head, yawning again. “A question I have been wondering myself for some time,” she replied with a shrug. Then, she studied him more closely, noting the fear and confusion etched on his face. “But who are you, to wander so far and wake me from my slumber?”

Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes, and he dropped to one knee, bowing deeply. “You… You are the goddess,” he breathed. “I have no doubt. You must be."

Sothis tilted her head, her luminous emerald eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded him. She was still groggy from centuries of slumber, her memories fractured and scattered like shards of a broken mirror. “Goddess?” she repeated, her voice soft but tinged with confusion. “What do you mean by that? I… I am no such thing.”

The man lifted his head slowly, his wide eyes meeting hers, and she could see the raw desperation in his gaze. “You are Sothis,” he said with conviction, his voice trembling as though the weight of her presence was too much to bear. “I am certain of it. I’ve come here… I’ve come here to seek your forgiveness.”

Sothis frowned, a flicker of unease coursing through her. “Forgiveness?” she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and wariness. “For what reason would you seek forgiveness from someone like me?”

Kazamir clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. “I have done a terrible sin,” he admitted, his voice cracking under the strain of his words. “I’ve hurt so many people… taken lives that I can never restore. Please... grant me your forgiveness. Help me fix what I’ve broken. Stay by my side, and together we can make Fódlan into a bright future. I swear it.”

Sothis leaned back on her throne, her gaze studying him intently. His words confused her, each one more perplexing than the last. She shook her head slightly, her hand lifting to her temple as if trying to clear the fog clouding her thoughts. “You speak of things I do not understand,” she said slowly. “I do not know of this Fódlan you mention, nor of the sins you claim to have committed. But I… I feel something.”

Her glowing eyes fixed on him, and she raised a hand. A faint, greenish light enveloped her palm as she reached out. “You,” she said softly, “are unlike anything I have seen before.” She hesitated, her gaze narrowing. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice gentle but insistent. “You speak of forgiveness and redemption, but I do not even know your name.”

Kazamir swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he met her gaze. “I am… Kazamir,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.

Sothis tilted her head, her luminous hair falling in waves around her face. “Kazamir,” she repeated, the name rolling off her tongue as if testing its weight. “A mortal name, I assume. And yet… it is unlike any I have heard before. Tell me, Kazamir, which moon and what day were you born into this world?”

Kazamir hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “The Horsebow Moon,” he said quietly. “On the twentieth day.”

Sothis’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing her face. “The same as I,” she murmured, almost to herself. For a moment, her gaze softened, and she looked at him as though searching for something she could not name. But then her expression darkened, and she raised her hand once more.

A soft glow emanated from her palm, and Kazamir’s chest began to radiate with an unnatural light. He staggered slightly, his hand clutching at his heart as the glow intensified. When it finally subsided, he looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

The air seemed heavier, charged with something neither could name. Sothis, seated on her luminous throne, studied him with a mixture of concern and growing exhaustion.

Her ethereal glow dimmed slightly, her hand trembling as it fell to her lap. She felt the sharp sting of a revelation she had not sought. Her luminous green eyes, usually brimming with divine clarity, dulled as if the act of reaching into Kazamir’s heart had taken more from her than she anticipated.

“You…” Sothis began, her voice softer now, almost uncertain. She closed her eyes briefly, as if searching for strength, before continuing, “Your heart… It is dark. So much pain, so much fury…” Her words faltered, and she looked at him with sorrow. “I cannot… I cannot walk this path with you.”

Kazamir’s eyes widened in alarm, and he took a step forward. His voice trembled with desperation. “No, wait—don’t say that! I’ve come so far. I’ve sacrificed so much. Please… what’s wrong with me? What do you see?”

Sothis hesitated, her glowing hair dimming faintly as her exhaustion deepened. “Your heart…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I have seen into it. The hatred, the grief—it consumes you. If I join you, if I guide you on this path… you are doomed to fail.”

“Fail what?” Kazamir demanded, his voice rising, a mix of fear and anger. “Fail my mother? Fail Fódlan?” His fists clenched at his sides as his desperation gave way to frustration. “I won’t fail anyone again. You’re lying!”

Sothis flinched at his accusation, but her gaze remained steady. “I am not… lying,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with weariness. She pressed a hand to her temple as though the very act of speaking drained her. “Your heart is heavy, Kazamir. It is weighed down by too much for even a god to bear.”

Kazamir’s breath hitched as her words pierced through him. His fists tightened, his knuckles white. “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice trembling. “I can change. I can fix this. Tell me how to change my path!” He stepped closer, his emerald eyes now blazing with anger and anguish. “Tell me, Sothis! What can I do to stop this… to stop myself from becoming—”

Before he could finish, Sothis’s eyes snapped open as she though he was gonna attack, and a flash of green energy erupted from her palm. It struck Kazamir square in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor. He groaned, clutching at his chest, as a black mist began to seep from his body. The mist curled and twisted in the air, emanating a sinister aura.

Kazamir’s screams filled the chamber as the mist enveloped him, sinking into his skin and burning through him like fire. He clawed at the ground, his emerald eyes wide with terror and pain. “What’s happening to me?!” he cried, his voice hoarse and desperate.

Sothis tried to rise from her throne, her hand outstretched as though to stop the process she had unwittingly unleashed. But her strength failed her, and she sank back into her seat, her body trembling. Her luminous form flickered like a dying star. “Kazamir…” she murmured, her voice fading. “I… I’m sorry…”

And then she was silent, her body slumping forward as if sleep had reclaimed her once more. The chamber fell quiet, save for the echo of Kazamir’s anguished screams. The mist continued to swirl around him, its black tendrils seeping into his very being. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Present

Sothis sat on her throne, her eyes closed, her luminous hair shimmering faintly in the dim glow of the ethereal chamber. She had been awake for some time now, yet her exhaustion lingered. The memory of Kazamir’s despair and his transformation haunted her still, a weight she carried like a scar across her soul.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” she said softly, her voice tinged with both sorrow and curiosity. Slowly, she opened her eyes. Before her stood a figure cloaked in shadow, yet his presence was unmistakable. As he stepped forward, the faint light revealed to be...Ashen.

“It makes sense that you would be here,” Sothis said, her voice steady despite the heaviness in her gaze. “After all, you have my blood in you.”

Ashen smirked faintly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “I figured you’d notice that fast,” he replied, his voice smooth but edged with something unspoken. He glanced around the chamber, his wings flexing slightly as he took in the ethereal surroundings. “It’s strange… being here. I thought I’d feel anger or resentment. But all I feel is… emptiness.”

Sothis tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. “Why are you here?” she asked cautiously.

Ashen’s smirk faded, replaced by a more somber expression. “Not to fight,” he admitted. “I just have… three questions.” His voice echoed through the ethereal chamber, carrying a weight that neither his tone nor his posture betrayed.

He unfurled his wings slowly, their vast expanse shimmering with a faint, otherworldly glow. With a single powerful beat, he rose from the ground, circling Sothis’s throne like a hawk surveying its prey. The motion was graceful but measured, a quiet display of power and purpose.

Sothis sat on her throne, her luminous hair cascading around her, her emerald eyes fixed on him with an unreadable expression. The silence stretched between them as Ashen continued to circle, his gaze never wavering.

“When you fell asleep after the healing of the planet,” Ashen began, his voice calm but probing, “there was a secret battle—something hidden from history. I’ve seen glimpses of it in the visions of the past, but I want to hear it from you. What exactly happened?”

Sothis’s eyes narrowed slightly, her fingers gripping the arms of her throne. She exhaled softly, the weight of his question settling over her like a mantle of ancient grief. “You ask much of me, child,” she said quietly. “But perhaps you deserve the truth.”

Ashen descended, landing gracefully before her. His wings folded neatly against his back as he crossed his arms. “I think I do,” he said simply. “You fought a god, didn’t you? Epimenides. But how could you, after your bones had already become the Sword of the Creator? How could you fight when you should’ve been gone?”

Sothis’s expression darkened, her gaze dropping to her hands. For a long moment, she was silent, the only sound the faint hum of the chamber around them. Then, she spoke, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow. “I was asleep,” she admitted. “But my soul… my soul was not gone.”

Ashen’s eyes narrowed, intrigued. “Go on.”

Sothis’s gaze dropped, her luminous hair veiling part of her face as she sat in reflective silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was heavy with ancient sorrow, each word carrying the weight of countless lifetimes.

“When I fell asleep after healing the world,” she began, her tone almost a whisper, “I believed my time had come to an end. My physical form… my body was no longer mine. My very bones became the Sword of the Creator, a vessel of my power but no longer of my will. And yet… my soul lingered.”

Ashen’s wings flexed slightly, the feathers shimmering faintly in the ethereal glow. “You’re saying you weren’t entirely gone?” he asked, though the question felt more rhetorical.

Sothis nodded slowly, her green eyes lifting to meet his. “Indeed. My soul persisted, untethered from a body but still bound to this plane. I was fragmented, fractured. Yet even in that state, I was drawn to my children—to those who carried my blood.”

She hesitated, her fingers gripping the arms of her throne tightly. Her voice trembled as she continued. “One night, long after my slumber began, I felt their suffering. Nemesis and his men had descended upon them, slaughtering my children without mercy. I could feel their pain, hear their cries… and I could do nothing.”

Ashen’s expression hardened, his gaze unwavering. “But you didn’t just stay silent, did you?”

Sothis shook her head, her luminous hair cascading around her. “No. I could not.” Her voice grew firmer, tinged with both guilt and determination. “I reached out, desperate to save at least one of them. My soul found its way to a body—one of my children who had not yet been struck down. I took control, reshaping them to bear my likeness. Their features became my own, and their voice echoed mine. In that moment, I was no longer a fragment. I was… whole again.”

Ashen’s eyes widened slightly. “You possessed one of your own?”

Sothis’s gaze dropped once more, shame flickering in her emerald eyes. “Yes. It was a desperate act, one I will never forgive myself for. I could not bear to see them die, to witness the end of all I had created. But even with my presence, I could not stop Nemesis. I could only flee, my borrowed body barely escaping his wrath.”

Her voice cracked, and she paused, drawing in a shuddering breath. “I ran that night, carrying the weight of my failure. I had saved myself but left so many behind to perish. The screams of my children haunted me, their faces burned into my mind. For years, I wandered, aimless and broken, unable to face what I had become.”

Ashen remained silent, his gaze steady but softened with a glimmer of understanding. He waited patiently, sensing there was more to her tale.

“Years later,” Sothis continued, her tone more measured now, “the war broke out. I knew I had to act. I joined the conflict, taking on the guise of an imperial knight. My appearance was unrecognizable to those who might have known me. My goal was not to save the world but to find him… the one who had started it all.”

Ashen’s expression darkened, his voice low and sharp. “Epimenides.”

Sothis’s emerald eyes met his, and she nodded. “Yes. He was the architect of so much pain. I knew I had to end him, but the path to him was long and fraught with bloodshed. It was during this time that I saw Seiros… or rather, Rhea. She was no longer the child I remembered but a fierce warrior. I witnessed her strike down Nemesis with my own eyes.”

Her voice grew quieter, tinged with regret. “I wanted to reach out to her, to tell her who I was. But I couldn’t. She had grown into her own person, and I… I was merely a shadow. Instead, I continued my pursuit of Epimenides, my guise as a knight allowing me to remain hidden.”

Ashen’s wings twitched, his gaze narrowing slightly. “And when you found him?”

Sothis’s expression hardened, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “I killed him. The battle was fierce, and my borrowed body… it took more damage than it could withstand. By the end, I could barely stand. I knew I couldn’t linger. My soul returned to the Sword of the Creator, where I could rest once more.”

Ashen’s lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. “Even though I knew most of this from visions of the past, it’s almost amusing to hear it from you directly. Families… they always find ways to hide things from their children. Lies, omissions, secrets… it’s a cycle that never ends.”

Sothis’s emerald eyes narrowed slightly, her luminous hair shimmering faintly as she regarded him. “You find amusement in the pain of others, Ashen? Or are you merely deflecting your own wounds?”

Ashen’s smirk faltered for a moment, but his sharp gaze never wavered. “Perhaps both,” he admitted, his tone lighter than the heaviness of his words. He spread his wings slightly, their faint glow casting shadows that danced like specters in the ethereal chamber.

Sothis tilted her head, her luminous hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken veil. “And what is this second question?”

Ashen’s tone grew sharper, his words deliberate and cutting. “Why are you still with Byleth?” he demanded. “After all, Byleth killed your own daughter.”

The question struck like a blade. Sothis flinched, her composure faltering as her eyes widened in surprise. For a long, tense moment, she said nothing, her gaze dropping to her lap. The weight of his accusation settled heavily over her, and her hands trembled slightly as they clenched into fists.

“I…” Sothis began, her voice trembling. She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath as she sought the strength to answer. “I stayed with Byleth because I saw something in him. Something I had not seen in Rhea or even myself for a long time: hope.”

Ashen’s expression remained cold, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “Hope?” he echoed. “Is that all it takes to forgive the murder of your child?”

Sothis’s gaze snapped back to him, her eyes burning with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “You do not understand,” she said sharply. “When Rhea killed Nemesis, something dark began to fester within her heart. She sought to preserve my legacy, yes, but she also sought to control it. Humanity needed freedom—freedom from the Church, from everything that had chained them to a single path. Byleth was not a destroyer, but he was a liberator.”

Her voice softened, her gaze dropping once more. “And yet… I cannot deny the pain of what was lost. I stayed with Byleth not because I forgave him, but because I believed he could build a future where such tragedies would no longer be necessary.”

Ashen watched her intently, his wings folding neatly against his back as he considered her words. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and deliberate. “If you say so. But that brings me to my final question.”

Sothis’s emerald eyes lifted to meet his, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “What is your final question?” she asked warily.

Ashen’s gaze darkened, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. “If Epimenides had a child… and that child had his power, what would you do?”

Sothis froze, her luminous form dimming slightly as her breath caught. “What?” she whispered, confusion and dread lacing her voice. “What are you saying?”

Ashen’s expression was unreadable, his tone unflinching. “If the dead god had a child, a being with the power to rival your own, would you kill them?”

Sothis’s gaze faltered, her hands gripping the arms of her throne as her mind raced. “A child?” she murmured, her voice trembling. “What do you know?”

Ashen showed no emotion, his piercing eyes fixed on her. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he stepped closer, his wings unfurling slightly as he loomed over her. “You swore to avenge your children,” he said softly, his voice a chilling whisper. “Those Epimenides’ followers killed. You swore there would never be another god of Shambhala.”

Sothis’s eyes widened, her breath hitching as his words struck deep. She turned her gaze away, her hands trembling as they gripped her throne. “If such a child existed,” she said slowly, her voice heavy with sorrow, “it could be a sign of something worse to come. Even if they bore no ill will, their very existence could threaten the balance of this world.”

Her voice broke, and she closed her eyes, her expression contorted with anguish. “And yet… the thought of killing a child… It is too much. Even for me. I would seek another way. There must be another way.”

Ashen leaned closer, his breath brushing against her ear as he whispered, “But would you risk it? Could you risk it?”

Sothis’s eyes snapped open, her hands clenching the arms of her throne so tightly that the stone began to crack. Her voice trembled with both anger and despair. “What are you saying, Ashen?”

Ashen stepped back, his expression unreadable. “Nothing you don’t already know,” he said simply. With a powerful beat of his wings, he ascended into the air, his form silhouetted against the ethereal glow of the chamber.

Before Sothis could respond, he vanished, his presence fading like a shadow swallowed by the light.

For a long moment, Sothis sat in silence, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain her composure. A single tear slipped down her cheek, glimmering like a shard of shattered starlight. “Another Epimenides…” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Her gaze lifted to the heavens, her eyes brimming with sorrow and determination. “There cannot be another Epimenides,” she said softly, the words a vow and a lament all at once. And yet, deep within her heart, doubt lingered, a shadow she could not banish.

Chapter Text

After countless hours of travel, the forces of the Adrestian Empire arrived at Galatea territory. The air was crisp, and the snow-covered plains shimmered under the pale sunlight, a stark yet beautiful contrast to the ominous journey they had undertaken. Ingrid, mounted on her steed, looked ahead at the sprawling estate that was once her childhood home. What had once been a struggling domain, its people scraping by through harsh winters and meager harvests, was now thriving. The village bustled with life, and the once-dilapidated homes were replaced by sturdy structures adorned with vibrant colors. Smoke rose from chimneys, and laughter echoed faintly in the distance.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Ashe’s voice broke through her thoughts as he rode up beside her, his expression soft with understanding.

Ingrid glanced at him, her lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It is,” she admitted, her voice tinged with awe. “Sometimes, it feels like I’m looking at someone else’s home. This place was once a symbol of struggle, yet now…” She gestured toward the vibrant village. “Now it’s filled with life and prosperity. It’s hard to believe how much has changed.”

Ashe nodded, his blue eyes scanning the horizon. “The Empire made sure Galatea could get back on its feet,” he said gently. “After everything your family endured, you deserved this chance to rebuild.”

Ingrid’s gaze lingered on the village, her heart swelling with gratitude and an underlying ache. “House Galatea owes the Empire a great debt,” she said softly. “Especially Edelgard. When I convinced my father to join her cause, I never imagined we would see such a transformation. For all my doubts back then… I’m glad we took this path.”

She paused, her expression shifting to something more introspective. “But there’s something I’ve been thinking about lately.”

Ashe tilted his head slightly, his expression encouraging. “What is it?”

Ingrid turned her eyes to the horizon, her voice steady but filled with a hint of melancholy. “I’ve lived my dream. I became a knight, like the woman in the book you gave me seven years ago. That dream guided me through some of the hardest moments of my life. But now… soon, I’ll have to take on a different role.”

Ashe’s brow furrowed slightly as he followed her line of thought. “You mean ruling House Galatea.”

She nodded, a faint sigh escaping her lips. “Yes. My father’s health continues to decline. The time is approaching faster than I expected. I’ll be the one to bear the responsibility of leading our house.”

“I’m sorry,” Ashe said quietly. “I know how much you’ve cared for your father. But what about your brothers? Couldn’t they take on the role?”

Ingrid’s lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze dropping for a moment. “No,” she said softly. “They can’t. I’m the only one in our family who bears a crest. Even though Edelgard has changed the laws to make those with crests and those without equals, the reality is that I must carry the family name. It’s my duty.”

Silence settled between them for a moment as Ashe absorbed her words. He glanced at her, his heart aching for the weight she carried. “I wish there was something I could do,” he said earnestly. “You’ve always worked so hard for everyone else. It doesn’t seem fair that you have to bear this burden alone.”

Before Ingrid could respond, a calm yet commanding voice interrupted them. “Ingrid,” Edelgard called as she approached on horseback, her crimson cape fluttering in the breeze. Her white hair glinted in the moonlight, and her piercing gaze softened slightly as she looked at Ingrid. “It’s time. Please take us to your father.”

Ingrid nodded, a mixture of apprehension and determination flickering across her face. With Ashe and Edelgard flanking her, they began their journey through the village toward the castle. The air was alive with activity, and the vibrant streets bore a stark contrast to the heavy hearts of the three riders. As they passed, villagers paused their work to stare. Whispers rose like the hum of a distant storm, carrying words of reverence and resentment.

“She’s back,” one murmured.

“Lady Ingrid… she’s the reason we’re thriving,” another whispered, though their tone carried a sharp edge. “Yes, but she left us. She left for the Empire.”

Ingrid’s jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward. Ashe, riding beside her, cast a protective glance her way. The faintest of smiles tugged at her lips as if to assure him she could endure it. The journey through the village felt like a trial in itself, each glance a reminder of her choices and their consequences.

When the castle loomed into view, its stone walls stood strong and proud, a testament to its newfound stability. The courtyard was alive with the bustling of attendants and guards, but Ingrid’s focus was on the imposing front doors. She dismounted, her heart pounding as they entered.

Inside, the air was warmer but carried the weight of years gone by. They found Count Galatea standing in the great hall, his back to them, gazing at a large family portrait. The painting depicted a younger Ingrid alongside her parents and brothers, each face a snapshot of a time when hope was fragile but present. The count’s shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, his graying hair and weathered features speaking of the years’ toll.

“Father,” Ingrid said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

The count turned, and upon seeing her, his expression softened into one of deep affection. He stepped forward with surprising vigor, enveloping her in a firm embrace. “Ingrid, my dearest daughter,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’ve returned. I hope… I hope you’ve been well.”

Ingrid closed her eyes, clinging to the warmth of his embrace. “I have, Father,” she replied, her voice steady despite the whirlwind inside her.

Edelgard stepped forward, her demeanor both regal and sincere. “It’s good to see you again, Count Galatea,” she said, her tone respectful yet assertive.

The count released Ingrid and turned to the empress, bowing slightly. “And you, Your Majesty,” he said with a weary smile. “Though I suspect this visit isn’t merely for pleasantries.”

Edelgard nodded gravely. “You’re correct. With the war escalating, we believe your lands may soon come under threat.”

The count’s expression darkened. “I suspected as much,” he admitted. He sighed heavily, turning his gaze toward Ingrid. “We are next, I’m afraid.”

Ingrid’s brows furrowed in concern. “What do you mean, Father?” she asked, her voice tinged with alarm.

Count Galatea hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. His voice was thick with regret as he spoke. “I… I sent spies, Ingrid. I had no choice. With the war looming and the horrors I’ve heard from beyond our borders, I needed to know what we were up against. Even your brothers… I sent them.”

Ingrid’s eyes widened in shock, her voice trembling. “You sent them? Father, why? Why would you do such a thing?”

The count looked up at her, his expression pained. “I trusted them not to get caught. They were skilled, brave. I thought they would return safely.” His voice broke as he added, “But only Thomas came back. And even then… at a great cost.”

The room fell silent, the air growing heavy with the weight of his confession. Before anyone could speak, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. All eyes turned toward the dimly lit corridor as a figure emerged from the shadows.

Ingrid’s breath caught in her throat. “Thomas…” she whispered.

Her second brother stepped into view, and gasps rippled through the room. Thomas was a shadow of his former self. One eye was covered with a crude leather patch, the other filled with pain and exhaustion. His right arm was missing at the shoulder, replaced by a wrapped stump, and deep claw marks disfigured the left side of his face. The once-proud knight now bore the scars of unspeakable horrors.

“Thomas!” Ingrid cried, rushing to him. She threw her arms around him, holding him as if to shield him from whatever had caused such anguish. “What… what did they do to you?”

Thomas managed a faint smile, though it was filled with sadness. “I’ll be alright, Ingrid,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “I’m alive, and that’s what matters.”

Ashe stepped forward, his expression grave. “Thomas, what happened? What did you see out there?”

Thomas’s gaze darkened, and he took a deep, shuddering breath. “We went to the Tailtean Plains first,” he began. “But none of Ashen’s forces were there. We kept moving, hoping to gather information. Eventually, we reached the kingdom of Fhirdiad.”

His voice faltered, and Edelgard’s piercing eyes narrowed. “What did you see?” she asked, her tone sharp but filled with genuine concern.

Thomas hesitated, his remaining eye clouded with memories he clearly wished to forget. “Fhirdiad…” he began, his voice trembling. “The people there… they’re being enslaved. Forced to work, beaten, starved. We disguised ourselves as homeless beggars to avoid detection. We overheard what they’re doing to the weakest ones.”

Ingrid’s heart pounded. “What are they doing?” she asked, her voice urgent, her hands gripping Thomas’s shoulders. “Thomas, what are they doing?”

Thomas clenched his jaw, unable to meet her eyes. “They’re feeding them to their soldiers,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

The words hit the room like a thunderclap. Ashe stepped back, his face pale with horror. Edelgard’s expression tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. The count seemed to age another decade in that moment, his face etched with despair.

Thomas, trembling, looked down at his trembling hands. His voice quivered as he continued. “They caught us at the border… Ashen’s forces. We were outnumbered, and they… they toyed with us. I saw our men, brave knights who swore to protect this house, torn apart like nothing.” His voice broke, and he sank to his knees, covering his face with his hand. Tears streamed down his scarred cheek. “I saw our brother, Ingrid. I saw him... I saw him ripped in half right in front of me.”

Ingrid froze, her breath hitching as her knees nearly buckled beneath her. “No…” she whispered, her voice trembling. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. “No, no, no…”

Thomas’s voice cracked as he continued, each word dragging his soul deeper into despair. “And me? I was next. A beast… one of those monsters Ashen controls… it got me. It knocked me down and sank its teeth into my arm. I thought I was going to die.” He raised his maimed arm, the stump trembling as he choked back a sob. “I stabbed it, over and over, but it wouldn’t stop. It just kept eating. So I…” His voice faltered as he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “I had to cut it off. I had to cut my own arm off to escape.”

Ingrid’s nails bit so deeply into her palm that small drops of blood formed. She raised her head, her blue eyes burning with fury and anguish. “This… this can’t stand,” she said through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Ashen… I’ll see to it that he pays for this.” Her fists shook with the intensity of her emotions, and she could feel the hot sting of tears threatening to spill over.

Ashe, standing nearby, slowly approached her. He placed a steadying hand on her back, his voice low and filled with understanding. “I understand, Ingrid… I really do.” His soft words, full of empathy, seemed to pierce through her wall of anger, grounding her for just a moment.

Edelgard absorbed every word and every emotion filling the room. Her hands were still clenched, her nails digging into her palms, but she exhaled sharply, raising her head high. Her gaze turned to Thomas, then to the Count. “Their sacrifice,” she began, her voice unwavering despite the fire burning behind her crimson eyes, “will not be in vain. I swear it.”

Count Galatea, who had remained silent, suddenly let out a shuddering sigh. He buried his face in his hands, his voice barely audible. “This is my fault,” he whispered. “As a father… as a ruler… I failed them. I failed my sons. I failed my people.”

Thomas immediately shook his head, his voice filled with urgency despite the tears streaming down his face. “No, Father. You didn’t fail us. You did what you had to do to protect this house. We knew the risks. We knew what we were walking into.”

The Count shook his head, his expression crumpling further. “I’ve already lost your mother. Now I’ve lost your brother… I sent you into the jaws of death, Thomas. What kind of father does that? What kind of Count sacrifices his own family?”

Ingrid, despite her own storm of emotions, stepped forward and knelt beside her father. She placed her hands gently on his shoulders, forcing him to look at her. “Father,” she said softly but firmly, “you are not a failure. You’ve done so much for this family, for this house. Even when House Galatea was at its lowest, you never gave up on us. You never stopped fighting. You’ve done more than anyone could have ever asked.”

Edelgard stepped forward then, her expression tempered with a mixture of respect and determination. “Count Galatea,” she said, her voice calm but authoritative, “I respect everything you’ve done for your people and your family. Your sacrifices and resolve are admirable, but…” She trailed off, clearly hesitating.

Ingrid’s head snapped up, cutting Edelgard off. “But what? What more could my father possibly do?” Her voice was sharp, her anger rekindled. “He’s given everything to ensure the people of Galatea could survive—even when the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus crumbled! He’s made sure this territory remained stable under the Empire’s banner. What else could you ask of him?”

Count Galatea looked up at Edelgard, his tired eyes meeting hers. There was a silent understanding between them, something unspoken but deeply felt. He nodded faintly, his gaze softening, as if resigning himself to a truth he had long feared.

Edelgard returned his gaze with her own resolute intensity. Then, she turned her attention back to Ingrid. “Ashe,” she said, her tone gentler now, “would you mind walking with Thomas? I think he could use some rest.”

Ingrid opened her mouth to protest. “I’ll take him to his room,” she offered, stepping toward her battered brother.

But Count Galatea raised a weary hand, stopping her in her tracks. “No, Ingrid,” he said softly, yet firmly. “There is something you and Edelgard must discuss. I’ll be back shortly.”

Ashe hesitated, glancing between Ingrid and Thomas. He gently placed a hand on Thomas’s back, guiding him toward the door. “Come on,” he said, his voice calm and steady, “let’s get you settled.”

Thomas glanced back at Ingrid as they began to leave. His lips trembled in the shadow of a smile, and though his face was etched with pain, the look he gave her was one of reassurance. It was as if, despite everything, he wanted her to know that everything would somehow be alright.

The heavy door closed behind them, leaving Ingrid alone with Edelgard. The room felt colder now, the silence pressing against her ears. She turned to the Empress, who stood tall, her presence commanding but her expression unusually tender.

“Edelgard…” Ingrid began, her voice wavering. “What’s going on?”

Edelgard’s eyes softened as she regarded the knight who had proven herself time and again. “Ingrid,” she said, her tone measured but brimming with emotion, “you have been a great noble knight, a paragon of loyalty and strength. Byleth and I have always been grateful for your unwavering support in our struggle against the church seven years ago. But… there is more to discuss.”

Ingrid’s brow furrowed, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension flooding her expression. “More? What do you mean?”

Edelgard’s gaze shifted momentarily, a faint smile gracing her lips as she continued. “Now that Claude has decided to stay in Fódlan for a time to oversee the Leicester Alliance until the war ends, other matters have come to the forefront. Your father’s health is failing, and both you and he know it. But this territory… the Kingdom of Faerghus, needs a ruler. Someone strong, someone noble, someone the people can follow.”

Ingrid’s breath caught. “Ruler? Edelgard, what are you saying?”

Edelgard’s eyes held hers, steady and resolute. “Byleth and I foresaw this possibility years ago. The war has claimed so many lives, Ingrid. Many leaders have fallen, and others are aging. We planned for this inevitability. Should those who ruled Faerghus fall or be unable to continue, we would need someone ready to lead, to rebuild, and to guide the Kingdom into a new era.”

Before Ingrid could respond, Edelgard turned her head toward the door, where Count Galatea entered the room. His frail hands clutched something large, wrapped in a heavy blanket. He approached them slowly, his steps echoing against the stone floor. As he stopped before Ingrid, he took a deep breath, his weathered face filled with a mix of pride and sorrow.

Edelgard gestured toward the bundle the Count carried. “The territory needs a ruler, Ingrid. And when we considered who could take on such a mantle, who could wield both the trust of the people and the strength to protect them, there was no one Byleth and I trusted more than you.”

Ingrid’s eyes widened in shock as she looked between Edelgard and her father. “Me?” she whispered. Her voice cracked with disbelief. “But… I…”

Count Galatea stepped forward, his hands trembling slightly as he held the covered item toward his daughter. “Ingrid,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “this weapon is the heart of our family. Neither I nor your brothers can wield it, for we do not bear the crest. Only you do. It’s time, my beloved daughter. It’s time for you to take this and lead House Galatea, to lead Faerghus. Once you take this Hero’s Relic, our house is yours.”

Ingrid’s heart pounded in her chest as she reached out to take the bundle from her father. The weight of it was both physical and symbolic, pressing down on her as the enormity of the moment sank in. She carried it to a nearby table and placed it down gently. Her hands trembled as she glanced at Edelgard, seeking her approval.

Edelgard gave a single nod. “Open it, Ingrid.”

With a deep breath, Ingrid slowly removed the blanket. As the cover fell away, her eyes widened, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips. Before her lay the Lance Hero’s Relic known as Luin. Its intricate design shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light, and as Ingrid’s fingers brushed its surface, the tip of the weapon began to glow with a vibrant orange hue.

The glow intensified, confirming what they all knew: only one who bore a Crest could wield a Hero’s Relic. Ingrid’s grip tightened around the lance as she lifted it, its weight surprisingly familiar in her hands. A surge of power coursed through her, steadying her resolve even as her mind raced with the implications.

Edelgard stepped closer, her voice firm but kind. “Ingrid, can you truly handle this? There is no one I trust more to wield that weapon and to rule the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus than you. But this path will not be easy. The people will look to you not only as their queen but as their protector and guide. Can you shoulder this responsibility?”

Ingrid’s gaze met Edelgard’s, the weight of her words sinking in. She glanced at her father, whose eyes were filled with unwavering faith in her. Finally, she turned her attention back to the lance, its glow a testament to her lineage and her potential.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her back and nodded. “I can. And I will. I won’t let you down, Edelgard. I won’t let any of you down.”

The announcement came swiftly after. Ingrid Galatea, bearer of Luin and daughter of House Galatea, would ascend to the throne as the Queen of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. She signed a treaty ensuring that Faerghus would remain an ally of the Adrestian Empire, a partnership forged through trust and shared purpose.

The people’s reaction was mixed. Whispers filled the streets, some praised Ingrid’s bravery and vision, while others resented her for leaving her house to serve as a knight for Edelgard and Byleth. Yet, they could not deny the prosperity she had brought to House Galatea, nor the strength she exuded as she took on her new role.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ingrid stood alone on the castle balcony, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The weight of her new title pressed heavily on her shoulders, and doubts gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. Could she truly lead Faerghus? Could she bridge the divide between those who supported her and those who doubted her? The air was cool, and the first stars began to twinkle above, yet Ingrid felt no comfort in the beauty of the night.

Behind her, the faint sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts. Ashe stepped onto the balcony, his expression gentle but concerned. He paused for a moment, watching her, before softly calling her name. “Ingrid?”

She remained silent, her attention seemingly fixed on the horizon. In her hands, she held a worn book, its pages frayed from years of use. She traced a finger over its edges, lost in thought.

Ashe hesitated, then spoke again, a little louder this time. “Ingrid, are you alright?”

Startled from her reverie, she blinked and turned toward him. “Oh, Ashe,” she said, her tone apologetic. “I’m sorry. I was… reading.” She held up the book, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Ashe’s eyes softened as he recognized the book immediately. “That’s the same book I gave you all those years ago,” he said, his voice tinged with warmth and nostalgia. “You still read it?”

“Of course,” Ingrid replied, her smile growing. “It reminds me of what I wanted to pursue, of the dreams I held onto when times were darkest. And it reminds me of you.” She looked at him with genuine gratitude. “You helped me see the path I needed to take. I’ll always be thankful for that.”

Ashe rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I’m glad it’s been meaningful to you. But now you’ve surpassed even the bravest knights in those stories. You’re a ruler now, Ingrid. And I’m sure the people will come to see the same strength in you that I do.”

Ingrid chuckled softly, a sound that held both amusement and fondness. “You’re too kind, Ashe. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if you’d even harm a fly. You’re always so gentle, always smiling. And yet when you fight… you fight like a true knight.”

Ashe shifted slightly, his gaze falling to the floor. He let out a soft laugh, but there was a faint quiver in his voice. “Lonato raised me to be this way,” he said quietly. “He taught me to always consider others, to treat everyone with kindness no matter their station in life.”

Ingrid’s smile faltered as she noticed the shadow that passed over his features. The way Ashe’s lips curled into a faint, almost forced smile told her everything. She could see the pain he tried to mask, the weight he carried every time he mentioned his adoptive father. Twelve years had passed since the rebellion—since Lonato chose a path that led to his downfall and the loss of so many innocent lives. Ashe had been caught in the middle, torn between loyalty to his father and the reality of his actions.

She took a small step toward him, her voice gentle but firm. “Ashe… if you need to cry, it’s okay. You don’t have to hold it in.”

Ashe’s smile wavered, his lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out at first. Finally, he shook his head, his voice quiet and strained. “I’m alright,” he insisted. “I don’t want to seem weak. I need to be strong.”

Without hesitation, Ingrid reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face, her touch firm yet tender. Her blue eyes locked onto his, unyielding in their compassion. “Brave knight,” she began, her voice steady, her words carrying the weight of something deeply meaningful, “it’s okay to cry. Crying does not mean you are weak. It means—it’s time to release your pain and show the humanity within you.”

Ashe’s breath hitched at her words, his eyes widening slightly as the dam of his emotions began to crack. A tear slid down his cheek, and then another, until his face was streaked with them. He let out a shuddering breath, his voice trembling as he said, “You’re right, brave almighty knight. I am sometimes afraid to show a sign of weakness when I get emotional.”

Ingrid’s hands stayed firmly on his face as she smiled softly, her own eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “In my eyes, you are never weak. Showing your emotions shows me that you are strong. And that you are human.”

Ashe’s shoulders trembled as he let out a small, mirthless laugh, his voice breaking. “You always know what to say,” he whispered, his gratitude shining through his pain. “Thank you, Ingrid.”

“Of course,” she replied, her voice warm and unwavering. “You’ve always been kind to me, Ashe. You’ve been there for me when I needed it most. It’s my turn to return the favor.”

Her words brought a flicker of something else to Ashe’s expression, something tender and vulnerable. She watched as his cheeks turned pink, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a shy, uncertain smile. It was as if he was grappling with whether to say what was on his mind, but Ingrid’s calm and steady presence gave him the courage he needed.

“You’ve always been kind to me,” Ingrid repeated softly. Her voice took on a curious edge as she studied him, her head tilting slightly. “Kinder than anyone else. Why is that, Ashe?”

Ashe’s blush deepened, and his gaze darted to the ground for a moment before he forced himself to meet her eyes. His voice was quiet, tinged with nervousness but undeniably sincere. “Because… I care about you. A lot. More than anyone else.”

Ingrid’s heart skipped a beat as her lips parted slightly in surprise. “Romantically?” she asked, her voice soft, her expression unreadable.

Ashe’s blush only grew brighter, but he didn’t falter this time. He gave a small nod, his lips curving into a bashful smile. “Yes,” he admitted.

A warm smile spread across Ingrid’s face, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush of her own. Without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I had a feeling you did,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of amusement and affection. “Now rest, my brave knight, for tomorrow is a whole new day.”

With that, she stepped away, her movements graceful and deliberate. She turned back once to give him a final, reassuring smile before disappearing into the castle.

Ashe stood there, rooted in place, his heart pounding and his cheek tingling where her lips had touched. He brought a hand to his face, his smile widening as he whispered, “Of course, my love.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Seteth and Flayn led Byleth and Shez to Kazamir’s village. Flayn rode gracefully on her Pegasus, while the others traveled atop their wyvern dragons, their wings casting elongated shadows across the sun-drenched hills. Byleth, his expression unreadable, turned to Seteth, his voice calm but laced with a quiet tension.

“How far?” he asked, his gaze scanning the landscape ahead.

Seteth, his grip tightening on the ancient sword strapped to his side, sighed. “Not far. Just beyond this hill.” He glanced down at Kazamir’s old weapon, its once gleaming blade now dulled by time but still heavy with the weight of past sins. He never thought he would return here. The past was a ghost that clung to him, whispering of regrets he had tried so hard to bury.

Shez, sensing the turmoil within him, spoke gently. “Sometimes, we have to relive the past,” she said, her voice carrying a rare softness. “Even if it hurts. Facing our demons is the only way we can move forward.”

Next to her, Arval materialized silently, his glowing form flickering in the morning light. “If we run into Ashen,” he said in a low tone, “he might tell Byleth about me.”

Shez’s gaze hardened with resolve. “If Ashen says anything, I’ll handle it. I’ll find a way to work it out with Byleth.”

Meanwhile, in the recesses of Byleth’s mind, Sothis watched Shez carefully, her emerald eyes narrowing with suspicion. There was something... something off. The sensation gnawed at her like an itch she couldn’t scratch.

“Byleth,” she murmured, her voice a gentle whisper in his consciousness. “There is something... unsettling about her.”

Byleth’s brow furrowed slightly. “Like what?” he asked under his breath.

Before Sothis could respond, Seteth suddenly halted his wyvern mid-flight, his body tensing as if struck by an unseen force. Flayn and the others instinctively followed his lead, their mounts circling above the crest of a hill.

“What is it?” Byleth asked, his voice calm but firm.

Seteth’s eyes widened in fear and shock as he pointed ahead. “No... not again,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

Following his gaze, Byleth, Shez, and Flayn turned to see plumes of black smoke rising into the sky. Beyond the hill lay Kazamir’s village, consumed by roaring flames. The sight was harrowing—the buildings burned fiercely, and the faint cries of despair carried on the wind. Seteth didn’t hesitate; he dismounted his wyvern with an urgency none of them had seen before and began running toward the village.

“Father, wait!” Flayn called out as she gracefully landed her Pegasus and followed him. Byleth and Shez exchanged grim looks before dismounting and joining the rush toward the destruction.

As they approached the village, the full scale of the devastation hit them. The acrid scent of smoke and charred wood filled the air. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, their stillness a haunting testament to the violence that had unfolded. Seteth paused in the center of the village square, his fists clenched tightly as he surveyed the carnage.

“No,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Not again..."

Flayn placed a hand on her father’s shoulder, her own eyes glistening with tears. “Father... we’ll find survivors. We must.”

Seteth nodded, his composure barely holding together. He turned to the group. “Quickly! Search every house, every corner. Find anyone still alive!”

The group split into two teams—Shez with Byleth, and Seteth with Flayn. Byleth nodded toward a cluster of homes to the east. “Let’s start there,” he said.

Shez ran toward one of the nearby houses, the door barely holding onto its hinges. Without hesitation, she lifted her foot and kicked it in, the wood splintering beneath the force. "Is anyone here?!" she called out, her voice echoing through the charred remnants of what was once a home.

As she turned her head toward the corner of the room, a sinking dread settled in her chest. Her eyes fell upon a pair of boots—no, three pairs, lined up side by side as if someone had left them behind in a hurry. She stepped closer, her throat tightening as the sickly scent of burnt flesh filled the air. Her stomach churned as she took another step forward, and there, huddled together, were the remains of a father, mother, and their young daughter, their bodies blackened and contorted from the fire’s merciless grasp.

Arval, who had remained silent until now, suddenly appeared beside her, his normally composed expression shattering. “No, no, no…” he whispered, his voice trembling. “This… This is too much…”

Shez felt her heart hammering against her ribs. “Arval—” But before she could finish, Arval flickered wildly and disappeared in a flash of light, his distress palpable even within the depths of her mind. She staggered backward, covering her mouth to stifle a gasp, and stumbled outside, gasping for air.

Byleth emerged from another building nearby, his expression grim, his usual stoicism faltering. He shook his head slowly. "More dead," he said quietly. "A family of four. But..." He knelt, his gloved fingers brushing the fresh, still-warm blood pooling at his feet. "The blood’s fresh. This wasn’t long ago.”

Before Shez could respond, a thunderous explosion shook the ground beneath them. Smoke and fire erupted from the far end of the village, sending embers cascading into the sky like falling stars.

“Something's still here,” Byleth said, his voice cold and sharp. He drew the Sword of the Creator, its blade extending with a crackling hum of ancient power.

Without hesitation, the two sprinted toward the explosion, their weapons drawn and hearts pounding. As they rounded the corner, they came to a jarring halt.

Standing before the raging fire, his back turned to them, was Ashen. His scaly skin shimmered in the glow of the flames, his long crimson hair cascading down his back like flowing blood. His posture was eerily still, his gaze locked on the destruction before him.

Slowly, he turned his head, his piercing eyes widening slightly in surprise. "What the hell are you two doing here?" he asked, his voice low but laced with irritation.

Byleth's grip on the Sword of the Creator tightened, his jaw clenched as the weapon crackled with ancient power. In a fluid motion, he swung it toward Ashen, the glowing blade extending with a sharp hum through the thick smoke.

Ashen barely shifted, his form blurring with supernatural speed as he dodged the attack with ease, sidestepping effortlessly. "Tsk," he scoffed, his expression a mix of annoyance and amusement. "You're going to try that again, Teach?" His eyes glinted with something darker—something far beyond irritation.

Shez’s voice cut through the charged air like a blade. "Why? Why did you do this?" Her voice wavered between anger and disbelief, her fists clenched at her sides. "All these people—why slaughter them? They didn’t do anything to you!"

Ashen tilted his head, his crimson hair shifting with the movement. A slow, twisted smile spread across his lips. "Today," he said, his voice eerily calm, "is the anniversary. The day this village decided I wasn’t worth believing in. The day they cast me aside like garbage." His smile faded, replaced by something colder, deadlier. "Today, I made sure that every. single. one. died by my hands."

Shez’s eyes burned with fury. Without hesitation, she drew her twin swords in a blur of silver and steel and charged at him. "You bastard!" she yelled, her blades slicing through the air.

Ashen smirked, summoning his double-bladed sword with a flicker of dark energy. He blocked her attack effortlessly, the clash of steel echoing through the burning ruins. In a fluid motion, he twisted around her and delivered a swift kick to her back, sending her stumbling forward.

"You really want to fight the one whose father killed someone I loved?" Ashen murmured, his voice dangerously low, almost whispering in her ear. "I guess you’re not so easy to corrupt after all."

Shez’s teeth gritted as she spun around, determination blazing in her eyes. But before she could launch another strike, Byleth surged forward. A brilliant green glow engulfed him, his hair and eyes shifting back to their vibrant emerald hue. Sothis's power coursed through him like a tidal wave of divine wrath.

Ashen's gaze darkened as his sword split into two, each blade humming with a deadly aura. Byleth lunged, his strikes relentless and precise, forcing Ashen onto the defensive. Their weapons clashed in a flurry of sparks and steel, the force of their battle shaking the very ground beneath them.

Shez darted in, her blades moving in perfect sync with Byleth's, pressing Ashen from both sides. But Ashen grinned, blocking their combined attacks with chilling ease. "You think numbers will change anything?" he taunted, his voice laced with disdain.

Byleth's voice was cold but resolute. "You committed genocide against your own village. Why blame those here and now?"

Shez, breathing heavily, added, "These people did nothing to you. They're innocent!"

Ashen’s smirk twisted into something far more sinister. "It doesn't matter if it was then or now," he sneered. "The people of this village deserved this. They always have."

With a sudden surge of energy, Ashen broke free from their clashes, his swords vanishing into thin air. He raised his hands, and a storm of black lightning crackled to life, striking both Byleth and Shez in an instant. The force sent them sprawling to the ground, pain searing through their bodies as they struggled to rise.

Then, a voice echoed through the burning village. "Kazamir!"

Ashen's entire body tensed. His head snapped in the direction of the voice, his eyes narrowing. There, standing amidst the smoke and embers, was Seteth. His face was a mask of grief and resolve, his green eyes locked onto Ashen with an intensity that pierced through the darkness.

"Kazamir..." Seteth said again, softer this time, his voice thick with emotions long buried.

Byleth and Shez watched in stunned silence as Ashen's expression shifted—just for a moment. The rage, the arrogance, the cruelty... they flickered, giving way to something else. A memory, perhaps. A wound too deep to heal.

Ashen took a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the scorched earth. The world seemed to hold its breath as he moved, each step deliberate and heavy. Seteth stood firm, unwavering, as Ashen closed the distance between them.

Byleth forced himself to his feet, his voice sharp and urgent. "Seteth, get out of there!"

He surged forward, but before he could reach Seteth, Ashen raised his hand. Tendrils of dark energy crackled through the air, coalescing into a dense black mist that surged outward and surrounded the two men like an impenetrable wall. The mist pulsed ominously, whispering like a thousand voices in agony, and no matter how Byleth tried to pierce through it with the Sword of the Creator, it held firm, swallowing his strikes with an eerie, consuming silence.

“Shez!” Byleth called, his voice tense with frustration.

Shez was already there, her twin swords slashing at the mist with relentless precision. But the moment her blades touched the dark wall, they were repelled with a force that sent her staggering back, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Damn it,” she hissed, steadying herself. “It’s like this thing is alive.”

Inside the inky prison, Seteth stood motionless, his expression carefully guarded despite the turmoil raging within. Ashen, a mere ten feet away, regarded him with an eerie calmness. His crimson eyes gleamed in the flickering firelight, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

“You haven’t aged a day, Cichol,” Ashen said, his voice low, dripping with sardonic amusement. “Or should I call you by your true name?” He tilted his head mockingly. “And what of your precious daughter? Cethleann, wasn’t it?”

Seteth’s jaw tightened, his green eyes darkening with a storm of restrained emotion. “Leave her out of this, Kazamir,” he said, his voice firm but laced with a tremor of old wounds.

Ashen’s eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Why not?” he asked, his voice carrying a cold edge. “She was involved that day, wasn’t she?” His gaze bore into Seteth, searching for the reaction he knew would come.

Seteth fell silent, his expression darkening as memories long buried clawed their way to the surface. His fists clenched tightly at his sides, and for a moment, the weight of the past bore down on him like an unrelenting tide.

“Kazamir… that day,” he began, his voice heavy with regret.

But Ashen cut him off, his voice a snarl filled with years of resentment and pain. “That day,” he spat, taking a step closer, his crimson hair swaying in the flickering light, “everything changed. Everything I believed in became a lie.” His eyes burned with an anger that had festered for decades, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “Serios, Cethleann… and you. You all made me believe I was special. That I was destined for greatness.” His voice broke slightly, but his face remained hard, his hands trembling with an old fury. “Even my own mother said the goddess would always be with me.”

Seteth’s heart ached at the mention of Kazamir’s mother. He remembered the devotion she had, the prayers she whispered for her son’s future. He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Kazamir, you only changed because of that day. The day you took revenge—”

Ashen’s roar shattered the air between them, his voice raw and filled with venom. “Don’t you dare speak to me about revenge!” His wings unfurled slightly, their shadows casting eerie shapes across the ground. “Rhea did it! She took her revenge for the goddess!” His eyes gleamed with righteous fury. “She wiped out entire armies, razed kingdoms to the ground in Sothis’ name! So don't you stand there and lecture me about revenge when your precious Seiros was no better!”

Seteth’s lips parted, but no words came. The truth in Ashen’s words cut deep—Rhea had indeed sought vengeance, her wrath reshaping Fódlan in blood and fire. The weight of the past was undeniable. He lowered his gaze, his voice trembling. “You’re… you’re right.” He swallowed hard, the admission tasting bitter on his tongue. “I have no right to speak of what Rhea did so long ago. But Kazamir, what you’re doing now… it’s wrong. This path you're walking—”

Ashen’s eyes narrowed, and a bitter smirk curled his lips. “Don’t talk to me about paths, old man,” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “The paths we choose may lead to blessings or consequences. And you... you chose your path, didn’t you?” His gaze darkened, and his wings flexed slightly, casting ominous shadows across the burning village. “You chose to protect your precious daughter. You left Rhea behind to die, didn’t you? And now you stand here, thinking you have the right to lecture me? I am no longer the boy I once was!”

Seteth visibly stiffened, the weight of Ashen’s accusation pressing down on him like a mountain. His hands trembled at his sides, his knuckles white with the force of his clenched fists. He could feel Flayn's presence behind him, her soft, labored breathing cutting through the thick, acrid air. He had no words, no defense. Ashen wasn’t wrong.

Seteth sighed deeply, his voice heavy with sorrow. “You’re right,” he admitted quietly, his gaze unwavering despite the shame that clung to his features. “You’re not the same boy I once knew. The Kazamir I remember... he’s gone.” He hesitated, then asked, his voice barely above a whisper, “But tell me, Kazamir… do you have any regrets?”

Ashen’s jaw tightened, and for the first time, he hesitated. The flickering firelight illuminated the cracks in his hardened facade, but he said nothing. His crimson eyes, once so full of rage and vengeance, flickered with something deeper—something unspoken. Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Seteth took a step closer, his voice soft yet filled with quiet desperation. “Do you miss it?” he asked gently. “The days when it was just us—me, Rhea, Flayn... and you? Do you miss those moments, Kazamir?”

Ashen’s eyes fell to the ground, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of his past seemed to bear down on him. Memories stirred—laughter, quiet moments by the monastery’s lake, Rhea’s gentle voice calling his name, Flayn’s bright smile when he promised to protect her. His grip on his sword faltered, and his lips parted slightly, but still, no words came.

Seteth pressed on, his voice trembling. “When Rhea took you to Helheim Mountain... she did nothing but cry for you,” he whispered. “She never stopped grieving, Kazamir. She loved you, even when you turned away from her. Even when you turned away from all of us.” His green eyes softened. “Despite everything... I know there is still humanity within you. I can see it. I know you can stop this.”

For a moment, the words hung in the thick air, their weight pressing down on the two men. Ashen's eyes flickered with something almost imperceptible—an echo of something long buried beneath layers of hatred and vengeance. But then, his gaze shifted, noticing something at Seteth's belt—a scabbard, worn and aged, carrying the faintest trace of familiarity. His eyes narrowed, and his voice, quieter now, trembled in a way that seemed foreign even to him.

"I'm afraid," Ashen admitted, his voice nearly a whisper, the words slipping past his lips like a long-held secret.

Seteth's expression softened, but his grip on the sword at his side tightened. “I know you are afraid to fail,” he murmured, his voice steady yet laced with sorrow.

Before another breath could pass between them, Seteth moved. In a flash, his hand pulled the sword free, its blade gleaming in the flickering firelight. But Ashen was faster. In a blur of motion, his double-bladed sword materialized, intercepting Seteth’s strike with a sharp, ringing clash. Sparks flew, and Seteth staggered back, his face stricken with regret even as he fought.

Ashen's lips curled into a cold, humorless smile. “Your path ends here,” he said, his voice dark and resolute.

With a swift, precise movement, Ashen spun his blade, knocking Seteth’s sword from his grasp. The ancient weapon clattered to the ground, useless. Seteth barely had time to react before Ashen's blade plunged into his abdomen. A sharp gasp escaped Seteth’s lips, his eyes widening in pain and disbelief as the sword twisted cruelly within him.

“No!” Byleth’s anguished cry tore through the air.

Byleth lunged forward, driving the Sword of the Creator into the misty barrier, its divine energy crackling and struggling against the dark wall. The sword hummed with power, slowly carving through the writhing darkness, but the barrier resisted, tendrils of shadow lashing out like living things, slowing his advance.

Ashen withdrew his blade from Seteth’s body, letting the older man crumple to his knees. For a moment, Ashen simply looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze shifted to the old sword lying at his feet—the one Rhea had given him all those years ago. Slowly, he knelt and picked it up, turning it over in his hands, his voice eerily soft.

“It’s been so long...” he murmured, almost to himself. The weight of the weapon in his grasp was a distant ghost of a memory—a piece of a life he had long since left behind.

Then, from beyond the broken village, a voice rang out, desperate and full of pain.

"Father!"

Ashen’s head snapped up, and in an instant, his dragon wings unfurled with a powerful beat. He soared into the air, his sharp eyes locking onto Flayn, who stood frozen on the other side of the collapsing mist wall, her emerald eyes wide with horror.

He descended swiftly, landing with a force that sent dust billowing around them. Flayn took a step back, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Kazamir… why? Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice breaking with anguish.

Ashen’s face darkened, and his grip on the old sword tightened. “That name,” he said coldly, his

eyes burning into hers, “no longer has any meaning to me.”

With a swift movement, he grabbed Flayn, pushing her forcefully against the charred wall of a crumbling building. She let out a small cry, struggling against his grip, but Ashen’s hold was unyielding. His eyes bore into hers, dark and unrelenting, as he lifted his old sword and pointed it at her trembling form.

"Today," he said, his voice devoid of warmth, "ends the goddess' children."

Flayn’s emerald eyes brimmed with tears, her lips quivering as she gazed up at him—the man she once thought of as family, as a brother. Her voice came out in a trembling whisper, full of sorrow and unwavering love. "Kazamir… no matter what you've become, I will always love you."

Ashen's dragon-like eyes flickered for a brief moment, a shadow of something deep and unspoken flashing within them. But he didn’t say a word. Slowly, deliberately, he drove the sword into her side, the steel piercing through the fragile flesh. Flayn’s breath hitched, a pained gasp escaping her lips as she sagged against the wall, the blade keeping her suspended. Blood trickled down, staining the once-pristine fabric of her robes.

Ashen took a step back, his expression unreadable as he watched her. The weight of his past hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating and inescapable. As he turned away, the dark mist wall that had separated them from the others finally shattered with a loud crack.

"FLAYN!" Byleth’s voice thundered through the battlefield, filled with unrestrained fury and grief. Without hesitation, he charged forward, his emerald eyes burning with the full power of Sothis. The Sword of the Creator crackled with divine energy, and he swung it with deadly precision.

Ashen barely had time to react, raising his own blade just in time to block the devastating strike. The force of the collision sent Byleth flying backward, landing heavily on the scorched ground. As he staggered to his feet, something slipped from his grasp—the worn journal he had carried all this time. It hit the ground with a soft thud, flipping open to a page marked with a single name. Kazamir.

Ashen's eyes locked onto it, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. He reached down and picked up the journal, his fingers ghosting over the faded ink. His voice, usually laced with cold cruelty, now carried a strange quietness. "Where did you get this?"

Byleth, his breathing heavy, wiped the blood from his lip and replied, his voice thick with emotion. "Back at the monastery… inside the throne of the Holy Tomb." His piercing gaze locked onto Ashen, his expression torn between sorrow and unwavering resolve. "It belonged to you... Before all of this… before you became what you are now. You killed the people who once called you family."

Ashen stood motionless, the worn journal still in his grasp. His crimson eyes flickered, but whatever emotion they once held vanished in an instant. He exhaled sharply, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "Family?" he scoffed, his voice cold and laced with disdain. "Those people are no longer my family. Kazamir is a dead, forgotten man. Ashen is all that remains now."

Shez stepped forward, her hands trembling with anger and heartbreak. "You monster," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "I thought… after everything I learned about Kazamir, I thought maybe—just maybe—there was something good left in you. But I guess I was wrong." Her grip on her twin blades tightened, the steel glinting in the flickering firelight. "You're going to pay for what you've done."

Ashen regarded her with an unreadable expression, the flames dancing in his crimson eyes. After a long, tense silence, he sighed, his voice softer but no less sharp. "I expected more from you both," he murmured, his gaze drifting between Byleth and Shez. "But I suppose my time here is up. My revenge on this village… and the children of the goddess… is complete."

Byleth's grip on the Sword of the Creator tightened, his jaw clenching as he took a step forward. "You think this is over?" he asked, his voice low but thick with restrained fury.

Ashen smirked, his expression almost amused. "For now," he said, turning away slightly before pausing. His crimson eyes flickered with something deeper—something calculating. "But you have more pressing things to worry about."

Shez stiffened, her twin swords still raised, but she narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?" she demanded, her voice sharp with suspicion.

Ashen's smirk widened, a dark amusement curling his lips. "Another god walks this world," he said, his voice laced with intrigue. "I've seen him myself."

Before Shez or Byleth could respond, a sudden shimmer of light flickered beside Shez. Arval materialized, his form flickering with panic, his glowing eyes wide with desperation. "No!" he whispered, his voice trembling as he turned to Ashen, his expression pleading. "Don't say anything… please. If they know—if she knows—"

Sothis, who had remained silent within Byleth’s mind, suddenly stirred, her emerald eyes narrowing in suspicion. "When did you see this god, Ashen?" she asked, her voice cold and sharp, resonating through Byleth's consciousness.

Ashen’s gaze drifted to where Arval stood, though Byleth and Sothis could not see him. His eyes studied the ethereal figure with a cruel curiosity, as if measuring his strength, his weakness. "He's strong," Ashen murmured, a dark fascination in his voice. "Not in the same way as you, Sothis. But his power… it's different. Ancient, yet somehow... unrefined." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming with intent. "And he's hiding. Hiding in plain sight."

Arval backed away, his form flickering wildly with distress. "No… Shez, please," he whispered, his voice raw with fear. "If Byleth and Sothis find out... she'll.."

Shez’s heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Arval’s voice. She stepped forward, her expression firm and unwavering. "This god you’re talking about," she said, glaring at Ashen, "he’s not our enemy. And I'm sure he would stand with Byleth and me, and together, we would make sure you’re finished, Ashen."

Arval's eyes widened in surprise, and for a brief moment, a small, almost grateful smile flickered across his face. He looked at Shez with a quiet understanding, as though in that moment, she had truly become his partner in destiny.

Sothis, however, stood within Byleth’s mind, watching Shez with narrowed emerald eyes. There was something she wasn’t being told—something Shez knew about this “other god.” Her thoughts swirled, a storm of suspicion and dread coiling deep within her. But she didn’t dwell on it long, shifting her focus back to the towering figure before them.

Byleth, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his grief, spoke through the thick tension, his voice steady yet heavy with unspoken emotion. “What do you know, Ashen?” he asked, his eyes locking onto the crimson-haired figure.

Ashen smirked, twirling the worn journal in his hand. “She hasn’t told you yet, has she?” he mused, his voice thick with amusement and something darker beneath it. “You see, we had a little chat. I know exactly what she’d do if she found another god walking this land.” His crimson eyes flicked to Byleth, their depth unreadable. “She’d kill him without hesitation.”

Byleth stiffened, his jaw tightening. Within his mind, he heard Sothis inhale sharply, and when he glanced inward, he saw it—the regret that darkened her luminous gaze.

“I can’t allow another god of Shambhala to rise,” she admitted, her voice laced with ancient pain and sorrow. “Not after what they did to my children so long ago.”

Byleth’s heart clenched, the weight of her words sinking into him. He spoke inwardly, his thoughts steady but firm. “There’s always a choice, Sothis.”

Her eyes softened, but the resolve in them remained unwavering. “No, Byleth. Not this time.”

Byleth exhaled, looking up at Ashen. “I’m sure,” he said, his voice laced with determination, “there will be a way to settle things with this other god without bloodshed.”

Arval’s eyes widened, surprise flickering in his ethereal features. For a moment, hope bloomed in his chest—however fragile, however fleeting. But he also knew Sothis wouldn’t agree with it. She never could.

“You’re naive,” Ashen said, his expression darkening. “This world is built on blood. Always has been. Always will be.”

Byleth’s grip on the Sword of the Creator tightened. “I will get my children back,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I will not let those who died here today go in vain. I will make sure Fódlan’s light still shines.” He took a step forward, his emerald eyes blazing. “And come what may, I’ll be waiting for the day you realize what you’re doing is wrong.”

Ashen stood in silence, his eyes cold and unreadable. The wind carried the crackling of the burning village around them, the scent of ash and blood thick in the air. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion. “I doubt that day will ever come.”

Byleth’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his weapon as if willing himself to believe otherwise. Ashen watched him for a moment longer before exhaling sharply. “But… I will honor your little hope, for now.” His  eyes darkened with something sinister. “The children... I won’t kill. Not yet.”

A tense silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, before Ashen tilted his head slightly, his expression eerily calm. “But you should leave for House Galatea soon,” he continued, his voice carrying an unsettling certainty. “Because that’s where I’ll strike next.”

Shez’s brow furrowed, her grip on her twin blades tightening. “Why are you telling us this?” she demanded, her voice wavering with equal parts anger and confusion. “Why warn us?”

Ashen’s lips curled into a smirk, his gaze shifting back to Byleth. “Because I want him to see,” he said darkly, his voice smooth yet laced with venom. “I want him to watch who dies next. Seteth and Flayn’s deaths are by his hands.” His eyes narrowed, glinting with something cruel and calculated. “He dragged them here. after all."

Byleth’s breath hitched, his emerald eyes widening for a split second before they dimmed, shifting back to their usual lifeless blue. His hair lost its radiant glow, returning to its dull, dark shade. The power of Sothis receded from him like a fading ember, leaving only exhaustion and guilt in its wake. He swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening as he fought to suppress the storm raging within him.

Ashen’s gaze flickered toward Shez, his smirk deepening. “I hope to see that fire again soon,” he murmured, his tone almost... admiring. With a powerful beat of his wings, he ascended into the smoke-filled sky, the force of his departure sending embers swirling through the air like dying stars. Within moments, he was gone, leaving only destruction in his wake.

The village was silent save for the crackling of dying flames. Shez stood frozen for a moment, staring at the charred remnants of what had once been a thriving community. Her fingers trembled slightly as she sheathed her blades, exhaling shakily before turning to Byleth.

Byleth, however, wasn’t looking at the ruins. He was staring at Seteth’s lifeless body, lying crumpled on the scorched earth. The older man’s green hair was matted with blood, his usually composed face now locked in eternal stillness. Byleth approached him slowly, his footsteps heavy, his breath ragged.

He knelt beside Seteth, his hands hovering uncertainly over the wound in his abdomen. The crimson stain had already spread across his once-pristine robes. Byleth swallowed hard, his vision blurring as guilt clawed at his chest like a relentless beast. With a shaking hand, he gently closed Seteth’s eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I promised you peace,” he said, his voice raw. “I promised... and I failed you.”

Shez watched silently, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like an iron shackle. Byleth’s shoulders trembled, but he didn’t cry. He simply sat there, his grief a quiet, suffocating thing.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice hollow. “Get a shovel.”

Shez nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand before hurrying off to find what he asked for. The village was eerily empty now, nothing but ghosts and ashes remaining. She found a shovel leaning against a half-collapsed barn, the handle charred but still intact.

By the time she returned, Byleth had already moved Seteth’s body next to Flayn’s. Her delicate features were peaceful, her lips slightly parted as if she had simply fallen asleep. Byleth looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, before silently taking the shovel from Shez.

He dug in silence.

Each strike of the shovel into the scorched earth felt like a condemnation, each scoop of dirt an unbearable weight. Shez wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck in her throat. She simply knelt beside him and began helping.

It took time, longer than either of them wanted, but eventually, the graves were ready. Byleth placed Seteth and Flayn side by side, his fingers lingering on their hands for a brief moment before he stepped back. The wind howled softly around them, carrying the lingering scent of fire and sorrow.

He stood there, staring down at the freshly dug graves, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “I promised them,” he whispered, his voice shaking with barely contained grief. “I promised they would be spared. That they would live in peace.” He swallowed thickly, his head bowing. “And now that promise is broken. The children of the goddess are gone… because of me.”

Shez placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her touch grounding him. “There’s nothing we can do for them now,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the pain in her eyes. “But we can still stop Ashen. We can stop him before he takes more lives.”

Byleth was silent for a long moment before finally turning to her. His gaze, though clouded with grief, held a flicker of determination. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Without another word, they walked to their wyverns, the creatures shifting uneasily in the smoldering ruins. Byleth mounted his silently, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Shez followed, her own mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead.

As they took to the skies, the wind whipping past them, Byleth’s voice was low but resolute. “House Galatea,” he said firmly. “We’ll stop him there.”

Shez nodded, her determination unwavering. “We will.”

The wind carried them forward, away from the ashes of Kazamir’s village, but the weight of what had transpired clung to them both.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It became night, and Ashen returned to the cold, unforgiving halls of the Faerghus kingdom. The air carried the chill of winter, the stone corridors dimly lit by flickering torches. His steps were slow, heavy, and his face bore a weariness not just from the journey, but from the weight of his own actions. The remnants of smoke and blood clung to him like a second skin, and though his eyes remained as sharp as ever, there was something… off. A flicker of something beneath the hardened exterior. Sadness? Regret? He wasn't sure anymore.

As he stepped into the great hall, a familiar figure awaited him. Shamir stood there, her piercing gaze assessing him carefully. She was ever the silent observer, but tonight, she broke the quiet first. "Welcome back, my lord," she said, her voice cool yet carrying a trace of concern.

Ashen didn’t respond at first. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, seemed distant, lost in thoughts that clung to him like ghosts. He walked past her, his footsteps echoing through the vast, empty hall. The flames from the torches flickered, casting long shadows on the cold stone walls.

Shamir followed his movement with her eyes, her arms crossed. "Something wrong?" she asked, her voice softer this time, almost hesitant.

Ashen exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose before replying, "I’m just tired." His voice was devoid of its usual sharpness, the weight of the day settling heavily on his shoulders.

Shamir remained silent, nodding slowly. She didn’t press him further, knowing better than anyone that Ashen spoke when he wanted to—and tonight, it seemed like he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

After a beat, she spoke again, carefully choosing her words. "The princess... was wondering where you went."

Ashen’s crimson gaze shifted toward her, something unreadable flickering behind his tired eyes. "And?" His voice was quiet, but there was an undercurrent of something darker beneath it.

Shamir hesitated, glancing away before speaking. "And... she knows my name," she admitted, her brows furrowing slightly. "I don’t know why, but... it’s like she’s met me before."

Ashen’s eyes narrowed, studying her closely. Even with the memory wipe, even with all the steps he had taken to ensure the past remained buried, there was still something within Shamir that resisted. A fragment of who she used to be, still lingering in the corners of her mind. He frowned, his voice thoughtful. "That’s... strange."

Shamir crossed her arms tightly, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It is. She keeps asking about you, though. She won’t stop."

Ashen turned away from her, his expression darkening. He didn’t like being the subject of curiosity, especially from someone as perceptive as Clainsiia. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "I'll see her."

With that, he strode down the dimly lit corridor toward Clainsiia’s chambers. His guards stood at attention by her door, their postures stiff, but at a mere glance from him, they bowed and stepped aside without a word. Ashen placed a hand on the door, exhaling deeply before pushing it open.

Inside, Clainsiia sat on the edge of her bed with her brother Jeralt, gently dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. Her soft hum filled the room, a tender melody that barely reached Ashen’s ears. She glanced up at him as he entered, her expression shifting from curiosity to relief.

"You’re back," she said, her voice laced with something between concern and frustration. "Where did you go?"

Ashen leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "It’s none of your concern," he said, his voice low but firm. He then arched an eyebrow. "But you? You’re not causing any problems, are you?"

Clainsiia rolled her eyes, placing the cloth back into the basin beside the bed. "No. I was just wondering where you disappeared to. Everyone did." Her gaze lingered on him, searching for answers he wasn't willing to give.

Ashen frowned, the weight of the journal in his grasp suddenly feeling heavier. "Why do you care?" he asked, his voice quieter now.

Before she could respond, her eyes drifted downward, landing on the book in his hand. Her lips parted slightly in surprise. "Kazamir?" she murmured, reading the worn name etched onto the journal’s cover.

Ashen’s entire body tensed. "What did you say?" His voice, usually so cold and composed, wavered ever so slightly.

Clainsiia’s brows knit together. "The book... It says Kazamir," she said slowly, pointing at the faded lettering. 

Ashen’s eyes lingered on the worn leather cover for a long moment, his expression dark and unreadable. His fingers tightened around the book, as though it held the weight of a lifetime he could never escape. The cold mask he always wore cracked just slightly as his voice, heavy with something unspoken, slipped past his lips in a near whisper.

"It's a journal," he said, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar sadness. "A journal about... a boy." He paused, the words tasting foreign, bitter. His eyes flickered with something deeper—something fragile. "A boy who once believed he had everything in life. He was given kindness, hope... a future." His voice dropped lower, almost as if admitting it pained him. "And yet, somehow... it all slipped away."

Clainsiia’s eyes softened as she studied him, sensing the sorrow hidden beneath his hardened exterior. "Why?" she asked gently. "What happened to him?"

Ashen’s jaw clenched, his gaze hardening as if to push the memories away. "The boy became a failure," he said bitterly, his voice cold but wavering with something heavier. "He thought he could change the world... but the world changed him first." His grip on the journal trembled slightly before, with a sudden burst of anger and despair, he hurled it against the wall. The book hit the stone with a dull thud, pages fluttering wildly before it slid to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Without another word, Ashen turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his heavy footsteps echoing through the dim corridors. Clainsiia watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest. There was something in his voice, in his eyes... something broken. Something she had never seen before.

She hesitated for a moment, then walked over to where the journal lay on the cold floor. Picking it up carefully, she ran her fingers over the worn leather cover. Her eyes flickered to Jeralt, who was now awake, his tiny eyes blinking curiously.

"Jeralt, should I open it?" she murmured.

The baby let out a soft giggle, his tiny hands reaching toward the book as if giving his approval.

"I think so too," she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the heaviness in her heart.

Clainsiia climbed onto her bed, settling in with the book resting on her lap. She hesitated for a moment before flipping open the first few pages, her eyes scanning the delicate handwriting inside.

The handwriting was neat but youthful, filled with an earnestness that was hard to ignore. Her eyes skimmed the first few lines. "It’s been three months since I have lived in The Monastery at Garreg Mach. It's kinda nice, especially the people. But today I learned something called snow… and geez it was freezing. Rhea ran up to me and covered me in her jacket. She asked why I didn’t have anything warm in the snow. I asked her what snow was, and she told me it is a frozen water crystal and it only shows up in winter. She even showed me I could make a ball with snow and even make something called a snowman. After a while, though, we went to Rhea’s room and had some tea. The next day I was on her bed and she told me I fell asleep… but I enjoyed yesterday because it was my first snow day."

Clainsiia’s eyes widened as she read, her breath catching in her throat. "This... this sounds exactly like what he told me," she whispered. Her fingers traced the inked words on the aged pages, her mind racing. The story mirrored what Ashen had once shared with her during their quiet conversations—word for word.

She paused, staring at the closed door. "Kazamir," she whispered, the name feeling foreign yet familiar on her tongue. "Even his face... the way he reacted when I said it." She hugged the journal close to her chest, feeling the weight of Ashen’s pain pressing against her heart.

Looking down at Jeralt, she whispered, "What happened to him? What changed?"

Jeralt cooed softly, his tiny fingers grasping at the pages of the book. Clainsiia sighed, brushing a gentle hand through his soft curls before carefully setting the journal aside. She pulled the blankets over them both, staring at the ceiling, the words still echoing in her mind.

She thought of Ashen—the bitterness in his voice, the way he looked at the book like it held every painful memory he had tried to bury. And she wondered... could she ever get through to him? Could she ever remind him of the boy he used to be?

As she drifted off to sleep, the thought lingered like a whisper in the wind.

Chapter Text

The sun was rising over House Galatea, painting the snow-covered fields in soft hues of orange and pink. The air was crisp, and the gentle morning breeze carried a quiet stillness that seemed almost serene—too serene for the turmoil that had been brewing in Edelgard's mind. She sat at the edge of her bed, the weight of the war pressing heavily on her shoulders even before the day had truly begun.

With a steady breath, she rose, the cool air biting against her skin as she donned her armor piece by piece. The silver and crimson plating gleamed faintly in the dim morning light, a symbol of her unwavering resolve. Adjusting her gauntlets with practiced ease, she fastened her cloak securely before stepping out of her chambers and into the vast, quiet corridors of the castle.

As Edelgard approached the front gate, she spotted a lone figure standing there, his golden cape fluttering in the breeze. Claude. He leaned against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed over his chest, his ever-present smirk subdued for once.

She walked up to him, her footsteps measured and deliberate. "Claude," she greeted, her voice steady but carrying an edge of curiosity. "You're up early."

Claude glanced at her with a half-smile. "And here I thought I’d be the only one with an unhealthy habit of waiting around," he replied, pushing off from the wall. "Waiting for Byleth?"

Edelgard nodded, folding her arms across her chest as she gazed out toward the horizon. "Yes. There’s not much else to do but wait. They should have arrived last night."

Claude let out a breath, his eyes narrowing slightly against the morning sun. "Well, considering who they were going to meet, I wouldn’t be surprised if things got... complicated."

Edelgard didn’t respond immediately. Her fingers tapped lightly against her armored sleeve, a subtle sign of her growing concern. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, her keen eyes caught sight of two figures in the sky, soaring toward them on the backs of wyverns. The distinct shapes of the riders were unmistakable.

"It’s them," she said, relief flickering in her crimson gaze.

Claude squinted up at the sky, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "About time," he muttered.

As Byleth and Shez landed their wyverns in the courtyard, Edelgard and Claude moved toward them. Claude's usual playful demeanor returned somewhat as he greeted them with a casual, "So, how was the trip? And how are Seteth and Flayn holding up?"

Byleth dismounted silently, his expression shadowed beneath the strands of his dark hair. He didn’t respond, his eyes distant, burning with a quiet but unmistakable storm of grief and anger. Edelgard’s brow furrowed immediately, sensing something deeply wrong. She stepped closer to him, concern evident in her voice. "Byleth," she said softly, reaching out but stopping just short of touching him. "What happened?"

Byleth stood still for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin line. The weight of his silence was heavier than any words could have been. Finally, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, yet filled with an agony that cut deep, he said, "They're gone."

The words hit Edelgard like a blow to the chest, her breath catching in her throat. Before she could ask for clarity, Byleth turned on his heel and walked away, his pace slow but purposeful, his shoulders heavy with a burden she could not yet fully understand. He made his way toward the palace, heading in the direction of the mess hall without looking back.

Edelgard watched him go, her heart sinking. She exchanged a worried glance with Claude, whose brow furrowed in rare concern. Turning to Shez, he asked, his voice quieter now, "What happened? What did he mean by... gone?"

Shez swallowed hard, her face pale, the usual spark in her eyes dulled by sorrow. Her voice trembled slightly as she forced herself to say the words. "Ashen happened," she whispered. "He... he killed them. Seteth and Flayn... they're dead."

Claude's expression, usually a mask of effortless charm, darkened with genuine shock. His arms, which had been casually crossed, fell to his sides. "What...?" he breathed, disbelief etching into his features. "Seteth and Flayn… dead?" His golden eyes darted between Shez and Edelgard, searching for some sign that he had misheard, that perhaps there was still some hope.

Shez nodded, biting her lip to keep her emotions in check. "Ashen destroyed his own village. Everyone... every single person." Her voice cracked, and she looked away, staring at the ground as if hoping it would swallow her whole. "Byleth’s been silent this whole time. Ever since we left... he hasn’t said a word."

Claude raked a hand through his hair, his usually cool demeanor cracking under the weight of the revelation. "Damn," he muttered under his breath, his gaze hardening with an edge of anger he rarely let show. "And here I thought things couldn’t get worse."

Edelgard stood still, her eyes fixed on the distant figure of Byleth as he disappeared into the palace. "I’ll talk to him," she said softly, her tone laced with the quiet authority of someone who had seen too much loss, too much pain. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode toward the palace, her armor clinking faintly in the early morning stillness.

Inside the palace, Edelgard moved with purpose, her mind racing with thoughts of how to reach him. When she entered the mess hall, she found Byleth sitting alone at a long wooden table, his posture stiff and withdrawn. He wasn’t eating, wasn’t drinking—he just sat there, lost in the abyss of his thoughts. The dim morning light cast long shadows across his face, emphasizing the exhaustion that weighed heavily on him.

Slowly, Edelgard approached and took a seat beside him, the scent of smoke and battle still clinging faintly to his clothes. She gazed at him for a moment before speaking, her voice soft yet steady. "Shez told me everything," she said gently, watching for any reaction.

Byleth’s fingers curled into fists on the table, his knuckles white. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice hollow. "I failed," he said, his words like a heavy stone dropping into the silence. "I made a promise… to protect them. To make sure they found peace." His eyes, usually so resolute, were clouded with guilt. "Though we fought Seteth and Flayn for humanity’s freedom from the church... they weren’t truly bad people." He exhaled shakily, his shoulders trembling under the weight of his grief. "And now they’re gone... because of me."

Edelgard reached out and took his hand in hers, her touch gentle but firm. "Byleth," she said softly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "It's not your fault. You didn’t know Ashen would attack. No one did."

Byleth’s jaw clenched, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then whose fault is it, Edelgard? Who got them involved? All I wanted was their help... to understand more about Ashen. And now they're dead." He looked at her, his usually stoic expression crumbling under the weight of his sorrow. "I dragged them into this, and now Flayn and Seteth are gone."

Edelgard’s grip on his hand tightened, her gaze unwavering. "Don't let their deaths go in vain," she urged. "They believed in what we were fighting for. They sacrificed themselves to help us get our children back… to stop Ashen." Her voice grew steadier, filled with quiet determination. "Those who have given their lives, those who have been killed by Ashen and his army... they will be avenged." She reached up, gently cupping his face. "Sadly, there’s no other path, Byleth. This is the road we’ve chosen. We must finish what we started months ago."

Byleth gazed at her, taking in her words with weary eyes. He knew she was right, yet the endless cycle of violence weighed heavily on him. "I'm so tired of this fight," he admitted quietly. "How many more have to die, El? I’m the ruler of Fódlan, and yet all I seem to bring is war and loss."

Edelgard reached out, her fingers brushing gently against his cheek, her eyes softening with a tenderness she rarely allowed herself to show. “You may be the ruler of Fódlan,” she said, her voice steady yet filled with emotion, “and you wield the power of the goddess... but at the end of the day, my love, you are not perfect.” She leaned in closer, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips, her warmth seeping into him like a balm against his wounds. As their lips parted, she wrapped her arms around him tightly, resting her head against his chest. “You are only human, Byleth. And that is why I love you.”

Byleth closed his eyes for a moment, his breath shaky but steadier with her presence grounding him. He held her close, his fingers threading through her white hair as he let the weight of her words settle in his heart. She was right. No matter how much power he held, no matter how many battles he won, he was still just a man—a husband, a father. And right now, the fate of their children hung in the balance. He took a deep breath, his resolve slowly hardening beneath the pain. “For the fate of our children,” he murmured against her hair, his voice stronger now. “We have to keep going.”

Edelgard pulled back slightly, looking up at him with quiet determination. “Yes,” she said softly, her thumb brushing against his jawline. “And we will. Together.”

Byleth nodded, releasing a heavy sigh as he finally allowed himself to sit back against the wooden chair. He ran a hand through his hair before meeting her gaze again. “Tell me,” he said. “What happened while I was gone?”

Edelgard studied him for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between them. She then placed her hand gently over his, offering silent comfort before she began.

“After you left,” she said softly, “we journeyed to House Galatea as planned. Ingrid… she’s ruling now.” A small, wistful smile ghosted across Edelgard’s lips. “We’ve never doubted her strength, but seeing her step into that role... it was inspiring.” She paused, letting the thought linger before continuing.

Byleth absorbed her words, his tired blue eyes searching hers. “And… the people?” he asked, his voice laced with the underlying concern of a leader who bore the weight of every soul under his protection.

Edelgard’s smile faded, replaced by something far more solemn. “They’re wary of her. Some are grateful for the prosperity the Empire has brought, but others… they still hold resentment. They still remember when she left to fight for us instead of them.” She sighed, her fingers tightening slightly around his hand. “She carries that burden heavily, but she’s strong, Byleth. She’ll lead them well.”

Byleth leaned back, nodding slowly. “Ingrid has always been determined,” he murmured, his voice heavy with both admiration and concern. “But Ashen… he won’t ignore what’s happening.”

Edelgard’s expression darkened. “No,” she agreed grimly. “He won’t.” She took a deep breath before saying what she knew would weigh on him further. “Ashen has already taken over most of Faerghus. He’s established his rule in Fhirdiad, and from what we've learned, he’s turning the entire kingdom into his stronghold.” Her crimson eyes flickered with barely contained anger. "We know House Galatea is next."

Byleth’s grip on the table tightened, his knuckles whitening as the weight of Ashen’s words echoed in his mind. "Because that’s where I’ll strike next." The threat wasn’t idle—it was a calculated promise, and Byleth knew it. He could almost hear the smugness in Ashen’s voice, the twisted sense of satisfaction in watching them scramble to defend yet another piece of their fractured world.

“How long?” Byleth’s voice was low but steady, his blue eyes darkened with resolve.

Edelgard hesitated, then met his gaze. “A few days. Maybe less,” she admitted. “His forces are already on the move, and Ingrid has started preparing the defenses, but…” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, Byleth could see the worry etched into her face—the exhaustion of countless battles, the burden of leadership that weighed heavily upon her.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched in quiet frustration. “We’re running out of time.” His fingers traced along the edge of the wooden table, the sensation grounding him. “We need a plan. We can’t afford to lose House Galatea.”

Edelgard nodded, her expression somber but unwavering. “Claude has a plan,” she said after a moment.

Byleth arched a brow, glancing at her with mild curiosity. “Claude?” he asked. “And what’s his plan?”

A wry smile flickered across Edelgard’s lips, though it lacked its usual sharpness. “I don’t know,” she admitted, a hint of frustration seeping into her voice. “He wouldn’t say. Just that he’s been working on something that could turn the tide in our favor.” She sighed, her crimson gaze searching his face for any sign of hope. “He wants to discuss it with you soon, but for now…” She paused, her fingers ghosting over his hand gently. “You should eat something.”

Byleth blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone. “El, I—”

She cut him off with a gentle squeeze of his hand. “No arguments,” she said firmly. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a moment to ourselves, without battle plans and war councils hanging over our heads.” Her expression softened, and the tenderness in her eyes made his chest tighten. “Stay. Just for a little while. Let’s have some food, or tea… something normal.”

For the first time in what felt like days, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at Byleth’s lips. It wasn’t much, but it was there—just a flicker of warmth in the cold storm raging inside him. He looked at her, the woman who had stood by his side through everything, and he felt an ache deeper than any battlefield wound. How long had it been since they’d simply… enjoyed a quiet moment together?

“Alright,” he said softly, his voice tinged with exhaustion but laced with something gentler. “Just for a little while.”

Edelgard’s smile grew, and for a fleeting moment, she looked relieved. She stood, motioning for him to follow her as they made their way toward the smaller dining hall tucked within the palace walls. The sound of their footsteps echoed softly, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of war preparations and hurried discussions.

Chapter Text

After a while, everyone gathered in the war council chamber to discuss Claude’s plan. Byleth stood near the head of the table, his gaze steady and composed, though the shadows under his eyes spoke of his exhaustion. He turned to Claude, who leaned casually against the edge of the table, arms crossed and his expression unreadable.

“Alright, Claude,” Byleth began, his voice steady. “You said you had a plan. What have you got?”

Claude’s golden eyes gleamed, though his smile was tempered by the weight of the situation. He uncrossed his arms and exhaled softly. “Well, I may have… done something while you were away,” he admitted, glancing briefly at Edelgard.

Edelgard's eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flashing across her features. “What exactly did you do, Claude?” she asked, her voice calm but edged with authority.

Claude exhaled slowly, a rare seriousness overtaking his normally carefree demeanor. "I know how it looks, but hear me out. We need reinforcements, and I thought of a way to get them," he said, standing straight, his golden gaze sweeping over the faces of everyone in the room.

The others exchanged looks, their curiosity piqued but wary. Knowing Claude, he always had something up his sleeve, something unconventional.

Dorothea arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “And how exactly did you manage that?” she asked skeptically.

Before Claude could respond, the sound of horns echoed through the palace walls, deep and resonant. The entire war council fell silent. Edelgard’s eyes flicked toward the doorway as the horns blared again, distant but unmistakable. There was a sense of tension and expectation that swept through the room.

Claude smirked knowingly and gestured toward the castle gates. “That must be them,” he said casually, turning on his heel.

“Wait… them?” Bernadetta squeaked, shrinking slightly behind Ferdinand. “Who’s them?”

“Come on, you'll want to see this,” Claude said over his shoulder as he headed toward the exit. The council members, curiosity overpowering caution, hurried after him through the vast stone corridors and toward the castle courtyard.

By the time they reached the gates, the horns had grown louder. Soldiers guarding the walls had already opened the main gates, revealing a sight that left many speechless.

An army stretched across the horizon—a force that dwarfed even some of the mightiest battalions the Empire had fielded. Banners emblazoned with foreign symbols fluttered proudly in the morning breeze, vibrant colors of gold and black against the sky. At the forefront of the army was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark, weathered skin, clad in ornate armor. His presence was commanding, his gaze sharp as he led the charge into Fódlan territory.

“Almyra,” Ferdinand muttered under his breath, eyes wide with disbelief. “Claude… you’ve brought the Almyrans.”

Claude chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with pride. “I told you I had a plan.”

Ferdinand gaped at him for a moment before shaking his head. “You sure know how to pull strings, Claude. That’s not just any army—that’s the entire Almyran vanguard.”

As the Almyran soldiers marched into formation near the gates, the leader dismounted from his steed with a grace that belied his size. He strode confidently toward Claude, his armor clinking faintly with each step. The man’s piercing eyes softened slightly as he took in the young leader standing before him.

“It’s good to see you again, kiddo,” he said with a deep, booming voice full of warmth.

Claude grinned widely, stepping forward to clasp the man’s forearm in a firm grip. “Nader,” he greeted, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “It’s been too long, old friend.”

Nader Shah, the fearsome warrior once known as "The Unstoppable," chuckled heartily. “Well, I never thought I’d be setting foot in Fódlan again. You’ve got a knack for dragging me into trouble.” He glanced around at the gathered leaders and soldiers before adding, “Hopefully, I won’t lose another fight on this side of the border.”

“Hey,” Claude teased, “the Empire might’ve beaten you once, but this time’s different. We’re allies now, and as long as I’m breathing, you’ll have my full support.”

Nader nodded firmly, his expression shifting to one of deep loyalty. “We’re with you, Claude. As long as you live, we’ll stand by your side.”

Edelgard approached, her eyes narrowing in quiet appraisal of the Almyran leader. Though there was a history of tension between Fódlan and Almyra, she saw no deception in Nader’s words. The war had brought them strange allies, but if Claude trusted him, she would as well—for now.

“I trust you’ve been briefed on the situation?” Edelgard asked, her voice steady but respectful.

Nader inclined his head. “Claude gave us the essentials. We’re here to stop Ashen.”

“Good,” she said, glancing at Claude. “But now that you’ve brought them here, I want to know the rest of your plan.”

Lysithea crossed her arms, stepping forward. “Yes, Claude. You’ve brought an entire army to our gates. But how exactly are we going to use them? I assume you’ve got more than a flashy entrance up your sleeve.”

Claude's smirk returned, though it was tinged with a seriousness that hadn’t been there before. “Of course,” he said, stepping forward and glancing around. “We’re going to need a map for this next part.”

“I’ve got one,” Ashe said, quickly moving to retrieve a rolled-up map from one of the supply wagons nearby. He brought it forward and handed it to Claude.

Claude looked around and spotted a large table near the gate. “Perfect,” he said, striding over and spreading the map out on the wooden surface. The leaders gathered around him, their eyes following as he pointed to key locations. He tapped the map where House Galatea was marked, then traced a path to House Fraldarius and finally to Fhirdiad, where Ashen had fortified his kingdom.

“Here’s the situation,” Claude began, his tone taking on the air of a strategist in command. “Now that we have reinforcements, we’re going to split our forces. I’ll take half of the Alliance army along with the Almyran forces and head to House Fraldarius. Felix could hold hold his line, but if Ashen shifts his attention there, his home could fall. We can’t let that happen.”

Edelgard leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she analyzed the map. “Why Fraldarius?” she asked. “Is there something specific you’re expecting from Ashen?”

Claude nodded, circling three key points on the map. “It’s all about positioning. Look here—House Galatea, House Fraldarius, and Fhirdiad.” He drew connecting lines between the points, forming a rough scalene triangle. “If Ashen decides to split his forces, it’ll be between these three locations. We need to secure these positions and be ready to converge when the time is right.”

Shez crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in thought. “And what if Ashen doesn’t split his forces?” she asked. “What if he concentrates everything on defending Fhirdiad?”

Claude’s eyes gleamed as he straightened. “If he doesn’t split, that’s actually better for us,” he said confidently. “We’ll use the opportunity to push into his territory with full force. It’ll also speed things up. We’ll save the innocent civilians trapped under his rule, and—most importantly—we’ll rescue Byleth and Edelgard’s children faster.”

Byleth’s jaw tensed at the mention of his children, but he gave Claude a nod of approval. The plan had risks, but it made sense. If they could stretch Ashen’s forces thin or force him to concentrate in one place, they could exploit the situation either way.

“And,” Claude added with a wry grin, “something tells me Felix wouldn’t mind the challenge. He’ll want to face Ashen’s best soldiers head-on. If we play this right, we’ll cut off Ashen’s support from multiple directions. Once we have control over the key houses, we’ll meet here.” He pointed to a spot on the map: Conand Tower. “That’ll be our rendezvous point. From there, we’ll launch the final strike on Ashen’s kingdom.”

The room was silent for a moment, the weight of Claude’s words hanging in the air. Everyone knew the stakes. Claude’s plan was bold—too bold, perhaps. Ingrid, standing close to the table, frowned slightly as she traced the lines of strategy on the map with her eyes. The pale morning light filtering in through the windows seemed colder than ever, casting long shadows over the table and the worried expressions of those gathered.

“This is risky,” Ingrid finally spoke, her voice calm but firm. “Claude, you’re counting on Ashen responding exactly how we expect him to. If he doesn’t… if he adapts faster than we anticipate…” She trailed off, turning to face Byleth. “What do you think?”

All eyes shifted to Byleth. He stood at the head of the table, his expression distant yet thoughtful. He had been absorbing every detail of the plan, weighing each risk and consequence in his mind. The burden of leadership was carved into his features, but there was a quiet strength behind his gaze. His mind churned through possibilities what Ashen might be planning, how he might try to manipulate them again. This entire war had become a dance of strategy and deception.

Finally, Byleth spoke, his voice low but steady. “Claude… you’ve brought the Almyrans, but are there others? More reinforcements we can count on?”

Claude glanced at him with a hint of hesitation, his golden eyes narrowing slightly before he sighed and nodded. “Yeah… there’s one more group,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. He glanced toward the map as if the weight of his words were written in its lines. “House Edmund. Marianne and her soldiers are coming to join us.”

Everyone fell into a tense silence. Ferdinand’s eyes widened in shock. He turned sharply toward Claude, his normally composed expression cracking with disbelief. “You… You got Marianne involved in this?” he demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of concern and disbelief. His gaze dropped to the ground, his brows furrowing deeply as a storm of emotions crossed his face.

Bernadetta, standing nearby, noticed the sudden shift in Ferdinand’s demeanor. Her anxious fidgeting paused as she studied him closely. Though her usual instinct was to shrink back from conflict, she had learned to read her friends well over the years. Something was wrong—very wrong. Quietly, she stepped forward and gently placed a hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder.

“Ferdinand?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern. “What’s on your mind? You look… really upset.”

Ferdinand closed his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath before finally speaking. “I understand that we need more soldiers,” he began, his tone strained, “but… this is Marianne. I didn’t want her to get involved in this war.”

Bernadetta’s eyes softened in understanding. She knew Ferdinand well enough by now to sense the deeper pain beneath his words. Slowly, she squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” she said quietly. “You don’t want to lose someone close to you. Especially… someone you care about.”

Ferdinand hesitated for a moment, then nodded. His voice grew quieter, tinged with vulnerability. “Yes,” he admitted. “I don’t want to lose her. Marianne and I… We’ve been through so much together. After I became Duke Aegir, she was one of the few people who helped me restore my territory. We rebuilt the Aegir lands together, piece by piece. And… she’s not just a leader of House Edmund. She’s…”

He trailed off, his emotions choking his words. Bernadetta’s eyes widened slightly in realization, but she kept her voice gentle. “She’s special to you,” she finished softly. “You’re together, aren’t you?”

Ferdinand nodded, his eyes still focused on the ground. “Yes. We’ve been together for some time now. We’ve both had to carry the weight of leading our houses, but she’s always been there for me. And I’ve tried to be there for her. She’s… she’s been through so much already.”

Ashe, who had been quietly listening from across the table, spoke up, his voice filled with quiet empathy. “I remember how hard it was for her,” he said. “Marianne struggled for a long time. When she took over House Edmund, there were people who didn’t believe in her. They said she wasn’t fit to be the ruler, that she was weak. She went through… some really dark times.”

Ferdinand’s fists clenched at Ashe’s words, his expression tightening. “She almost gave up,” he muttered, his voice laced with pain. “She… she told me once that she even considered…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, the weight of the memory too painful to speak aloud.

Bernadetta’s eyes filled with sadness. She remembered the stories—how Marianne had once been so consumed by despair that she had thought of ending her own life. It was a dark shadow that had loomed over the gentle, kind-hearted woman for years. But she had survived. She had found strength, both in herself and in the people who loved her.

“She’s stronger now,” Bernadetta said gently. “And a lot of that is because of you, Ferdinand. You helped her find her way.”

Ferdinand closed his eyes briefly, the weight of her words pressing against his heart. He knew it was true—Marianne had grown, blossoming from a woman burdened by self-doubt into a capable and beloved leader. Yet that knowledge didn’t ease his fear. He shook his head slightly, his voice low and strained. “I know. I do. But does she really need to go through this? To face this kind of danger again?”

Before anyone could respond, a soft but resolute voice echoed through the chamber, silencing the council. “Yet all of Fódlan needs help.”

Everyone turned toward the entrance, where Marianne stood, her serene presence casting a stillness over the room. Her long, light-blue hair shimmered faintly in the morning light, and though there was a quiet sadness in her eyes, her posture was upright and steady. She walked forward slowly, her footsteps light but purposeful. Her gaze met Ferdinand’s, and for a moment, the room seemed to shrink to just the two of them.

“I understand how you feel, Ferdinand,” Marianne continued gently. “You know how much I dislike fighting. And yes… I have been through more than I ever imagined I could bear.” She paused, taking a deep breath. “But I can’t stay behind and let everyone else fight this war alone. Not when I have the power to help.”

Ferdinand stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His hands reached out and gently took hers in his, his touch tender but searching. “Marianne… are you sure about this?” he asked softly, his amber eyes shining with worry. “You’ve already given so much. I can’t bear the thought of you… of losing you.”

Marianne’s expression softened, a small, warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It was a rare sight, one that Ferdinand cherished above all else. “I’m sure,” she replied with quiet conviction. “I’ve thought about it long and hard. And while I may not be a warrior, I can still lead. I can still protect others.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. “We’re in this together. You’ve always believed in me, Ferdinand. Now it’s time for me to believe in myself.”

Ferdinand’s heart swelled with both pride and fear, but as he looked into her eyes, he saw a light that had not always been there—a strength that had been hard-won. He nodded slowly, squeezing her hands gently. “Your courage inspires me,” he murmured. “As always.”

Byleth approached them then, his blue eyes filled with respect and gratitude. “Thank you, Marianne,” he said sincerely. “We’re glad to have your help. Your presence will make all the difference.”

Marianne bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “My troops are ready whenever you give the order,” she said softly. “We’ll follow you and Edelgard wherever you lead.”

Byleth turned to Claude, his expression serious. “We don’t have much time. We only have a few days to prepare for this. Claude, can you reach House Fraldarius on time?”

Claude nodded confidently. “We can make it there in two days if we leave immediately,” he confirmed. “It’ll be tight, but it’s doable.”

Byleth crossed his arms, deep in thought. He knew this plan was risky—splitting their forces left them vulnerable if Ashen didn’t respond as expected. Still, it could be their best chance to thin his troops. “We might only get one shot at this,” Byleth said aloud. “If Ashen attacks Galatea and doesn’t send reinforcements to Fraldarius, Claude, you’ll have an opportunity to strike his kingdom directly.”

He turned to Edelgard, his eyes searching hers. “What do you think, El? Can we pull this off?”

Edelgard’s expression was pensive, her mind racing through the tactical possibilities. After a moment, she met his gaze and spoke with quiet certainty. “It’s a long shot, but it might work. We can play both defensive and offensive if we coordinate carefully. Timing will be everything.”

Ingrid stepped forward, her icy blue eyes filled with determination. “We’ll prepare the defenses here. House Galatea won’t fall,” she declared firmly. “My people have been through too much already. I won’t let Ashen destroy what we’ve rebuilt.”

Linhardt, who had been leaning casually against a pillar, straightened slightly and added his thoughts. “It’s possible Ashen doesn’t even know that Ingrid is now the ruler of Faerghus,” he remarked lazily. “But… he’ll still come for her father. It’s personal for him.”

Ingrid’s jaw tightened, a steely glint in her eyes. “Let him try,” she said coldly. “We’ll be ready for him.”

Claude stepped forward again, his tone shifting to one of leadership. “Alright then. I’ll take Leonie, Lysithea, Caspar, Petra, and Nader with me to House Fraldarius,” he said, listing off his key allies. “We’ll keep Ashen’s forces occupied there.”

Nader, standing tall beside him, cracked his knuckles and grinned. “I’ve been ready for this fight since the moment I got here,” he declared confidently. “My troops are eager to see some action.”

Leonie crossed her arms and gave a firm nod. “No objections here. Let’s get this done.”

Lysithea chimed in, her tone brisk but resolute. “I’ll be glad to assist. We need to end this as quickly as possible.”

Petra placed a hand on Caspar’s shoulder and nodded in agreement. “We are counting ourselves in. Caspar and I are ready for battle,” she said with a fierce smile.

Everyone spoke with a shared determination, their voices uniting in a chorus of resolve. Byleth looked around the room, seeing the fire in their eyes. Despite everything they had endured, they still had the will to fight. His heart swelled with a mixture of pride and gratitude. This was their one shot, but it was a chance worth taking.

“Alright,” Byleth said, his voice calm but commanding. “Claude, get going. Time is of the essence.”

Claude gave a two-fingered salute, his trademark grin returning. “You got it, Teach,” he said before turning to his group. “Let’s move out!”

As Claude’s forces departed, Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez walked through the castle grounds, inspecting the defenses being set up around House Galatea. Soldiers and knights worked tirelessly, reinforcing walls and positioning archers along the battlements. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation and tension.

As they walked, Byleth spoke quietly, his mind still turning over the risks ahead. “I keep wondering,” he murmured. “If Ashen does show up here and realizes his kingdom is under attack… where would he go? If he’s forced to retreat, where would he run?”

Shez glanced at him thoughtfully. “You think he’s got a fallback plan?”

“It’s possible,” Byleth replied. “He’s too cunning not to have a contingency.”

Edelgard placed a hand on his arm, her gaze steady and reassuring. “Whatever he plans, we’ll be prepared,” she said firmly. “This war has tested us in ways we never imagined, but we’ve come too far to falter now. No matter what happens, Byleth… we’ll face it together.”

Chapter Text

As they kept walking and talking, helping to oversee the placement of defense structures, Shez suddenly stumbled and pressed a hand to her temple. She felt a strange, almost chilling presence, and as she blinked, the familiar, ethereal glow of Arval appeared before her eyes.

“Shez,” Arval spoke, his tone softer than usual. “I… I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Shez frowned, instantly sensing something was off. Arval’s expression was strained—troubled in a way she hadn’t seen before. It made her uneasy. He was always calm, even cryptic at times, but this was different.

“Alright,” she whispered under her breath. “Just… give me a second.”

Turning to Byleth and Edelgard, she feigned a yawn and rubbed her neck as if exhausted. “Hey, um… I think I need to catch a bit of rest. Still pretty wiped from all that flying earlier,” she explained, giving them a half-smile. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”

Byleth’s perceptive gaze lingered on her for a moment, as if he knew something else was going on, but he gave a small nod. “Get some rest,” he said. “We’ll handle things here.”

Edelgard offered a brief nod of agreement. “Take care of yourself."

With a quick wave, Shez made her way to one of the nearby tents. The moment she entered and shut the tent flap, she felt Arval's presence intensify. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink deeper into their shared connection. When she opened them again, she found herself standing within Arval’s domain.

Arval was already there, hovering in mid-air, his silvery-white form emanating a soft, otherworldly glow. His usual serene composure was gone, replaced by an anxious energy that made Shez’s stomach twist.

“Arval,” she said gently, taking a step toward him. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

At first, Arval didn’t respond. He floated in place, his gaze unfocused and distant. When he finally spoke, his voice was unsteady, almost hesitant. “I… I’m fine,” he muttered, though the tightness in his voice betrayed him.

“Yeah, you’re really selling it,” Shez replied with a dry chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. She placed her hand on her hip, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Come on. You know you can tell me. What’s wrong?”

Arval hesitated for a long moment, his gaze darting away from hers as if he were struggling to find the words. Finally, he exhaled slowly and looked at her with a vulnerability that caught her off guard. “I’m scared, Shez,” he admitted quietly. His voice trembled slightly, and that raw honesty shook her to her core.

Shez’s hand slowly dropped from her hip as she took another step forward. She didn’t say anything at first, letting him speak at his own pace.

“I keep thinking about… Ashen,” Arval continued, his voice strained. “When he tried to expose my secret—when he almost did. I thought that was it. I thought… I wouldn’t have a future anymore.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with fear and resignation. Shez knew exactly what he meant. She remembered how Ashen had taunted them, hinting at Arval’s true nature. It was a terrifying moment for both of them, and now that fear was resurfacing with full force.

Shez crossed her arms and took a deep breath. “I know, Arval,” she said softly. “But I'll protect you. Ashen said it himself—our power is equal it Byleth's."

Arval hovered silently for a moment, as if weighing her words. Slowly, he shook his head. “I know you’ll protect me, Shez.” he whispered, voice trembling. “But… why should I have to die? Because I’m a god? Because I’m my father’s son?”

His voice rose in anguish, and suddenly, Arval floated to the center of the space, his form pulsing with light. “I never asked for any of this! I didn’t ask to be a god! I don’t want to fight Sothis or claim Fódlan. I’m not my father! I’m just…” He faltered, his voice breaking. “… just a kid trying to hide.”

Shez’s heart ached as she watched him. He wasn’t the otherworldly figure everyone else might have seen—he was her partner, her friend, someone burdened with an unbearable fate. Slowly, she stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm.

“Then maybe… it’s about time the kid grows up,” she said softly.

Arval blinked, momentarily stunned. His form shimmered faintly as he floated a little closer to her, his face twisted with confusion. “What… what do you mean by that?”

Shez crossed her arms and gave him a steady look. “I get it. You’re scared. Anyone would be. You’ve been hiding for so long that it’s all you know. But you can’t keep running forever. You’ve got to face this, Arval. You’re not your father, and you don’t have to become him. Maybe, if you can show Sothis that you’re different, she’ll spare you. Maybe she’ll understand that you’re not like the other gods.”

Arval’s glowing eyes softened as her words sank in. He hovered there silently, processing everything. Slowly, he whispered, “You… really think she would?”

“I do,” Shez replied firmly. “And even if she doesn’t, I’ll still be here. For me, you’ve never been a monster or some god to fear. You’re a good person, Arval—a good friend. That’s who you are.”

The moment the words left her lips, Arval froze in place. His form flickered, as if destabilized by emotion. For a long time, he didn’t speak, and Shez started to worry she had said something wrong. Then she noticed something she’d never seen before: his eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“A… good friend…” he whispered, his voice breaking. It trembled with an intensity that made Shez’s chest tighten. “No one… in thousands of years, no one has ever called me that.”

Arval clenched his fists at his sides, his entire form trembling under the weight of those words. Slowly, he looked at her, his gaze filled with gratitude and vulnerability. “Shez, I… I’m glad I found you. After all this time… I finally found the right person.”

Shez smiled softly, tilting her head playfully. “Let me guess— being your ‘partner in destiny,’ right?”

Arval chuckled quietly at her teasing, shaking his head. “No. It’s something more than that.” His gaze softened further, and he slowly floated closer to her. “My best friend.”

Those words hit Shez harder than she expected. A warmth spread through her chest, and her smile widened. She reached out and pulled him into a gentle embrace. His incorporeal form shimmered under her touch but didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into the embrace, his entire being radiating a quiet peace that had eluded him for centuries.

“Remember what I said, okay?” Shez murmured.

Arval nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “Of course… my friend.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, both finding comfort in the shared connection. Finally, Shez drew back and chuckled softly. “I think it’s time to wake up.”
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Back in the tent, Shez’s eyes fluttered open. The soft fabric ceiling swayed gently in the breeze, casting shifting shadows across her face. She blinked a few times, her vision adjusting to the dim, amber light filtering in from outside. The sun was already dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of gold, orange, and violet. She pushed herself up on her elbows and ran a hand through her messy hair, groaning softly.

"How long was I out?" she muttered under her breath, stretching her stiff limbs.

She shoved the tent flap open, stepping outside to be greeted by the cool, crisp evening air. As she took in her surroundings, she suddenly felt something soft and yielding under her foot. A startled groan reached her ears.

"Ow… could you not step on me next time?" came a familiar, groggy voice.

Shez gasped and quickly stumbled back, her eyes widening as she looked down. There, sprawled on the ground, was Linhardt, rubbing his chest where she had stepped on him. His green hair was disheveled, and his face bore an expression of mild annoyance, though it quickly softened into his usual lazy demeanor.

“Oh, crap, Linhardt! Are you okay?” Shez crouched down beside him, concern flashing across her face.

Linhardt gave a half-hearted shrug and sighed. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I’ve survived worse… like being woken up from a perfectly good nap by someone stomping on me." He yawned and blinked slowly at her. "You, on the other hand, seem to have had a very restful nap of your own. Enjoy it?"

Shez chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck. "Yeah, I guess so. I needed it after all that flying earlier. But what about you? Why were you sleeping on the ground?"

He shifted into a sitting position, brushing some dirt off his robe. "Oh, just a little nap in the fresh air. It’s quite peaceful, really. Well, until someone uses you as a stepping stone."

"He sleeps too much," Arval’s voice echoed in Shez's mind, his tone somewhere between amused and exasperated.

Shez barely contained her snicker, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle the sound. "Yeah, well, sorry about that, Linhardt," she said aloud, offering him a hand to help him up. He took it and stood with a long, exaggerated stretch.

"It’s fine," Linhardt said with a yawn. "I think I’ll find somewhere safer to nap next time… maybe a tree." He waved lazily and wandered off toward the main camp. "See you around, Shez."

"See you," Shez called after him, chuckling softly to herself. "He really does nap too much, huh?" she thought to Arval.

"It's impressive, really," Arval replied dryly, floating beside her in his ethereal form, visible only to her. "I didn’t think mortals could sleep that much without turning into plants."

Shez laughed out loud, earning a few curious glances from nearby soldiers. She quickly cleared her throat and gave a friendly wave before walking away from the main camp, seeking a quieter spot. The evening air was cool and refreshing, and the sounds of camp life faded into a soft hum in the background.
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Over the next few days, Ashen worked tirelessly to build his army, his every waking moment consumed by preparation for the inevitable confrontation with Byleth and Shez. Soldiers drilled relentlessly in the frozen training grounds of Faerghus, their breath forming clouds of frost in the bitter air. The clang of swords and the shouts of commands echoed off the stone walls, but Ashen barely registered any of it. His focus was elsewhere, his mind weighed down by thoughts he couldn't escape—thoughts of Seteth, Flayn, and that moment when he had driven his sword into her.

No matter how many times he pushed it away, he kept seeing her face: the way her emerald eyes had softened with sorrow and love, even as the life drained from her body. The way Seteth had looked at him, not with hatred, but with grief, as if mourning a lost son. The memories wrapped around his mind like chains, each one pulling him deeper into a pit of guilt and self-loathing.

As he stood in the center of the icy courtyard, overseeing the drills, he unconsciously rubbed at his arm. His eyes glanced down at the veins running beneath his pale skin. The dark, faintly glowing lines that had once spread across his body seemed to pulse faintly, a reminder of the ancient power he had inherited—a power that had twisted his fate beyond recognition.

"You seem troubled, my lord," a deep voice rumbled beside him.

Ashen didn’t need to turn to recognize Warg, his most trusted general and advisor. The large, imposing wolf beast solder stood with his arms crossed, his piercing gaze never wavering. His heavy armor gleamed in the torchlight, and a jagged scar ran across his weathered face—a testament to countless battles fought and survived.

"I’m just… reflecting," Ashen replied quietly, his voice devoid of emotion. He kept his eyes on the soldiers ahead, though his mind was elsewhere.

Warg raised a brow, his keen eyes narrowing slightly. "Reflecting?" he repeated, his tone laced with curiosity. "On what?"

Ashen didn’t answer immediately. His crimson eyes flicked down to the faintly glowing veins on his forearm. They pulsed softly, a cruel reminder of everything he had become, everything he had done. The echoes of Flayn's dying gasp and Seteth’s haunted expression replayed in his mind like a broken refrain. He couldn't push it away, no matter how hard he tried.

"I’ve come far," he muttered at last, his voice low and distant. "What I set out to claim... it’s within my reach now." He clenched his fist as though trying to crush the very doubts clawing at the edges of his mind.

Warg watched him with a knowing gaze. "Hmph," he grunted softly. "You are close yes.. But, you've been distracted, my lord." He crossed his arms, his tone both respectful and direct. "This isn’t just about conquest, is it? There’s something else on your mind."

Ashen's jaw tensed, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned on his heel and began walking away, his boots crunching softly on the frost-covered stones. Warg followed without hesitation.

"My lord," Warg called, his voice steady but firm, "what’s wrong?"

"It’s nothing," Ashen replied curtly, his gaze fixed ahead as he strode toward the castle’s inner halls. The words tasted like a lie, even to him. To deflect further, he asked, "Why are you here, Warg? You don’t usually seek me out unless there’s a reason."

Warg sighed heavily, his armor clinking as he walked. "The princess," he admitted after a brief pause. "She’s been asking questions."

Ashen stopped abruptly, turning to face him, his expression darkening. "Questions?" he repeated slowly. "Like what?"

Warg shook his head, frowning slightly. "I can’t say I understand. She’s... curious. About something. It’s not the usual kind of questioning a child her age would do."

Ashen’s eyes narrowed. "Curious about what?" He couldn’t imagine what Byleth and Edelgard’s child could be so interested in, especially regarding him.

"I don’t know," Warg replied with a shrug. "She’s been insistent though. Like she’s trying to piece something together."

Ashen sighed and rubbed his temple. The child’s curiosity unsettled him. He had dealt with suspicion and enmity from many over the years, but this was... different. "Bring her to me," he ordered. "The greenhouse. I want to hear what’s on her mind."

Warg bowed his head in acknowledgment. "As you wish," he said, turning to leave.

Ashen made his way through the winding corridors of the castle until he reached the greenhouse. It was a rare sanctuary of warmth and life within the otherwise cold, stone fortress. The air inside was humid and fragrant with the scent of herbs and blooming flowers. A wooden table with two chairs stood near the center. Ashen walked over and took a seat, his gaze wandering over the various plants. He muttered under his breath, "These plants... they're interesting." Their resilience, their ability to grow even in harsh conditions—it struck a strange chord in him.

Moments later, the door creaked open. Warg entered, guiding Clainsiia into the room. She carried a small leather bag over her shoulder and looked up at Ashen with wide, curious eyes. Warg bowed slightly before stepping out and closing the door behind him, leaving them alone.

Clainsiia approached the table cautiously. "You wanted to see me?" she asked softly.

Ashen nodded, folding his hands on the table. "I heard you've been curious about something. I’m here to listen." His tone was calm but edged with mild suspicion.

Clainsiia smiled faintly and walked over to the empty chair. She set her bag down and took a seat, her small frame dwarfed by the large wooden chair. After a moment of hesitation, she pointed at his wings. "Your wings..." she said quietly, her emerald eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Ashen blinked, caught off guard. "What about them?"

"Do they hurt?" she asked. "If they do, why not use a dragon or a Pegasus to fly instead?"

Ashen’s eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to piece together her intentions. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "Why do you care?" he asked bluntly, his gaze probing her for any hidden motives. "What are you trying to get out of this?"

Clainsiia hesitated for a moment, then spoke with a quiet sincerity that surprised him. "Because... they seem like they hurt you," she explained softly. "I've seen them—your wings. They always burst through your back when you summon them, and then they disappear, leaving scars. You look like you're in pain every time. I just... wanted to know if that's true."

Ashen’s expression hardened momentarily, but it wasn’t out of anger. He wasn’t used to anyone showing concern for him—not anymore. "You’re very observant," he muttered, deflecting slightly. "But where are you going with this? Why does it matter to you?"

Clainsiia didn’t shrink under his scrutiny. Instead, she looked at him with an openness that was almost disarming. "I just want to understand you," she admitted. "I've seen you do little things—kind things—when you think no one is watching. And sometimes... you look sad, like you’re carrying the weight of the world. I don’t know why, but I just want to know who you really are."

There was a heavy silence between them. The only sound was the gentle rustling of the plants in the warm, humid air. Ashen’s gaze lowered to his hand. His fingers curled slightly as he stared at the scales that adorned his forearm, the faint glow of his veins barely visible beneath the rough texture. After a long pause, he sighed and began to speak, his voice quieter than before.

"The wings... yes, they hurt," he admitted. "Every time they emerge, they tear through my back, even when they go back inside me it hurts. The scars they leave only get worse over time. But I don’t use a dragon or Pegasus to fly because... what would be the point?" He looked back at her, his eyes dark but weary. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the words sink in. He sighed deeply before continuing. "Is there anything else you want to ask?"

Clainsiia smiled softly, a faint glimmer of hope sparking within her. Perhaps this conversation was a step toward understanding him. She hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "What’s the biggest thing you’ve ever flown on?"

Ashen blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected question. He stood slowly, his gaze wandering toward the nearby window. The sky outside was a pale grey, clouds drifting lazily across it like ghosts in the winter light. He remained silent for a long time, his mind drifting to a memory he hadn’t dared revisit for years. Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and almost wistful.

“Rhea,” he admitted, his words hanging in the air like an echo.

Clainsiia’s eyes widened in shock. “Rhea? The Archbishop?” Her expression shifted, half-curiosity, half-doubt. "But... that’s who my parents fought. I thought she was human."

Ashen chuckled softly—a sound so rare that it surprised even him. It wasn’t quite joyful, more like a bitter acknowledgment of some cosmic irony. Clainsiia watched him in awe, the sound of his laughter both strange and oddly comforting.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “She wasn’t human. Rhea was a Nabatean.”

Clainsiia tilted her head slightly, her curiosity intensifying. "A... Nabatean?" she repeated slowly. "What’s that?"

“They were a special kind of people,” Ashen explained, his gaze distant. "They could turn into dragons. Rhea was one of the last of her kind."

Clainsiia listened intently, leaning forward in her chair. She had heard vague stories from her parents about Rhea, but none of them mentioned this. It sounded like a tale from another world entirely. “You said you flew on her?” she asked, almost in disbelief.

Ashen nodded slowly. "Yes. It was after... after she found me." He took a deep breath, his mind slipping further into the past. “Remember I was a child and it was Rhea who took me in. She saved me. For a while, she even acted like... like a mother.”

Clainsiia watched as his eyes softened slightly, the weight of grief hidden behind those crimson irises becoming more visible. He continued quietly. "About a year after she found me, she took me on a picnic. It was a peaceful day... warm sunlight, gentle breeze, the kind of day that makes you forget the rest of the world exists. I didn’t know what she really was back then. I thought she was just... kind and gentle."

He paused, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. "But then a wild demonic beast appeared out of nowhere. It charged from the trees, snarling, and I thought I was going to die. Rhea... she told me to close my eyes, and I did. But when I opened them again..." He trailed off for a moment, as if the memory still held a trace of fear even after all these years.

“There was a dragon—a great, white dragon—standing between me and the beast. Her scales gleamed like frost in the sunlight. I was terrified. As a child, I didn’t understand. I thought a monster had replaced the kind woman who had taken care of me."

Clainsiia gasped softly. "That must have been terrifying..."

Ashen nodded, his voice steady but low. “It was. But then she spoke to me... with the same voice I knew. She told me not to be afraid. She was still Rhea. It was her.”

The greenhouse fell silent for a moment, save for the gentle rustling of the plants around them. Clainsiia could picture the scene vividly in her mind—the frightened child, the majestic dragon, and the moment of realization that followed.

“After I calmed down, she asked me if I wanted to fly,” Ashen continued. “I was still scared, but... I said yes. She let me climb onto her back, and we soared above the land. I saw everything—the forests, the mountains, the rivers... It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

A warm smile spread across Clainsiia’s face as she listened. The story had a strange beauty to it—a glimpse of a moment when Ashen had known peace and wonder, even if only briefly. "And... are you grateful for that?" she asked gently.

Ashen didn’t respond right away. He turned away from the window and looked at her. His expression was unreadable, but there was a deep, unspoken emotion in his gaze—something that lingered between sorrow and gratitude.

The air in the greenhouse grew tense, as though even the plants could sense the weight of the moment. Finally, with a slight edge to his voice, he broke the silence.

“Is there anything else you’re curious about?” he asked, his words carrying a faint frustration. It wasn’t harsh enough to be intimidating, but Clainsiia could tell he was trying to mask his vulnerability with sternness. He was failing miserably at it.

She blinked in surprise but stood her ground. “You don’t scare me, you know,” she said softly, watching as his brow furrowed slightly. She shifted her gaze toward the window, hoping to find something to break the tension. That was when she saw him—Arthur, the young boy she had run into in the cafeteria. He was kneeling in the garden, carefully picking a small bouquet of flowers.

Clainsiia’s face lit up with recognition. “That boy,” she murmured, her eyes softening.

Ashen glanced over at the window, his eyes narrowing as he saw the boy, but forgot who he was. “You know him?” he asked, his voice still guarded.

“Sort of,” Clainsiia replied. “I met him in the cafeteria. He was starving, and I gave him some food. He seemed… lost. I was hoping I might see him again, to check on him.” She turned back to Ashen with a hopeful expression.

Ashen folded his arms, his gaze returning to the boy. His crimson eyes darkened with something unreadable. “Why?” he asked flatly. “Why do you care what happens to him?”

“Because I do,” Clainsiia answered firmly. “Is that so hard to understand?”

Ashen’s lips pressed into a thin line. He turned back to the window, watching Arthur for a moment longer before speaking. “You can have your slave, then,” he muttered, his tone cold and dismissive.

Clainsiia’s eyes widened in shock, her expression quickly shifting to anger. “Slave?!” she repeated, her voice rising in indignation. “I don’t want a slave!”

Ashen arched a brow at her outburst. “Then what should he be?” he asked, his voice carrying a faint challenge. “What else would someone like him be to someone like you?”

Clainsiia clenched her fists, trying to find the right words. Her mind raced as she remembered stories her mother had told her about Hubert, who had served Edelgard faithfully. “A reter… retan… re uhhh...” she stumbled, struggling to pronounce the word she wanted.

Ashen tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Retainer?” he suggested after a moment.

“Yes! That’s it!” Clainsiia exclaimed, her face brightening. “A retainer. I want him to be my retainer.”

Ashen snorted softly, shaking his head. “He’s still just a child. You think he’s ready for something like that?”

“This is my request,” Clainsiia stated, her voice firm. She crossed her arms and met his gaze head-on. “I want to help him.”

Ashen rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh of mild exasperation. “Fine. You can have your retainer. I’ll have one of the beast guards escort you and the boy back to your quarters.” He waved a hand dismissively, already shifting his focus back to his own concerns. “I have plans to prepare. House Galatea won’t fall on its own.”

As he turned to leave, he addressed her without looking back. “Run along now, child.”

Clainsiia frowned, taking a step forward. “My name is Clainsiia,” she said firmly.

Ashen stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to face her. For a moment, he looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply turned away and walked toward the door. He muttered something to a guard stationed outside, instructing him to take Clainsiia and the boy to her room.

Clainsiia sighed softly, watching him leave before turning her attention back to the window. Arthur was still there, carefully arranging the flowers he had picked. A gentle smile crossed her face as she made her way outside to meet him, guided by the guard.

Later, Clainsiia returned to her room, where her younger brother Jeralt was waiting for her. He sat on the floor, playing with a small wooden toy soldier. As soon as she entered, his face lit up with joy.

“I hope you behaved while I was gone,” Clainsiia teased gently, tapping his nose with her finger. Jeralt giggled and swatted her hand away playfully.

Clainsiia laughed softly and reached into her bag, pulling out a worn leather-bound book. It was Kazamir’s journal—an ancient tome filled with cryptic entries about the past. She had been poring over it for awhile now, trying to understand Ashen more. She flipped to a bookmarked page and ran her fingers over the faded text. “It really is like what he said…” she murmured thoughtfully. Her gaze drifted to Jeralt, who was watching her with innocent curiosity. She sighed softly, her mind weighed down by the questions swirling within her.

“But what turned you into what you are?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Is there any good left in you?”

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the room as Clainsiia pondered the answers she so desperately sought. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, Ashen continued his preparations, unaware that the seeds of change were already being sown.

Chapter Text

After two days, Claude and his troops arrived at House Fraldarius. As they crossed through the gates, their expressions grew grim. The kingdom was already scarred by conflict, its once-proud walls cracked and scorched. Citizens moved through the streets with wearied steps, many of them clearing rubble and patching up damaged homes. The scent of ash and blood clung faintly to the air, a testament to the recent battle.

“What happened here?” Leonie murmured, her voice tense. She scanned the destruction before her, unable to comprehend the extent of the damage. The repairs were overwhelming—entire sections of the city looked as if they had been torn apart by something monstrous.

As the group continued forward, the sound of metal scraping across stone cut through the uneasy silence. Everyone tensed, turning toward a narrow alley between two crumbling houses. The shadows stretched long and deep in the fading daylight. From the darkness, the unmistakable sound of a sword being dragged echoed ominously. A low, frosty voice broke the stillness.

“What took you so long?”

The figure emerged slowly from the shadows, stepping into the dim light. The entire group froze in shock. It was Felix. His once-sharp features were now marred by deep scars running across his face. His armor was battered, torn in several places, and stained with dried blood. His sword hung loosely in his hand, its blade dulled from overuse. His steps faltered slightly, but his eyes burned with the same fierce intensity as ever.

“Felix…” Lysithea whispered, her voice filled with disbelief. She took a hesitant step forward. “What happened to you?”

Felix snorted, though the sound was bitter and laced with exhaustion. “Don’t act so surprised,” he muttered, his voice raspier than usual. He sheathed his sword with a grunt of effort and leaned against a nearby wall. “I sent a messenger days ago, asking for help. And what did Count Galatea do? Nothing.” His voice hardened with fury, his frustration boiling over. “All because that damned coward can’t move past the death of one of his sons.”

Claude crossed his arms, his expression serious as he approached Felix. “How long were you under attack?” he asked quietly.

Felix wiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply. “Three days,” he answered. “A few days before I sent the messenger, we were hit by a damned army of beasts. I don’t know what kind of soldiers they were, but they tore through our defenses like they were nothing.”

The group exchanged troubled glances. They had all heard rumors of a mysterious force—beastlike soldiers, monstrous in strength and brutality—but none of them expected to see the aftermath firsthand. Caspar clenched his fists, stepping forward with determination. “Well, you’ve got us now,” he said firmly. “We’re here to back you up.”

Felix let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I was ready to be done with all this,” he muttered. “Nobility, leading this damn place... I was going to walk away, become a mercenary.

But then word spread about some god trying to conquer Fódlan. And right on cue, those monsters showed up. They didn’t even finish us off,” he added darkly. “They just… left. Like they were toying with us.”

Petra’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you mean by that?” she asked. “Why would they not finish their attack?”

Felix didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took a few more steps forward, his body visibly wavering from exhaustion. His legs gave out before he could steady himself, and he stumbled.

“Felix!” Leonie darted forward, catching him before he could hit the ground. She held him up, her voice gentle but firm. “Let’s get you inside the castle first. Lysithea can heal you there.”

Felix grimaced, trying to push her away, but his body betrayed him. “I’m fine,” he grumbled, though it was clear to everyone that he was anything but.

Lysithea stepped forward, placing her hands on her hips with an air of exasperation. “Don’t be stubborn, Felix,” she said sharply. “I’ve tolerated you being obstinate about sweets before, but this? This isn’t something I’m going to let you be difficult about.”

Felix glared at her for a moment, then sighed in defeat. He hated feeling weak, hated showing vulnerability in front of others. But deep down, he knew she was right. He nodded reluctantly. “Fine… Please help me to the castle.”

With Leonie supporting him, the group made their way toward the main keep. Soldiers and townsfolk alike paused to watch their lord being carried inside, concern and fear etched into their faces. Once inside the castle, they brought Felix to one of the larger chambers, where Lysithea set to work healing him. Her hands glowed with magical energy as she focused on mending his wounds. The process was slow, as Felix’s injuries were extensive, but she remained patient.

Felix winced as the magic coursed through him, knitting together torn muscles and closing deep gashes. He stared at the ceiling, his expression distant. “They didn’t finish us off…” he repeated quietly. “Instead, they just fell back. It’s like they were sending a message. Showing us how strong they were.”

Claude, standing nearby, frowned thoughtfully. “It’s intimidation,” he said. “They want you to be afraid—make you doubt the ability to fight back.”

Petra crossed her arms, her gaze sharp. “How many troops did you lose in the battle, Felix?” she asked quietly.

Felix’s face darkened, and he lowered his head for a moment. “A lot,” he admitted gravely. “Most of our knights are gone. We had to hire mercenaries—anyone willing to fight for us. But… I also found someone.”

His eyes drifted to the left, prompting the others to follow his gaze. From the shadows of the chamber, heavy footsteps echoed. Slowly, a tall figure emerged, his presence chilling and unmistakable. Everyone froze as the man stepped into the light, clad in the infamous, bone-like armor that had haunted them during past battles. His crimson eyes glinted from beneath the menacing helm.

“Jeritza…” Caspar breathed in shock, his voice almost a whisper. “You… You disappeared after we wiped out those who slithered in the dark.”

Jeritza removed his helmet, revealing a gaunt, emotionless face. His gaze was distant, as if caught between two worlds. “I am here to help,” he said slowly. His voice was low and haunting. “But there is… another reason.”

Petra stepped forward, narrowing her eyes. “And what is that reason?” she asked cautiously.

Jeritza’s expression twisted slightly, a faint, dangerous smile pulling at his lips. “To face death itself,” he said coldly. “I care for nothing else. Kill… or be killed.”

His words sent a shiver through the room. The deep, guttural tone he spoke with carried an unsettling edge. It was as if another presence lurked within him—something far darker and more unrelenting. Lysithea shifted uncomfortably, her violet eyes wide with apprehension.

“At least he’s on our side,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Felix gave a curt nod, though his expression remained strained. “Jeritza’s… methods are extreme, but he’s proven capable. We need every advantage.”

The tension in the air thickened when a general knight burst into the chamber, his armor clanking loudly. He knelt before Felix, panting heavily from exertion. “Lord Felix! The beast soldiers—they’ve returned!”

Felix immediately tried to rise, only to stumble back into his throne, his body betraying him. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Jeritza moved forward, his voice cold and commanding. “You’re in no condition to fight,” he said without a hint of sympathy.

Felix clenched his fists, his pride warring with the truth. He looked at Jeritza, feeling a rare pang of helplessness. “Very well… Good luck,” he muttered bitterly.

Without another word, the others sprang into action, rushing outside to the castle gates. The sight that greeted them was terrifying. The beast soldiers charged through the horizon—hulking, monstrous figures with claws and fangs glistening in the dim light. Their guttural roars echoed across the kingdom.

Caspar punched his fists together and grinned fiercely. “Bring them on!” he shouted.

Jeritza mounted his black warhorse, his helmet once again concealing his face. The scythe in his hand gleamed ominously as he rode ahead of everyone else, his voice cutting through the din like a blade. “Show me if you have the strength to kill me!” he bellowed.

The ground shook as his horse thundered forward. Dragging his scythe behind him, Jeritza cleaved through the first wave of beasts with ruthless efficiency. Heads and limbs fell to the dirt as he carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks. His movements were fluid and deadly, an unsettling dance of death.

“Don’t let him take all the glory!” Leonie shouted. “What are we waiting for?”

Claude drew Failnaught from his back, nocking an arrow with ease. “Do not let a single one of them breach the kingdom!” he ordered. “Move!”

With a unified cry, Claude’s forces charged. The gates were raised behind them as archers took positions along the walls, raining arrows down on the incoming beasts. Claude loosed a golden shot from Failnaught, striking a beast soldier clean through the skull. It crumpled instantly, its grotesque body collapsing in a heap.

Nader, keeping close to Claude, smirked and called out, “Hey, kiddo! You think we’ve got a shot at this?”

Claude shot down another beast and glanced at Nader with a grin. “With Jeritza on our side? I’d say we have more than a chance.”

Nader chuckled, hefting his massive axe. “Alright then. Let’s make these bastards regret showing up.”

Lysithea and Leonie worked in tandem, Leonie protecting the mage while Lysithea unleashed bursts of Faith magic. Each explosion of light seared through the beasts, weakening their regenerative capabilities. The two synchronized perfectly, with Leonie’s swift strikes keeping any immediate danger from Lysithea at bay. Meanwhile, Caspar and Petra fought as a seamless duo. Caspar’s heavy axe cleaved through enemies, his strength devastating, while Petra moved with deadly grace, her twin daggers flashing like lightning.

“Petra, look out!” Caspar shouted as a hulking beast lunged at her with a spear. He swung his axe in a wide arc, shattering the weapon and severing the beast’s arm. His breath was ragged, sweat trickling down his face. “Stay close to me!”

Petra nodded, her green eyes fierce. “Very well, my husband,” she said firmly. As if in perfect response, she spun on her heel and hurled a knife straight into the skull of another beast about to impale Caspar from behind. The creature collapsed with a heavy thud. “But I must also be watching over you.”

Caspar grinned between panting breaths. "Fair point." They continued fighting, their movements perfectly complementary as they shielded each other from incoming attacks.

Between parries and slashes, Caspar called out to her, “We never really discussed names for the baby, you know…”

Petra ducked under a beast’s claw, driving her dagger into its throat. She shot him a bewildered look. “Now is not the best time, Caspar!” she exclaimed, though a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“Right… after this then.” He laughed and swung his axe again, cleaving through a beast with terrifying force.

Petra chuckled softly, shaking her head as they continued to protect each other, side by side.

Nearby, Lysithea and Leonie fought in tandem, seamlessly coordinating their attacks. Lysithea unleashed bolts of Thoron, her powerful magic scorching beasts in their path, while Leonie stayed close, cutting down any creature that dared to get too close to the mage. Yet Lysithea’s mind wandered briefly, troubled by the sight of Jeritza earlier.

“He hasn’t changed…” Leonie muttered under her breath as her eyes followed Jeritza’s movements in the distance. His scythe carved through the enemy ranks like a demon on a rampage. She clenched her teeth. “Still the savage monster he always claimed to be.”

Lysithea narrowed her eyes, more focused now, scanning the battlefield carefully. She was searching for something—someone. “Leonie,” she said suddenly, urgency lacing her voice. “There’s always a commander. If these beasts are organized, someone is leading them. We need to find their captain.”

Before Leonie could respond, a shout of agony pierced the air. They turned just in time to see an Almyran knight collapse, a jagged claw embedded deep in his torso. Lysithea rushed forward, fear flashing in her violet eyes. “Are you alright? Stay with me!” she pleaded as she crouched beside him.

The knight coughed, blood staining his lips. “I’ll live,” he gasped, but his eyes widened in horror. “Look out!”

He shoved Lysithea aside just as a beast lunged for her, fangs bared. The knight cried out as the monster sank its teeth into his neck. Lysithea screamed, her hand instinctively rising as a surge of lightning crackled around her fingertips. “Thoron!” she roared, the spell tearing through the beast. It fell lifeless to the ground, but it was too late for the knight. His lifeless body slumped over, his eyes frozen in a final moment of agony.

Lysithea stared at him, trembling. Leonie grabbed her arm and pulled her behind cover just as an arrow whizzed past, embedding itself in the rubble. “Lysithea, focus!” Leonie ordered. “We can mourn later—we’ve got a battle to win.”

Gritting her teeth, Lysithea nodded, forcing herself to push the trauma aside. Leonie peeked around the cover and saw a soldier fall, an arrow piercing straight through his visor. She followed the trajectory and spotted the archer—Shamir.

Leonie froze in shock. “Shamir…?”

Claude noticed Leonie standing motionless and called out to her. “Leonie, focus! Are you going to help her or not?”

Shamir’s cold eyes locked onto Leonie. Without hesitation, she nocked another arrow and aimed directly at her former protégé. Leonie barely had time to raise her shield as the arrow struck with enough force to make her arm tremble. Shamir didn’t wait—she fired again, and Leonie deflected the second shot with practiced speed.

“How are you keeping up?” Shamir asked, her voice calm and detached. “Have you improved that much?”

“You taught me this,” Leonie replied, lowering her shield slowly. “You told me: speed, accuracy, control. And not all training requires a weapon—you made me integrate it into everything I do.”

For a moment, Shamir hesitated, her expression flickering. She rubbed her temple as if something was bothering her—a distant memory trying to resurface. Leonie took a deep breath and continued, her voice softening. “You’re still in there, I know it.”

Shamir didn’t answer. Instead, she nocked another arrow and fired, but Leonie had anticipated the move. She drew her own bow, loosing an arrow that intercepted Shamir’s mid-flight. The two arrows clattered to the ground in front of them.

“Good,” Shamir muttered, stepping forward. She tossed her bow aside and pulled a dagger from her belt. “Let’s see how much you’ve learned.”

Leonie barely dodged as Shamir lunged at her, the dagger flashing dangerously close to her face. They grappled fiercely, their movements sharp and fluid. Leonie managed to knock the dagger from Shamir’s hand, but Shamir retaliated by tackling her to the ground. Pinning Leonie, she pressed her forearm against her throat.

“Who taught you to fight like this?” Shamir demanded.

“You did!” Leonie gasped, struggling beneath her. “You helped me become a better mercenary! A better leader!”

Shamir froze for a moment, her eyes narrowing as if trying to remember. Leonie seized the opportunity and slammed her fist into Shamir’s side, forcing her off. They both scrambled to their feet, weapons forgotten as they circled each other warily.

Denar rushed toward them, his sword drawn. He delivered a powerful punch to Shamir’s jaw, knocking her back several steps. “So you’re the one with the missing memories,” he growled. “Claude warned me about you.”

Shamir wiped the blood from her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I follow Ashen's orders now,” she said coldly, her voice devoid of emotion.

Denar gritted his teeth and charged again, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Shamir reacted swiftly, raising her dagger to block. Sparks flew as metal met metal, the clash reverberating in the air. Their movements were fluid yet brutal—Denar pressing with relentless strength, while Shamir countered with swift precision.

"You don’t see it, do you?" Denar growled between strikes. "You're fighting the wrong people!"

Shamir didn’t respond immediately, instead using her momentum to duck under Denar’s next swing. She lashed out with a kick, catching him behind the knee. He stumbled, cursing under his breath. Before Denar could recover, Shamir reached into her belt and pulled out a horn. She blew it sharply, and the sound echoed across the battlefield. Almost instantly, the monstrous soldiers began retreating, their movements eerily synchronized.

“Running already?” Denar taunted, wiping sweat from his brow.

Shamir ignored him, turning and sprinting toward the edge of the battlefield. However, an arrow shot from behind landed in the dirt directly in front of her path. Shamir skidded to a stop, eyes widening. She turned sharply to see Claude standing atop the rubble of a nearby tower.

“Leaving without saying goodbye to your friends?” Claude called out, a teasing grin on his face despite the tension. He nocked another arrow. “We ain’t giving up on you, Shamir.”

Shamir’s face darkened. “There’s nothing to hold onto,” she replied coldly. “I am your enemy now.”

Claude smirked, his gaze unyielding. “Is that so? Well, maybe I’m just distracting you.”

“Distracting—?” Shamir’s eyes narrowed in confusion, but before she could react further, a figure slammed into her from the side. Leonie tackled her to the ground with all her strength, pinning her down.

“Shamir!” Leonie shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. “Remember! The warning note that listed all the noble’s foul deeds? You signed it with the image of a spider! You told me you used to be afraid of—”

Shamir snarled and headbutted Leonie, breaking free and shoving her off. Staggering to her feet, she spotted a sword lying nearby and made a desperate dash for it. But another arrow from Claude disrupted her path, sending the blade skittering across the ground.

“Not so fast,” Claude said calmly.

Before Shamir could recover, Leonie was behind her again. In a swift move, she looped her bowstring around Shamir’s neck, pulling it tight. Shamir clawed at the string, struggling to breathe. “I won’t give up on you!” Leonie cried out, tears welling in her eyes.

Shamir’s vision blurred. Through gritted teeth, she gasped, “Not… bad.” She reached for her dagger and stabbed Leonie in the side, blood blooming from the wound. But Leonie didn’t loosen her grip.

“Let… me go!” Shamir rasped, her voice desperate.

Leonie's breath came in ragged gasps, her strength waning. Blood poured from her side, but she knew this was her last chance. “Shamir!” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Remember what you told me… about how you felt for Byleth…”

The name froze Shamir in place. The dagger trembled in her hand.

“You… You kept talking about your partner from the past,” Leonie continued, her voice barely a whisper now. “But it wasn’t true… You were afraid to admit your feelings for Byleth. Afraid it would ruin your friendship… Afraid to move forward.”

Shamir’s crimson-tinged eyes flickered, shifting between red and purple as if two forces were battling within her. Her hand shook violently, the dagger slipping from her grip. “N-no…” she stammered.

Nearby, Petra, Caspar, and Lysithea rushed to Claude’s side, watching the struggle in shock. Petra’s voice was filled with urgency. “Claude, she is suffering! I cannot just stand here—”

“Leonie’s got this,” Claude said firmly, holding Petra back. “Trust her.”

Leonie tightened the bowstring one final time. “You left for a reason, Shamir,” she said hoarsely. “You took this job because you believed in something! I don’t want to lose my partner. Please… come back to us.”

Shamir’s eyes flickered rapidly, shifting between red and purple. Her body trembled as if caught in a silent battle, her breathing shallow and ragged. The purple hue began to hold, if only for a moment, and her lips quivered as she tried to speak.

“L-L… Le…onie…” she whispered, her voice broken and weak.

The sound of her own name struck Leonie like a bolt of lightning. Her eyes widened in shock, and she immediately released the bowstring. Shamir collapsed to her knees, gasping desperately for air as her senses slowly returned. Her hands clawed at her throat, as if trying to rid herself of the darkness suffocating her mind.

“L-Leonie… what… where am I?” Shamir rasped, her voice hoarse but filled with genuine confusion.

The others hurried over, each of them filled with a mixture of relief and concern. Lysithea knelt beside Shamir, gently touching her shoulder. “Shamir,” she asked softly, “what’s the last thing you remember?”

Shamir’s eyes darted around the group, her gaze distant as she struggled to piece together fractured memories. Slowly, her expression darkened. “I remember… torture. They… they broke me,” she said, her voice trembling. “Ashen… I—” She froze, her eyes widening as memories of her actions under Ashen’s command flooded back. She clutched her head, shaking it violently. “No… no, no… what did I do…?”

Leonie quickly stepped in, kneeling beside her. She extended her hand, her voice steady despite the pain from her wound. “Get up, partner,” she said gently, her eyes full of understanding.

Shamir stared at Leonie’s hand as if it were a lifeline. Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and clasped it. Leonie pulled her to her feet, steadying her as Shamir swayed unsteadily.

“You should have killed me,” Shamir muttered, her voice hollow. “I’ve killed so many… how many good people did I slaughter under his orders?”

Caspar stepped forward, shaking his head firmly. “Now why would we kill you? We get it—Ashen used you. But we weren’t gonna give up on you either,” he said with conviction. “You're one of us, Shamir. Always have been.”

Shamir’s gaze softened slightly, but her guilt remained evident. “How many people… how many have I hurt…?”

Claude walked up, his expression serious but not unkind. “Right now isn’t the time to dwell on the past,” he said calmly. “If you want redemption, then stand with us and fight Ashen. Help us take him down.”

Shamir turned, her eyes narrowing in thought as she noticed another figure standing silently in the shadows. Her breath caught for a moment. “Jeritza…” she whispered. “So that’s where you’ve been.”

Jeritza stepped into the light, his helmet tucked under one arm. His cold gaze met Shamir’s. “I’m here now,” he said quietly, his tone devoid of emotion but carrying a strange weight.

Lysithea folded her arms, stepping closer. “What are you going to do now, Shamir? Are you going to stand with us?” she asked, her eyes searching Shamir’s for clarity.

Petra also stepped forward, her voice gentle but determined. “You told me once you would always fight beside your friends,” she reminded Shamir. “Are you forgetting that promise?”

Leonie placed a hand on Shamir’s shoulder, her gaze steady and full of compassion. “Byleth needs you. We all need you by our side,” she said softly. “Come back to us—for real this time.”

Shamir looked around at all of them, her eyes full of conflict. She felt like she had betrayed every one of them. Ashen had stolen her mind, her memories, her very will, and used her to commit atrocities. Yet despite everything, they had not abandoned her. Slowly, she clenched her fist, a spark of resolve lighting in her eyes. “I couldn’t control myself… but that doesn’t change what I’ve done,” she muttered. “Still… you’re all right. There’s no time to waste.”

She raised her head and asked quietly, “What’s the plan?”

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In the far distance, hidden within the ruins and shrouded in shadow, two beast soldiers watched the scene unfold. Their twisted forms lurked in the cover of a crumbling tower. One resembled a massive, grotesque crawler, its body insect-like but the size of a human. Its multiple eyes shimmered with faint yellow light, observing the humans below with eerie focus. The other figure was a monstrous wolf, upright like a man, its fur dark as night, sharp fangs protruding from its maw.

The crawler creature hissed softly, its mandibles clicking with unease. “With the captain gone… what now?” it muttered, glancing nervously at the scene of Shamir's defiance and the human soldiers rallying together. Its claws scraped against the stones as it shifted anxiously. “Should we retreat?”

The wolf-like beast growled lowly, crossing his massive arms. His crimson eyes glinted with malice as he answered in a deep, guttural voice. “No. We follow the plan. If we had succeeded… none of this would matter. But we didn’t.”

The crawler soldier tilted its head in confusion. “The plan… it failed. We must return to Lord Ashen. He will want to know.” There was a tremor in its voice, as though speaking Ashen’s name alone invoked a primal fear.

The wolf’s ears twitched, and he chuckled darkly. “Ashen’s orders were clear,” he said, his voice laced with disdain. “But I say… we show some initiative. Let Lord Ashen play with these fools if he wants. He’s getting soft… thanks to that little girl.” The wolf sneered, turning his gaze back toward the battlefield, where the humans stood united around Shamir. He snarled with contempt. “He doesn’t have the heart to crush them anymore. Not like he should. But perhaps… we should remind him who holds true power.”

The crawler’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are you mad? You speak of disobedience! Lord Ashen will show no mercy if he finds out. He’s… a god. You’ve seen what he can do!”

The wolf beast let out a barking laugh, sharp and bitter. “God? A true god does not hesitate. He hesitates.” His voice dripped with scorn. He turned abruptly, gazing at the horizon. “No. We’ll move to the heart of Fódlan. Let Ashen waste time with these insects. We’ll carve a path straight to the monastery and bring destruction to their core.”

The crawler hesitated, its many legs twitching nervously. “The heart of Fódlan… You’d betray his words just like that?”

“Betray?” the wolf snarled. “No. I’ll do what he’s too weak to do. I’ll show him how a god rules—with fear and annihilation.”

From behind them, a rumble echoed through the ground. The beasts turned to see enormous, worm-like creatures emerging from burrowed tunnels, their grotesque forms glistening with mucus. They hissed and writhed, digging deeper paths beneath the earth. The wolf soldier gestured toward them, his grin widening cruelly.

“The worms will create our passage. We move now,” the wolf ordered. He glanced back at his companion with a chilling glare. “Unless you’d prefer to cower and run to Ashen like a lapdog?”

The crawler soldier hesitated for a moment longer, then clicked its mandibles in reluctant agreement. “The heart of Fódlan… Garreg Mach,” it echoed quietly, a tremor of both awe and fear in its voice.

The two beast soldiers began to disappear into the network of tunnels, their cruel laughter echoing eerily in the distance. 

Chapter Text

Ashen stood at the edge of the frozen training grounds, his orange eyes scanning the brutal drills unfolding before him. His army—a force of demonic beasts, battle-hardened werewolf-like soldiers, and towering creatures twisted by dark magic—was preparing for the upcoming battle. Their roars and growls filled the air, a cacophony of war.

A wild demonic beast, twice the size of a normal man, let out a thunderous roar before charging at its opponent. It met another beast mid-strike, the clash of claws against hardened flesh echoing through the courtyard. Soldiers barked commands in the ancient tongue, directing the creatures in rigorous formation. Among them were the wolf-soldiers, their muscular bodies covered in thick fur, their piercing eyes filled with ruthless discipline as they sparred with each other.

Ashen remained still, his gaze unreadable, his breath visible in the icy air. These creatures were his army, his weapons. Every moment they trained, they grew stronger, more relentless. Yet, as he watched them tear into each other, he felt nothing. No pride. No excitement. Just the dull ache of inevitability.

This was his path. The path of blood and conquest.

Yet, despite his cold exterior, something gnawed at the edges of his mind. The journal. The name Kazamir. The way Clainsiia had looked at him—like she saw something more than the monster he had become. He exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. Nothing matters but the war ahead.

He turned away, heading back into the castle. There was no room for hesitation. Not anymore.
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Meanwhile, Clainsiia was in her room, not just with her baby brother, Jeralt, but also with Arthur, who sat nervously across from her. He fidgeted with the fabric of his worn-out cloak, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

“Princess… are you sure I’m fit for this?” Arthur asked hesitantly, his voice soft but uncertain. He glanced at her with a mix of hope and doubt, unsure if he could truly fulfill the role of a retainer.

Clainsiia smiled warmly as she cradled her baby brother, Jeralt, in her arms. The infant cooed softly, his tiny fingers curling against her sleeve. “Of course, I am,” she assured him gently. “But why do you think you aren’t?”

Arthur hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as he averted his gaze. “Well… this job mostly requires an adult,” he admitted. “I’m just a kid—the same age as you.”

Clainsiia chuckled softly. “That doesn’t matter. I wanted to see you again after I helped you get food, and I’ve been wondering how you’ve been doing.”

Arthur felt warmth rise to his cheeks. A princess wondering how he was doing? He smiled sheepishly and rubbed his head. “I’m doing good,” he said with a small laugh, his embarrassment evident.

He then glanced at the baby in Clainsiia’s arms and tilted his head. “What’s his name?” he asked curiously.

Clainsiia’s gaze softened as she looked down at the infant nestled in her arms. “His name is Jeralt,” she murmured, brushing her fingers gently over his soft tuft of silver hair. “He’s only a few months old.”

A few months…

The realization struck her like a blade to the chest. It had been so long since she had last seen her parents—since she had been torn away from Edelgard and Byleth, stolen away by Ashen. The weight of that thought pressed down on her shoulders, and before she could stop herself, her expression crumpled, sorrow creeping into her emerald eyes.

Arthur noticed the shift immediately. “Princess?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern. “Are you okay?”

Clainsiia blinked rapidly, trying to push the sadness away, but it was no use. She swallowed hard and shook her head slightly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just… realized how long it’s been since I saw them.” Her fingers curled against Jeralt’s tiny hand as she spoke, as if holding onto the last fragments of warmth and love from the family she so desperately missed.

Arthur bit his lip. He didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—he didn’t have fancy words or grand gestures to offer. But he hated seeing her like this. He had to do something. "Come on, Arthur, think! he scolded himself. How do you cheer up a princess who’s missing her parents?"

A thought flickered through his mind. "I could tell her the story of a group of teenagers that go to another world with a talking cat to change the hearts of bad people… No, that’ll take too long to explain. Especially with the Joker and Queen… Stupid, Arthur, come on, think! Think!"

His eyes darted around the room in desperation, searching for something—anything—that could help. That’s when he saw it. In the corner of the room, resting on an intricately carved wooden stand, was a harp.

Arthur took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “H-Hey,” he said, his voice slightly hesitant. “Why don’t I play you a song?”

Clainsiia lifted her head, surprise flickering in her tear-filled eyes. “You… play?”

Arthur hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yeah, I can play the harp. But… I need notes. I don’t know anything by heart.” His voice was laced with uncertainty, yet there was an underlying determination in his words.

Clainsiia furrowed her brow, thinking hard. Where could she find sheet music? Her eyes drifted across the room, searching for something—anything—that could help. And then, they landed on the journal.

She hurriedly reached for it, flipping through its worn pages with desperate fingers. Page after page of memories, notes, and thoughts blurred past her eyes until—there.

A melody.

Carefully, she turned the book toward Arthur, pointing at the page. “Could this work?” she asked, her voice tinged with hope.

Arthur leaned in, his blue eyes scanning the notes. He furrowed his brows. “I’ve never seen this song before… but I can give it a try.”

Clainsiia nodded, shifting Jeralt in her arms as she sat back, watching Arthur move toward the harp. His fingers hovered over the strings for a moment before he plucked the first note. Then another. Slowly, the melody began to take shape, soft and sorrowful, filling the room with its haunting beauty.

Meanwhile, Ashen walked through the castle halls, his mind distant as he approached the chamber where the children were kept. As he neared, he glanced at the guards stationed outside the door.

“Are they causing trouble?” he asked, his tone cold and unreadable.

The guards quickly shook their heads. “No, my lord. All is quiet.”

Ashen exhaled sharply, gripping the doorknob. But just as he was about to enter, a sound reached his ears. Music. His fingers froze on the door handle as his breath hitched. That melody—he knew it.

A voice, soft yet distant, whispered in his mind. "In times flow… See the glow… Of flames ever burning bright…”

Ashen’s eyes widened as his head snapped toward the door. Rhea’s voice. It echoed in his skull, layered over the notes Arthur played. His claws twitched involuntarily as a sharp pain stabbed through his temples. Memories. They were forcing their way back—memories he had buried, memories of a past life.

The melody drifted into silence, the last note lingering like a ghost in the air. Arthur let out a slow breath, his hands still hovering over the harp strings. He glanced up at Clainsiia, nervousness flickering in his blue eyes. “So… how was it?” he asked hesitantly.

Clainsiia blinked, as if waking from a trance. She had been completely captivated. “That was… incredible,” she admitted, her voice tinged with awe. “I didn’t expect you to play so well.”

Arthur chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I just picked it up naturally… but that song, I’ve never heard anything like it before. Where did it come from?”

Before Clainsiia could answer, the door to the chamber was kicked open with a thunderous crack.

The force sent a tremor through the floor, making Arthur flinch violently. Jeralt, startled, let out a frightened wail, his tiny hands clinging tightly to his sister. Clainsiia, however, remained still. She did not even flinch as Ashen strode inside, his massive form casting a dark shadow over them.

His eyes—those burning, inhuman orange eyes—locked onto Arthur. His breath was ragged, his massive scaly arm twitching as he clenched his clawed fingers into a fist. Without warning, he struck the stone wall beside Arthur, the sheer impact causing cracks to spiderweb across the surface. His claws dragged downward, leaving deep, jagged gashes in the cold stone.

Arthur was frozen. Terror rooted him in place.

“Where did you learn that song?” Ashen’s voice was a deep snarl, a mix of fury and something else—something unsteady.

Arthur’s throat went dry. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.

Ashen took a step closer, his towering presence suffocating. “Answer me,” he demanded, his voice almost shaking.

Arthur tried to force words out, but fear had stolen his voice.

Clainsiia’s eyes hardened. She refused to let this continue. “It’s not his fault,” she said firmly, stepping in front of Arthur protectively.

Ashen turned his blazing gaze on her. “Then tell me. Where did he learn it?”

Clainsiia held his gaze, unflinching, as she reached for the journal resting beside her. She lifted it carefully, its worn cover cool beneath her fingers. “Here,” she said, her voice steady but firm. She turned the book toward him, her emerald eyes searching his face.

Ashen stared at the journal, his orange eyes flickering with something unreadable. Slowly, he reached out, his massive clawed hand engulfing the book with ease. His fingers brushed over the familiar texture of the aged pages, the weight of history pressing against his palm. He inhaled sharply. “How far have you read?” he asked, his voice almost careful.

Clainsiia’s grip on Jeralt tightened as she spoke. “All of it.”

Something in Ashen’s expression hardened. “And what is there to understand?” His voice grew colder, edged with irritation. “It’s just the story of a boy. A boy whose life—” He clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the journal. “—would later be ruined.”

Clainsiia’s heart pounded. Her hands trembled as she suddenly pointed at him, her voice rising in anger, in pain. “Yes! Because you are that boy!”

The words struck like a hammer to his chest. Ashen froze, his breath hitching in his throat.

The room fell silent, save for the distant crackle of torches in the castle corridors. Arthur swallowed hard, his blue eyes darting between Clainsiia and Ashen, unsure if the monster before them would lash out or retreat into the abyss of his own pain.

But Ashen didn’t say a word. He simply stood there, unmoving. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted toward the window. The ice-covered landscape outside stretched into the dark horizon, untouched by warmth or mercy. His shoulders tensed as something unfamiliar clawed its way through his chest—a feeling he had buried long ago.

“Your name is Kazamir… isn’t it?”

The name hung in the air like a ghost, wrapping around him, sinking into his bones. He exhaled through his nose, his claws twitching slightly. But still, he said nothing.

Clainsiia, unwilling to let the silence smother the moment, looked down at the journal, flipping through its pages until she reached the sheet music once again. “Can you sing the song?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost pleading.

Ashen turned to her sharply, annoyance flashing in his fiery gaze. “Sing?” He scoffed, his lip curling. “Are you as foolish as you are naive?” He gestured at his throat, his claws glinting in the dim light. “This cursed form has stolen my voice. I can’t sing.”

“You don’t know that,” she countered. “Maybe… maybe you can heal your voice.”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “That’s not how healing works, child.”

But despite his skepticism, his left hand began to glow with a faint, eerie light. His magic pulsed softly as he pressed his palm against his throat, his expression one of pure skepticism. “See? It doesn’t—” His voice cut off.

A new sound emerged from his lips, one so unfamiliar that he barely recognized it. His voice—his true voice—was no longer the monstrous growl he had grown used to. It was human. Deep, yet smooth. Not the voice of a monster, but of a man.

Clainsiia’s eyes widened, and her smile grew. “It worked.”

Ashen was silent, his fingers ghosting over his throat. He hadn’t heard this voice in… over thirty years. It was almost overwhelming. He swallowed hard, his mind racing.

Clainsiia flipped the journal open to the music notes and turned it toward him. “Can you sing now?”

Ashen looked at the book, then at Arthur, his mind still trying to process what had just happened. He hesitated, but something deep inside him—something buried—urged him forward.

He hadn’t heard his real voice in over thirty years. And the song… he hadn’t sung it since the days before the war, before the curse, before everything had been stripped away from him. His throat tightened, not from pain, but from the weight of time.

He took a breath and turned to Arthur. “Play it,” he said, his voice quiet, yet firm.

Arthur blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer normalcy of Ashen’s voice. It was deep, steady, and entirely human. Not the guttural snarl they were used to. For a moment, Arthur felt like he was staring at someone else entirely.

Clainsiia, however, nodded encouragingly. Arthur swallowed his nerves and placed his fingers on the harp strings once more. The soft, sorrowful notes filled the chamber, weaving through the cold stone walls like a whisper from the past.

Ashen closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and began to sing. “In times flow. See the glow. Of flames ever burning bright. On the swift. Rivers drift. Broken memories alight.”

His voice was rich yet heavy with something indescribable. A deep melancholy coated every syllable, every note. He sang not as a warlord, not as a monster, but as a man—one who had long forgotten what it meant to be one.

As he continued, something inside him cracked, a fissure in the wall he had spent decades building. “This pure land. In fate’s hands. Forever sacred will be. Promise me, dear children. To forever protect this land. I will perish in time. I shall be no more.”

The words wavered slightly as he exhaled, as if he had bled them out rather than sung them. A part of him wanted to stop, to shut out the feelings clawing their way back into his soul. But he pressed on. “In times flow. See the glow. Of embers burning out. On the swift. Rivers drift. Broken memories fade in time. This pure land. In fate’s hands. Will someday be divided.”

The final note hung in the air, lingering like a ghost refusing to leave. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was shock—on all of their faces. Even Jeralt, despite being an infant, seemed mesmerized.

Ashen scoffed lightly, attempting to mask the strange sensation building in his chest. “You surprised to hear a god sing?” he muttered, his voice steady but laced with something unspoken.

But Clainsiia shook her head. “That’s not what we’re shocked about.”

She slowly lifted her hand and pointed toward the far side of the room. At first, Ashen frowned, confused by her gesture. His gaze followed the direction of her finger until it landed on a tall, gilded mirror resting against the wall. He blinked, taking a step toward it with instinctive wariness.

“There’s noth—” The words caught in his throat.

His body stiffened as he turned back to the mirror, truly looking this time. His breath hitched. A man stared back at him.

Not the beast he had been for so long, not the monster of war that inspired fear in the hearts of his enemies. No. The man had smooth, unblemished skin, not a trace of the scaly corruption that had twisted his body for so long. His eyes—no longer burning and inhuman—were a deep, vivid green. His hair, once ashen white, was a flowing cascade of deep emerald strands, reminiscent of a life he had long since abandoned. This was him. Not Ashen, the God of Vengeance. Kazamir.

He reached out instinctively, his fingers trembling as they pressed against the mirror. The reflection mimicked him perfectly, his flesh warm, his touch real. The smoothness of his own skin beneath his fingers sent a tremor through his entire body. He felt his breath quicken. He was whole again. Whole.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He wanted to cry, to fall to his knees and scream to the heavens. He wanted to celebrate. He was himself again. He was Kazamir. He wanted— The thought shattered when his gaze flickered downward. His hand was still pressed against his throat, where the faint remnants of magic still pulsed beneath his fingers. A dark thought took root in his mind. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his hand away.

At first, nothing happened. And then— It started with his fingertips, the flesh darkening, hardening, twisting back into scaled monstrosity. The transformation crawled up his arm, his veins burning with corruption as his reflection warped before his very eyes. His hair, once green and full of life, bled back to lifeless white. His vibrant gaze dimmed to that eerie, molten orange. He was a beast again. A monster.

His jaw clenched as he exhaled sharply. “I guess…” He let out a hollow chuckle, his fingers flexing at his side. “Nothing can be truly good.” Silence blanketed the room, thick with emotions that no one knew how to name.

He turned to look at Clainsiia, his molten orange eyes locking onto her with a strange intensity. "What made you think this?" His voice, though calm, carried an undertone of something else—something uncertain, something fragile.

Clainsiia met his gaze without fear, her emerald eyes unwavering. “It made sense in a way,” she admitted, gripping Jeralt a little tighter in her arms.

Ashen remained silent, speechless even, his sharp gaze lingering on her face as if searching for something he could neither name nor comprehend. His throat felt tight, as if words were failing him, betraying him. He turned away, his expression unreadable.

"You will be relocating in two days," he said, his voice cold and commanding once more, as if forcing himself back into the warlord he had become. "We are moving to a new location. I will be attacking another house soon. House Galatea." He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze dark and resolute. “Be prepared.”

He turned to face the door, his mind shutting out the lingering emotions clawing at his chest. But as he reached for the handle, he felt something—small, warm—wrap around his wrist. His breath hitched slightly, his instincts screaming at him to pull away, to break free from the touch that threatened to stir something long buried. Slowly, he looked down. Clainsiia.

Her emerald eyes burned with something strange, something unshaken. Determination. She wasn’t afraid of him. Her grip on his hand was firm yet gentle, as if she were holding onto something far greater than flesh—something deeper.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp.

Clainsiia hesitated for only a moment, then spoke. “Was that… who you used to be?”

Ashen stared at her, his expression unreadable. He said nothing. He simply gazed into those piercing green eyes—so much like Edelgard’s, yet softer, filled with an almost impossible sense of belief. Belief in him. And for the first time in decades, he wasn’t sure what to say. Why does she care?

Why does she look at him like that, as if she sees something beyond the monster? As if she sees something worth saving?

Clainsiia’s grip tightened slightly, her eyes searching his. “That was the man you used to be, wasn’t it?” she pressed.

Ashen exhaled sharply. His claws twitched at his side, his body rigid with something unspoken. Finally, he gave a slow, hollow nod. “Yes.” The admission was quiet, like a confession meant for no one’s ears but his own.

Clainsiia’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something else—but then she hesitated. She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched like a man forcing himself to remain composed. Something inside her ached at the sight.

“Why do you care?” Ashen asked suddenly, his voice low, dangerous. “Why does it matter to you what I used to be?”

Clainsiia didn’t flinch. She met his molten orange gaze, her emerald eyes filled with an unwavering determination. “Because I need to know,” she said, her voice softer now. “I need to understand… what made you like this? What turned you into this cursed form?”

A muscle in Ashen’s jaw tightened. His entire body tensed, and for the briefest moment, something unreadable flickered in his gaze. But then, without a word, he reached down and gently—yet firmly—removed her hand from his wrist.

“I refuse to talk about this.” His voice was cold, distant. He stepped back, as if physically retreating from the conversation. “You will be leaving in two days.” His tone was final.

Clainsiia’s breath caught in her throat. “But—”

“No,” Ashen cut her off, shaking his head slightly. “Goodbye, child.” He turned, his towering form casting a dark shadow over her as he reached for the door. But then, he hesitated. His grip on the door handle tightened for a brief moment before he exhaled, his shoulders lowering slightly. Without looking back, he spoke again. “…And thank you.”

Clainsiia blinked in surprise, her brows knitting together in confusion. “For what?”

Ashen didn’t turn around. “For what you suggested,” he admitted, his voice strangely soft. “For reminding me… that I once had a voice.” He exhaled sharply, as if forcing himself to say the next words. “And thank you again.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he pulled the door open and stepped out, closing it behind him with a heavy finality.

Clainsiia stared at the door, her mind racing. She had seen something—someone—beneath the cold exterior, beneath the monstrous form and the ruthless warlord. And he had thanked her. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Arthur, who had been silent throughout the exchange, finally found his voice. He stepped forward, his blue eyes filled with confusion and frustration. “Why did you do that?”

Clainsiia turned to him, frowning slightly. “Do what?”

Arthur clenched his fists, his emotions bubbling to the surface. “Why show kindness to that monster? Why are you trying to understand him?” His voice was filled with disbelief, his words edged with anger. “He’s killed so many people. He’s enslaved my people. He wants to rule all of Fódlan. So why…?” His voice broke slightly as he searched for an answer, as if begging her to make sense of something he could not. “Why are you being kind?”

Clainsiia was silent for a moment. Then, she turned away and walked over to her bed. Slowly, she reached down and picked up the journal—the journal that had revealed the past, the truth behind Ashen, behind Kazamir. She held it close for a moment before looking up at Arthur, her expression unreadable. “I don’t think he’s evil.”

Arthur’s breath hitched. “What? Then what do you think he is?”

Clainsiia glanced toward the door, her gaze distant, as if she were trying to put her thoughts into words. Finally, she spoke. “…A broken man.”

Arthur stared at her, stunned. His lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He didn’t know how to argue against that. He didn’t know how to process it. Ashen a god, a monster, a nightmare of Fodlan... wasn't evil? But more than that…

On the other side of the door, Ashen stood frozen in place. He had heard everything. His clawed fingers curled at his side as he stared down at his own monstrous hand. The words replayed in his mind, over and over. “…A broken man.” Clainsiia’s voice echoed in his thoughts like a haunting refrain. She didn’t see him as a god. She didn’t see him as a monster. She saw something else—something raw, something fractured. Something that even he had stopped believing in.

He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold air. His grip on his own hand tightened as he whispered to himself, so softly that not even the guards could hear, "What are you, child?"

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his mind already shifting back to the inevitable.

The war was still ahead. House Galatea would be next. His army had to be prepared. Yet, even as he forced his mind toward battle, Clainsiia’s words lingered. “…A broken man.”

Chapter Text

The next day at House Galatea, the air was thick with the scent of morning frost and steel. The courtyard, once a place of noble gatherings and quiet winter reflection, had become a battleground—at least for the two that stood at its center.

Byleth and Edelgard faced each other, their gazes locked in unwavering focus. Snow crunched underfoot as they circled, the cold wind biting at their skin, but neither seemed to notice. Their bodies were honed for war, their minds trained to fight even in the most brutal of conditions.

Byleth’s hair, illuminated by the rising sun, glowed an ethereal shade of green, the godlike power that coursed through his veins. His sword, the Sword of the Creator, pulsed with divine energy, its crimson whip-like form flickering in the air with dangerous unpredictability.

Opposite him, Edelgard stood firm, clad in her imperial armor, the silver and crimson plates gleaming in the light. Her axe Aymr rested heavily in her hands, its wicked edges humming with barely contained energy. Her eyes never wavered, despite the undeniable power emanating from her husband.

They had fought side by side in countless battles, but today, they faced off as warriors, not as rulers not as husband and wife, but as two forces of nature colliding in an unstoppable clash.

Shez stood at the edge of the training grounds, arms crossed as she watched them intently. Her sharp eyes followed every movement, every shift in stance. In her mind, the ever-present voice of Arval whispered.

"They are well-focused," the spirit mused. "And a little terrifying, don’t you think?"

Shez smirked. "Yeah, but in a good way."

Then, without warning, Edelgard lunged. Aymr came down like a thunderstrike, the sheer force of it splitting the air. Byleth barely had time to react, twisting his body to the side as the axe shattered the ground where he had stood. A shockwave of snow and dirt erupted from the impact, yet before the dust could even settle, Byleth countered.

With inhuman speed, he closed the distance between them. His blade lashed out, extending into a fiery arc, but Edelgard was ready. She twisted her grip on Aymr, using its massive weight to block the strike before shoving him back with sheer brute force.

Byleth skidded across the icy ground but didn't falter. Instead, he launched forward again, his sword a blur of motion. Edelgard met him head-on, and the courtyard became a dance of steel and fury.

Blow after blow, neither relented. Byleth struck high, but Edelgard blocked. Edelgard countered low, but Byleth deflected. The clash of their weapons echoed across the fortress, a rhythm of battle between two masters of war. Sparks flew as steel scraped against steel, their sheer intensity melting away the snow around them.

Edelgard's breath was steady, controlled, her eyes locked onto Byleth with a mixture of fierce determination and something deeper, something only he could understand. Her muscles burned from the exertion, but she pushed forward, her grip tightening around Aymr as she swung the massive axe in a sweeping arc.

Byleth barely managed to leap back, his boots sliding against the ice as the axe crashed into the ground, sending a shockwave of raw force through the courtyard. He didn’t hesitate—using the opening, he dashed forward, his sword snapping outward like a crimson whip. Edelgard twisted at the last second, deflecting the blow with the haft of her axe before twisting her body and driving her elbow toward his ribs.

The impact sent a dull ache through Byleth’s torso, but he absorbed the blow, catching Edelgard’s arm and using her momentum to spin her around. She staggered for only a moment before regaining her footing, her expression hardening as she rushed him once more.

Byleth parried every strike, his sword moving like an extension of himself. Edelgard was strong—one of the strongest warriors he had ever faced, but he was faster, and she knew it. She had always known. But power, she had learned, was not measured solely in speed or brute strength. It was in endurance, in will, in the unyielding fire of determination.

She adjusted her stance, her armored boots digging into the icy ground as she prepared her next assault. Byleth watched her carefully, his own stance shifting, anticipating her move. Then she feinted left before pivoting sharply, bringing Aymr down in a devastating overhead strike. Byleth, reacting purely on instinct, brought his sword up to meet it.

The moment their weapons collided, a burst of energy exploded between them—Aymr’s sheer force against the divine power of the Sword of the Creator. The ground cracked beneath them as both were forced back from the impact. Snow and dirt erupted into the air, but neither faltered.

Byleth moved first this time, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His sword flashed toward Edelgard’s exposed side, but she twisted, parrying at the last second. She countered with a brutal swing of Aymr, aiming for his shoulder, but Byleth ducked under the arc, his own blade lashing upward in a fluid, precise motion.

The two clashed again and again, their battle more like a deadly dance than a mere spar. Each strike was met with an answer, each movement countered with unwavering precision. Then, for a brief second, Byleth saw it... an opening.

Edelgard had swung too wide, her balance shifting ever so slightly. It was subtle, something only he would have caught. But for a warrior like him, it was enough.

He moved swiftly, closing in before she could recover. The tip of his blade shot forward, stopping just before it could touch the skin of her cheek. At the same time, Aymr’s edge hovered mere inches from his own face, the two locked in a final, unrelenting stalemate.

The world around them seemed to still, their breaths coming in slow, measured gasps as they stared at one another. Their weapons, suspended in the air, were so close, so dangerously close that neither dared move.

Then, a single drop of blood broke the stillness. It trailed down from a thin, shallow cut along Edelgard’s cheek, a crimson bead stark against her pale skin.

Byleth’s eyes softened, his grip on his sword easing ever so slightly. Edelgard, rather than scowling or showing even a hint of frustration, simply exhaled, reaching up to rub the blood away with the back of her gauntlet. And then she laughed. A warm, genuine, almost breathless laugh.

Byleth arched a brow, slightly taken aback by her reaction. “What?” he asked, lowering his sword.

Edelgard wiped the last remnants of the wound from her face, a smirk playing at her lips. “If Clainsiia saw this, you’d have to explain why you injured her mother.”

Byleth blinked, then let out a small chuckle of his own. “You mean if she saw me win?”

Edelgard scoffed, though amusement danced in her crimson eyes. “Barely.”

She stepped back, resting Aymr against her shoulder as she studied him. The cold wind bit at their skin, but in this moment, the warmth between them was undeniable.

Shez, standing at the edge of the courtyard, continued to watch with her arms crossed. Her sharp eyes flicked between Edelgard and Byleth, their steady breaths rising in the cold air, the intensity of their spar lingering even as the tension eased. They truly were something else.

Just then, soft footsteps approached from behind. Shez turned slightly, seeing Dorothea walking up beside her, the familiar elegance in her stride untouched by the biting wind.

“This is where you’ve been hiding,” Dorothea said with a small smile, her voice warm but carrying a note of curiosity.

Shez turned to look at her. “Something you need?”

Dorothea shook her head. “Not exactly. I just… wondered how you’ve been.”

Shez blinked at the question, not expecting it. “Me? I’m alright. Just watching Edelgard and Byleth train.” Her gaze flicked back to the pair just as Byleth lifted a hand, casting a soft glow over Edelgard’s cheek. A healing spell. The thin cut vanished without a trace.

Dorothea followed Shez’s gaze, her expression softening as she watched the pair. “You know,” she murmured, “that’s why they rule Fódlan.”

Shez raised an eyebrow. “Because they’re strong?”

Dorothea shook her head. “No, because of the love they share.”

Shez scoffed lightly. “Wasn’t what I was thinking, but I guess that makes sense.”

Within her mind, Arval stirred. “Fascinating,” he mused. “That bond of theirs must be something truly remarkable.” Then, as if suddenly intrigued, he added, “Shez, ask her about their wedding.”

Shez frowned slightly. “The wedding?” It was true she had heard stories, but she had never asked anyone who was actually close to Edelgard. She turned back to Dorothea. “You were there, right? What was the wedding like?”

The reaction was immediate. Dorothea stiffened, her expression flickering for just a moment before she looked down at the ground. Silence stretched between them, and Shez found herself caught off guard. The way Dorothea hesitated, the regret that clouded her usual easygoing demeanor it wasn’t the response she expected. Then, at last, Dorothea exhaled. “I… didn’t go.”

Shez blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. She had assumed Dorothea, being one of Edelgard’s closest friends, would have been at the wedding without question. “Wait… you weren’t there?”

Dorothea shook her head slowly, her gaze distant as she looked toward Edelgard and Byleth, who were still standing in the courtyard, lost in quiet conversation. “No,” she admitted, her voice laced with something deeper than mere regret. “I should have been. I wanted to be. But I didn’t go.”

Shez crossed her arms. “Why not? I thought you and Edelgard were… well, best friends.”

Dorothea gave a soft chuckle, but it lacked its usual warmth. “We are,” she said. “We’ve been through so much together. And I am happy for her. More than anything, I wanted to celebrate that happiness.” She let out a slow sigh, her expression darkening slightly. “But at the same time… I was jealous.”

Shez raised an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

Dorothea sighed, folding her arms as she looked down at the ground. The usual charm in her voice was absent, replaced by something heavier. "Yes, Shez, jealous," she admitted, her voice softer than before. "Edelgard found her special someone, her beloved. She has Byleth—someone who would walk through fire for her, who understands her in ways no one else can. And I..." She exhaled, shaking her head. "For a while, I let it get to me. I tried to be happy for her, and I was, truly, but it just… reminded me of something I didn't have."

Shez watched her carefully, sensing the weight behind Dorothea’s words. The songstress turned her gaze to the sky, her expression distant. "For years, I wondered if that strange person meant for me even exists. Someone I could call my darling, my beloved, my love. Someone who sees me, not the opera star, not the noble consort, not just another beautiful face, but me." Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her sleeves. "And I started wondering... what if they don’t exist? What if I never find them?"

Shez remained quiet for a moment before stepping closer, resting a firm but reassuring hand on Dorothea’s shoulder. "That person is out there," she said, her voice steady. "It just takes time."

Dorothea let out a dry laugh, closing her eyes briefly as if savoring the comfort of Shez’s words. "There was one person, however..." She hesitated, biting her lower lip. Then, just as quickly, she scoffed and crossed her arms, a shadow of disappointment crossing her face. "But it doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything."

Shez frowned. "You sure?"

Dorothea shook her head. "It’s not important." Then, as if to divert the attention away from herself, she turned the conversation around. "What about you? Have you ever been in love before, Shez?"

Shez blinked at the sudden question and shrugged. "Not really. I’m a mercenary. My job comes first. Love was never something I had time for."

Dorothea's lips curled into a smirk, her teasing nature resurfacing just enough to lighten the mood. "Oh? So nothing ever happened between you and Claude?"

The moment the words left her mouth, Shez's expression twitched. In her mind, Arval, ever the mischief-maker, let out a chuckle. Then a full laugh. "Oh, you and Claude! Oh, now that is amusing!" he cackled.

Shez’s eye twitched as she took a slow, measured breath. Keep it together. Don't give them the satisfaction. She crossed her arms and glanced at Dorothea with forced nonchalance. “And what, exactly, makes you think there’s anything between me and Claude?”

Dorothea smirked, tilting her head, her playful gaze never wavering. “Oh, you know… rumors.”

Shez narrowed her eyes. “Rumors?” she echoed, feeling the heat creeping up her neck.

Before Dorothea could elaborate, approaching footsteps interrupted them. Shez turned to see Edelgard and Byleth making their way toward them, their regal presence undeniable. Edelgard’s gaze flicked between Shez and Dorothea, and her brows lifted ever so slightly.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Edelgard said, though her tone suggested she already knew she was.

Then she noticed it—Shez’s face was flushed, her arms tightly crossed, her entire posture screaming discomfort. Edelgard’s head tilted. “Shez… are you alright?” she asked, concern laced in her voice.

“I’m fine,” Shez muttered quickly, standing stiffly.

Byleth, ever the keen observer, watched her carefully. He knew that look—flustered, defensive, irritated. Something was definitely up.

Dorothea, unable to help herself, leaned in slightly. “Oh, she’s just struggling with a certain rumor about her and Claude,” she mused.

Arval, who had been laughing himself breathless in Shez’s mind, finally paused. "Wait. Who started this rumor?" he mused, suddenly very interested.

Shez, still red-faced, turned sharply to Dorothea. “When did this even start?” she demanded.

Dorothea, ever the picture of mischief and charm, twirled a strand of hair between her fingers before sighing dramatically. "Oh, you know… a day after you left, perhaps? Give or take."

Shez’s eyes widened. Her arms remained tightly crossed over her chest, as if trying to contain the heat of her growing frustration. She inhaled sharply, trying to keep her voice steady. "And who exactly started it?"

Edelgard, standing beside Byleth, let out a small sigh, her crimson eyes flicking away for a brief moment. “I tried to stop him,” she admitted, crossing her arms as well.

There was nothing after that—just silence. A silence that stretched unbearably long.

Shez felt something in her gut twist. A sinking feeling. A creeping suspicion she desperately hoped was wrong. But then Arval, ever the instigator, hummed in her mind.

“Oh, how amusing,” he mused. “Perhaps Claude himself started this little rumor?”

Shez felt her stomach drop. She turned, her violet eyes narrowing as she glanced between Edelgard and Dorothea. “Who,” she asked, her voice low, dangerous.

Edelgard remained silent. That was all the confirmation Shez needed. Her eyes flared with realization, and before she could stop herself, she screamed his name. “Claude!”

The courtyard rang with her outburst, sending a flock of birds scattering from the nearby rooftops. Shez groaned loudly, dragging her hands over her face in utter exasperation before stomping away from the group, her boots crunching against the snow-covered ground as she paced around the training area in mortification.

Arval, meanwhile, had fully given in to laughter. “Oh, Shez, this is delightful. Truly, I never tire of watching you flail in embarrassment.”

Shez ignored him, still covering her face with her hands as she muttered furiously to herself. “That dastard… that absolute dastard… I swear, when I see him again, I’m going to—”

From the sidelines, Sothis had been watching her. Perched atop Byleth’s consciousness, the goddess narrowed her emerald eyes, tilting her head slightly as she studied Shez. There was something there—something that intrigued her, something that gnawed at the edge of her thoughts.

Shez was an enigma, one that Sothis had yet to fully decipher.

There was power within her, that much was obvious. But more than that, there was something else. Something Sothis couldn't quite grasp.

She watched as Shez muttered to herself, flustered beyond belief, and let out a small breath. Then, her gaze shifted to Byleth.

“I see you’re not really tired,” Sothis mused, her voice laced with curiosity. “Mind doing me a favor?”

Byleth, who had been quietly observing the situation with his usual impassive expression, glanced to the side. “What is it?” he asked.

Sothis, perched within his consciousness, her luminous emerald gaze filled with intrigue, leaned forward. “I want to see you duel Shez.”

Byleth’s brow furrowed slightly at the request. “Why?”

Sothis exhaled, folding her arms as she floated weightlessly in his mind. “I have been wondering about her. There is something about her… something I cannot place.” She narrowed her eyes. “I wish to see how she fights. To see her power firsthand.” Then, as if it was merely an afterthought, she added, “Perhaps you should use a bit more of your strength against her, just to test her limits.”

Byleth’s gaze flicked toward Shez, who was still pacing angrily across the courtyard, muttering curses under her breath about a certain scheming alliance leader. He had seen Shez fight countless times since the war began. He had witnessed her cut through enemy ranks with inhuman speed, seen the way she adapted mid-battle, her instincts razor-sharp. And yet, even now, something about her remained an enigma.

He flexed his fingers around the hilt of the Sword of the Creator, the weapon humming with quiet, ancient power. How strong is she truly?

Edelgard, standing beside him, caught the shift in his expression and smirked. “Go have your fun,” she murmured, arms crossed.

Byleth nodded. If anyone could go toe-to-toe with Ashen in his cursed form, wielding a power that defied a god, then Shez had to be strong. Strong enough to handle what he was about to do.

He took a step forward, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. Shez, still fuming from the revelation about Claude’s little rumor, barely noticed at first until Arval’s laughter abruptly cut off.

“Shez,” Arval’s voice echoed in her mind, suddenly tense. “Look behind you.”

Shez turned sharply, her violet eyes narrowing as she spotted Byleth standing a few feet away, his expression as unreadable as ever. His posture was relaxed, yet something in the air had shifted—an intensity that sent a prickle down her spine.

“What?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Byleth tilted his head slightly before stepping forward, his boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. "I need you to do me a favor."

Shez raised a brow. "What kind of favor?" In an instant, before she could blink, Byleth drew the Sword of the Creator and swung at her. Shez barely had time to react. Her instincts screamed at her, and she twisted her body to the side, narrowly dodging the crimson blade that came down where she had just stood. The force of the strike sent a crack through the frozen ground, snow and dust kicking up into the air.

Her heart pounded. "What the hell was that?!" she shot at him, stepping back, her muscles tensing.

Byleth remained calm as he straightened, his sword resting at his side. "I’d like to test your strength."

Shez clenched her fists, her glare sharp. "You could've just asked!"

Byleth's eyes gleamed faintly in the morning light. "I could have. But a true mercenary should always be prepared to dodge an attack."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Seriously? That’s your excuse?"

Byleth lifted his sword again, pointing it at her with precise stillness. "If you can avoid a strike like that with the little power I'm using… then you’ll have no trouble keeping up with me."

Arval’s voice murmured in the back of Shez’s mind. "He won’t kill us… right?"

Shez, though her adrenaline was still spiking, knew the answer. "No. But you know what? I’ve always wanted to see how I match up against him."

Across from them, Sothis watched Byleth intently from within his mind. Her emerald eyes narrowed with curiosity as she leaned forward. "Do not hold back," she whispered to him. "Something tells me she won’t."

Arval hummed in agreement. "Shez, use a little of your own power. The sword you obtained after unlocking your strength—it has a chance against the Sword of the Creator."

Shez smirked, exhaling as she uncrossed her arms. "Fine. You want to test me? Let’s see if you can handle this."

With a smooth, practiced motion, she drew both of her swords—one in each hand, their polished edges glinting in the cold morning light. Across from her, Byleth shifted slightly, his grip tightening around the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. This time, he wielded it with both hands, his stance steady, his gaze unreadable.

They stared at each other, tension crackling in the space between them like an unseen force. The wind whispered through the courtyard, carrying the last remnants of dust and snow from the earlier fight.

Shez tilted her head, her violet eyes gleaming. “You ready for this?”

Byleth didn’t hesitate. “Come at me.”

The moment the words left his mouth, they both exploded into motion.

Shez surged forward like a bolt of lightning, her swords flashing as she closed the distance in an instant. Byleth raised his blade high, bringing it down in a powerful, decisive strike. But Shez was faster—she crossed her swords to catch his attack, steel clashing in a violent spark.

For a moment, they pushed against each other, testing strength against strength. Then, with a grunt, Shez broke the deadlock and leaped high above Byleth, twisting in midair to get behind him. She aimed for his exposed back, her swords cutting through the air like twin streaks of silver. But Byleth was already turning.

In a split second, he pivoted on his heel, his blade rising to meet hers. Their weapons collided again, sending another sharp clang ringing through the air. He spun immediately, his boot lashing out toward her head in a quick, precise kick.

Shez barely ducked in time, her hair whipping around her face. She countered instantly, driving one sword in low and the other in high, forcing him to block both. Their duel became a flurry of motion, a relentless exchange of blows that sent echoes through the empty courtyard.

Byleth’s eyes narrowed slightly as he parried her next strike. “Is that all?”

Shez’s smirk widened. “Not even close.”

She twisted around, her swords blurring as she unleashed a rapid sequence of slashes, pushing Byleth onto the defensive. He deflected each one with the ease of a seasoned warrior, his footwork flawless.

“How good are you with a sword, anyway?” Shez asked, keeping up the pressure.

Byleth blocked another strike before stepping into her guard, forcing her to disengage. “I’ve always been a natural,” he admitted. “From the moment I first held one.”

Shez exhaled sharply, stepping back just enough to put distance between them before lunging forward again. She aimed a hard kick at his ribs, which he barely dodged. “Well, lucky you,” she muttered as she grinned, feinting left before darting right to swipe at his side. “I had to train like hell just to get this far. All thanks to Berling.”

Their swords met again in a dazzling display of speed and skill, sparks flying from the force of their clash. Byleth stepped back just enough to get room to maneuver, his stance subtly shifting. “And two swords?” he asked.

Shez twirled her blades with practiced ease. “That, I taught myself.”

Byleth's gaze flickered slightly, as if assessing her claim. There was no arrogance in her voice, no need for validation—just the simple, unshaken confidence of a warrior who had carved her own path. He tightened his grip on the Sword of the Creator, its ancient power humming beneath his fingers. Then, without another word, he attacked.

Shez barely had time to react before Byleth closed the gap between them, his blade flashing in a rapid, precise arc. She twisted her body, narrowly evading the strike as she countered with a horizontal slash of her own. Byleth ducked under her blade, his movements seamless, his footwork impeccable.

Their duel was no longer a test—it was a battle of sheer skill and instinct.

Byleth pressed forward, his strikes relentless, but Shez matched him step for step. She weaved between his attacks, her agility allowing her to evade even the most precise slashes. Their weapons clashed again and again, the sound of steel against steel echoing through the courtyard.

Then, in a blur of motion, Byleth shifted his stance. Before Shez could react, he lashed out with the Sword of the Creator, its crimson energy extending into a whip-like form. The fiery tendrils coiled around one of her blades, locking it in an unbreakable grip.

Shez’s eyes widened as Byleth yanked hard, wrenching the sword from her grasp. It flew across the courtyard, embedding itself deep into a stone wall with a loud clang.

She exhaled sharply, adjusting her stance as she shifted her remaining blade to both hands. The sword she still held was different—its shape slender and curved, more like a saber than the twin blades she typically wielded.

Arval’s voice echoed in her mind, his tone sharp. "Do not use too much of your power, Shez. If you do, Sothis will take notice."

Shez’s grip tightened around her sword, her breath steady despite the weight of the battle pressing down on her shoulders. She cast a glance at the blade—the weapon she had obtained when she awakened her power. It had always felt different, something beyond mortal craftsmanship. But now, as the fight escalated, the sword began to glow, an eerie orange hue pulsing from its core.

A faint shimmer of fire flickered to life along the edge, twisting and dancing like a living thing. The heat didn’t burn her; instead, it coiled around her arm like an extension of herself, as if the blade was responding to the fight—responding to her.

Across from her, Byleth narrowed his eyes, sensing the change. He had fought countless battles, seen magic beyond human comprehension, but something about Shez’s weapon struck him as wrong. Or perhaps, too right—too familiar.

From within his mind, Sothis stirred. Her emerald gaze fixated on the weapon, and her voice carried a hint of unease. "There’s no way a mortal could possess such a sword… It defies reason."

Byleth’s mind worked quickly, thinking where she could find that weapon. “Could it have belonged to one of Ashen’s men?”

The goddess was silent for a moment, considering the possibility. “Perhaps. But-.” Before she could finish the thought, something caught her attention. "Watch out!" she cried.

Byleth’s instincts flared, and he looked up just in time to see Shez soaring above him, her sword raised high. Fire coiled around the blade as she swung downward, aiming for him with devastating force.

Byleth dodged in the last instant, rolling to the side as the sword crashed into the ground, sending a shockwave through the icy courtyard. Snow and debris exploded into the air, and the sheer heat of the impact melted the frost where she struck.

Shez barely gave him a moment to recover. The instant her blade connected with the earth, she twisted and launched herself at him again, her attacks relentless.

Steel clashed, the sound echoing like a chorus of war drums. Their duel had evolved beyond a simple test of strength—this was a battle of will.

On the sidelines, Dorothea and Edelgard continued to observe, their eyes sharp as they watched the two warriors trade blow after blow.

Dorothea exhaled, shaking her head. “Shez is… interesting, to say the least.”

Edelgard nodded, but something in her gaze hardened. “More than that,” she murmured. “Shez is powerful. Too powerful for a mere mercenary.”

Dorothea glanced at her, intrigued. “You’re suspicious?”

Edelgard’s arms crossed. Her eyes flicked toward the battlefield. “She has no divine lineage, no Crest. And yet she holds her own against him, against Ashen himself.”

Dorothea frowned. “You think she’s hiding something?”

Edelgard didn’t answer immediately, her mind working through the possibilities. Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know. But I intend to find out.”

Her gaze lingered on Shez and Byleth, locked in a battle of sheer willpower and skill, their movements so fluid and precise that it was hard to believe they were mere mortals. They clashed again and again, the echo of steel reverberating through the courtyard like a war drum, a song of warriors who had long since transcended the limits of normal combat.

Byleth’s expression remained unreadable as he swung the Sword of the Creator once more, its divine chains snapping out like serpents, latching onto Shez’s blade in an attempt to disarm her. But Shez, ever the unpredictable fighter, held tight, refusing to let go. A spark of determination flashed in her violet eyes as she used the connection against him.

With a sharp tug, she yanked her sword forward, pulling Byleth off balance for just a second—just enough time for her to twist her body and send a brutal kick toward his ribs. Byleth reacted instantly. His hand lashed out, catching her leg before the impact could fully land. With an effortless display of strength, he pivoted on his heel and threw her toward a nearby barrel. The wooden structure splintered on impact, but before the dust could even settle, Shez was already moving. She rolled to her feet and shot toward Byleth with relentless determination.

“How—?” Byleth thought as he deflected her first attack, his mind racing.

It didn’t make sense. Shez had no Crest, no divine lineage. She shouldn’t be able to keep up with him like this. And yet, here she was, forcing him into a battle unlike any he had fought before.

Their blades clashed once more, and a strange phenomenon began to take place.

A glow—subtle at first—began emanating from both weapons. A fiery orange hue pulsed from Shez’s sword, intertwining with the divine red glow of the Sword of the Creator. It was an eerie sight, like two forces of ancient power recognizing each other. But neither warrior focused on the glow. Their eyes were locked on one another, unyielding.

In Shez’s mind, Arval let out a breathless chuckle. “I can’t believe how strong he is…” There was something akin to admiration in his voice, but also apprehension.

Shez, her body tensed from exertion, barely had time to respond before Sothis’s voice echoed within Byleth’s mind. “This girl… She is more than just a mercenary. To fight like this, to stand toe to toe with you, my chosen vessel—she is remarkable.”

Shez heard Arval’s words, felt the weight of their meaning, and allowed herself a small, fleeting smirk. "If it weren’t for you, Arval, I may have never had this journey at all."

Byleth, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter, listened to Sothis. He knew she was right. Shez was no ordinary fighter—no mere sell-sword chasing coin. There was something about her, something that defied reason." I wouldn’t be who I am today, with this strength, this power… without you, Sothis."

Arval’s voice softened in Shez’s mind, his usual teasing lilt replaced with something more… knowing. “You are more than what you think, Shez.”

And at the same time, in Byleth’s consciousness, Sothis’s emerald eyes gleamed as she whispered, “You are more than just a vessel.”

A shared silence stretched between them, the battle frozen in a single breath. And then, both warriors, in their minds and voices, spoke as one. “Then what truly am I?”

Arval and Sothis, their ethereal forms mirroring each other, answered together. “Someone special.”

Shez’s heart pounded in her chest, but there was no time to dwell on their words. With a determined gleam in her violet eyes, she pushed forward, breaking the deadlock. She lunged, aiming her sword at Byleth, charging with all the power she could muster.

Byleth reacted instantly, pivoting into a spin to avoid her strike. The moment his boots touched the ground, Shez, already anticipating his movement, dropped onto one knee, turning sharply to aim her blade upward.

At the same time, Byleth twisted mid-air, bringing his sword downward.

Both blades stopped mere inches from their opponent’s faces. Shez’s sword hovered dangerously close to Byleth’s cheek, while the Sword of the Creator’s edge pressed near her own.

A deep silence fell over the courtyard, the air thick with the intensity of their final strike. Snowflakes danced around them, carried by the wind that whispered through the training grounds.

From the sidelines, Dorothea clutched her hands together, eyes wide with anticipation. “Who won?” she murmured, breathless.

Shez and Byleth just stared at each other as the wind howled around them, carrying the remnants of snow and dust from their battle. The courtyard, which had been filled with the furious sounds of clashing steel, was now eerily silent. Only the distant whispers of the winter wind and their steady breaths remained.

Shez suddenly felt something warm trailing down her cheek. She reached up absentmindedly, her gloved fingers brushing against the thin line of blood seeping from a shallow cut. Her smirk returned as she tilted her head slightly, pointing her sword toward Byleth’s face.

“Looks like you got one too,” she remarked, her voice light despite the fatigue that settled deep in her bones.

Byleth blinked, lifting his right hand to the spot she indicated. When his fingers came away wet with blood, his expression didn’t change—only the faintest glimmer of surprise flickered in his teal eyes. He studied the crimson streak on his fingertips before nodding, an almost imperceptible smile forming at the corner of his lips.

“I say… we tied.” His voice was even, but there was something almost amused in the way he said it. Slowly, the eerie glow of his hair and eyes faded, returning to their normal state.

Shez exhaled sharply, sheathing her sword with a flick of her wrist before rolling her shoulders. “Too bad I didn’t win…” she muttered, though there was no bitterness in her tone—just a quiet acceptance.

Byleth studied her for a moment before speaking. “Give yourself a little credit,” he said. “It took everything I had just to keep up.”

Shez scoffed. “Please, you barely used any of your power. You weren’t even breaking a sweat.”

Byleth shook his head. “Even so… a tie against me isn’t something just anyone can accomplish.” He then glanced at her cheek and frowned slightly. “I’m sorry about the cut.”

Shez raised an eyebrow before waving off his apology with an easy grin. “Water under the bridge,” she said, her tone playful. Then, turning on her heel, she walked over to where her second sword had landed. The blade was still embedded in the stone wall, its hilt trembling from the force of impact.

As she grasped the hilt and pulled, the sword came free with a sharp, metallic whisper. She rotated it in her hand, examining the edge for any signs of damage. It was still sharp, still intact. Still hers.

From behind, Edelgard and Dorothea approached Byleth, their steps crunching softly against the frost-covered ground.

“Here, let me heal you, Byleth,” Dorothea offered, already lifting a hand. A soft glow enveloped his cheek as the shallow wound closed without a trace.

Meanwhile, Edelgard made her way toward Shez, her eyes flicking between her and the sword she held with uncharacteristic stillness.

Byleth, too, noticed it—the way Shez’s grip on the blade was both possessive and reverent. His gaze softened slightly as he murmured, “That sword… it’s important to you.”

Shez didn’t answer right away. She merely stared down at the weapon, the steel gleaming beneath the pale morning light. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before.

“It was Berling’s sword.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Edelgard’s eyes widened slightly, while Dorothea inhaled softly in realization. Byleth remained unreadable, though there was a subtle shift in his demeanor.

Shez tightened her grip on the hilt before continuing, “After Jeralt killed her… I took her sword to remember her.”

Byleth stiffened slightly, his own fingers clenching at his side. The truth about his father still lingered on his tongue, unspoken, trapped in the space between what was and what could have been. He hesitated, then simply said, “I’m sorry.”

Shez blinked, turning toward him with a puzzled expression. “For what?” she asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” For a long moment, Byleth simply looked at her, as if weighing his words. But instead of answering, he listened as Shez continued, her voice distant. “If you had been with Jeralt that day,” she mused, “we probably would’ve been rivals. And I wouldn’t have stopped fighting until one of us was dead.” Her grip on the sword slackened slightly. “But hey… I’m glad I’m on your side.”

Byleth exhaled, something unreadable flickering in his gaze before he gave a small, rare smile. “Well… I’m glad we have you at our side as well.” Then, after a brief pause, he asked, “I am curious, though. If we win this fight against Ashen… what will you do?”

Shez blinked at the question, her grip tightening slightly on the hilt of her sword. What would she do? The thought had never truly crossed her mind before—not in a way that mattered. She had spent her whole life as a mercenary, moving from one job to the next, always chasing the next fight, the next coin. For the first time in her life, she realized… she had no answer. “Honestly…” Shez finally spoke, her voice softer than usual, “I don’t know.” She let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head. “It was always onto the next job with me… find work, get paid, move on. Then I met you. I never would have expected a journey like this…”

There was something raw in her voice, something vulnerable that she rarely allowed herself to show. She had fought alongside these people, bled beside them, laughed with them. They weren’t just allies anymore—they were something more. Something she never thought she’d have.

Dorothea watched her carefully before smiling gently. “I hope you figure that out soon.”

Shez exhaled and nodded. “Yeah… me too.” She turned, sheathing her swords as she stretched her arms. “I’ll catch up with you all later.”

Edelgard’s gaze followed her as she walked away, her expression unreadable. The emperor wasn’t one to let emotions dictate her actions, but something about Shez’s uncertainty gnawed at her. What could she offer Shez to make her stay? She was no fool—Shez was one of the strongest warriors they had, and losing her after the war would be a tremendous loss. But it wasn’t just about that.

Edelgard’s thoughts lingered even as Shez disappeared through the courtyard’s archway.

Byleth caught the flicker of contemplation in his wife’s eyes. He turned to her, tilting his head slightly. “You’re thinking about something.”

Edelgard sighed, arms crossed. “Not sure yet… but I will think of something.”

Dorothea hummed softly, her eyes still on the doorway. “Whatever Shez chooses… I just hope she doesn’t forget about us.”

Edelgard didn’t respond, but there was a quiet agreement in her eyes. With that, she and Dorothea turned and left, leaving Byleth alone—or rather, alone with Sothis. The goddess remained silent for a moment, her ethereal form perched within Byleth’s consciousness. She, too, had watched Shez leave, her sharp emerald eyes thoughtful in a way Byleth hadn’t seen before. Maybe she had misjudged her. Maybe Shez truly was just a skilled mercenary—no divine lineage, no hidden destiny, just someone who had fought her way to where she stood now.

“She would make a fine general to lead your troops,” Sothis murmured at last.

Byleth chuckled, a rare sound that even surprised himself. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you say something kind about her.”

Sothis huffed, crossing her arms. “I am simply considering the facts.” But then, after a moment, her expression softened. “Perhaps… I was wrong to judge her so harshly.”

Byleth tilted his head, intrigued. “That’s a first.”

Sothis scowled but ignored his teasing. Instead, her gaze flicked back to where Shez had left. “It is too bad I cannot speak to her directly.”

Byleth hummed in agreement. He knew Sothis had her reservations about Shez, but now… she seemed almost curious. “Would you want to?”

Sothis hesitated. “Well… there is a way.”

Byleth blinked. “A way?”

Sothis sighed, her expression guarded. “It would require a god. If you had used your full power, and let’s say… she had a god within her—whether that power was awakened or still dormant—just a simple touch could trigger her to not only see me… but for you to see her god as well.”

Byleth narrowed his eyes. There was something in the way Sothis said it that made him wary. “Or?”

Sothis paused, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

Byleth frowned but let it go. He could tell she wasn’t going to tell him—at least, not yet. Instead, he let out a quiet breath and started walking toward the door. “I’ll think about what role Shez could have in the empire.” Sothis watched him go, her expression unreadable.

Chapter Text

It was night, and Shez sat alone before a towering waterfall, its cascading silver strands illuminated by the pale glow of the moon. The roar of the rushing water filled the night air, drowning out all other sounds, yet within the chaotic rush, Shez found a peculiar sense of calm. The mist clung to her skin, cool against the lingering heat from her earlier spar, and her violet eyes remained locked on the hypnotic motion of the falls.

A soft sigh stirred within her mind. "Shez, why are we here?" Arval’s voice was gentle, more curious than concerned.

Shez didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let the silence stretch between them, her arms wrapped loosely around her knees as she watched the endless stream of water tumble from the cliffs above. It wasn’t often she allowed herself moments like this—moments where she could sit and think, where she could remember.

Finally, she spoke. “Waterfalls always remind me of something Berling used to tell me.”

Arval remained quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.

Shez inhaled deeply, the crisp night air filling her lungs. “She told me once… no matter where I go, no matter what happens to me, to always remember that she loved me more than anything in the world.” Her voice was soft, a distant echo of a time long past. “She said even if she wasn’t around anymore, even if everything else faded, that love would still be with me, right here.” She placed a hand over her chest. “As long as I remembered that, I wouldn’t be alone.”

Arval didn’t say anything at first. Shez could sense something from him—something unusual. When she glanced to the side, she saw him, his spectral form hovering just beside her. And for the first time, she saw something in his usually unreadable expression. Sadness.

It wasn’t deep sorrow or grief, but a quiet, aching sadness that lingered in his golden eyes, something he rarely showed.

Shez’s lips parted slightly as realization dawned on her. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Her voice was gentle.

Arval’s gaze lowered slightly. "My father... Epimenides never said anything like that to me." His words were barely above a whisper. "Never even tried."

Shez’s chest tightened at his admission. She knew Arval didn’t talk much about his origins, and when he did, it was often shrouded in riddles or vague half-truths. But this? This was raw.

She reached out without thinking, placing a hand on his shoulder. Even though he wasn’t fully corporeal, he always felt solid to her in moments like this. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Arval glanced at her, his eyes flickering in the dim moonlight before he offered a small, almost self-deprecating chuckle. "It's alright. I… I’m glad you had someone like that in your life."

Shez’s chest tightened as guilt crept up on her. She hadn’t meant to stir up painful memories for him. She looked down at her hands, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her gloves. Maybe she should change the subject—something to shift the mood, to bring them back to familiar ground.

She hesitated only for a moment before speaking. “Hey, Arval… I’ve been wondering,” she started, glancing at him. “I can use my power any time, right?”

Arval blinked at the abrupt shift but didn’t seem to mind. He tilted his head slightly before nodding. “Yes, you can. You’ve already awakened to it, after all. It’s just a matter of calling upon it when you need it.” His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her. “Do you want to try now?”

Shez nodded with determination. She never really took the time to examine it properly. She’d always been too caught up in the fight to think about it.

Arval smiled slightly. “Then focus. Remember the feeling you had when you first awakened it. That surge of power, the fire burning inside you.”

Shez exhaled and closed her eyes, searching deep within herself. She remembered it well—the way her body had felt weightless yet stronger than ever before, the way the power had coursed through her veins like molten fire, untamed yet exhilarating. She let herself sink into that sensation, let the memory of it wash over her.

When she opened her eyes again, they burned a brilliant shade of orange.

Power rushed through her like a roaring flame. Her body felt lighter, faster—stronger. She stood, her movements fluid and effortless as if her muscles had been reforged in fire. As she stepped toward the water’s edge, the silver glow of the moon illuminated her transformed reflection.

She stared. The white marks on her face were more pronounced than she remembered, adorning her like sacred war paint. Her hair shimmered with the hues of a burning sunset, its fiery ends clashing beautifully with the deep purple that remained untouched. Behind her, a crescent-shaped halo of searing orange light hovered, flickering like a half-moon set ablaze. And then there were the bracelets—flame-like in shape, crackling with raw energy, their heat so intense that the very air around them wavered. She hadn’t noticed these details before.

Arval’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Well? What do you think?”

Shez stared at her reflection a moment longer before answering. “It’s… interesting,” she admitted. “It feels natural, but at the same time… different.” She flexed her fingers, watching the way the energy pulsed through her.

Then, almost instinctively, she reached to her back and pulled forth the sword that had come with this power. The same one she had used against Byleth.

It gleamed beneath the moonlight, its design as fierce as the power that coursed through her. The blade’s dark metal was edged with a burning orange hue, as if the weapon itself was forged from the very flames of her soul. The weight was perfect in her grasp—balanced, familiar.

She frowned slightly, turning it in her hands. “You never did tell me about this sword,” she said, glancing at Arval. “What’s its name?”

Arval tilted his head, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “It doesn’t have one.”

Shez blinked, surprised. “Really? You gave me this power, but not a name for the weapon that comes with it?”

Arval chuckled. “I suppose I never saw the need. After all, a weapon is only as strong as the one who wields it.”

Shez kept looking at the sword, her fingers tracing the edges of its darkened metal, the fiery glow pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. She knew this weapon was strong, strong enough to clash against the Sword of the Creator, strong enough to endure against Ashen’s cursed blade. That meant it was worthy of a name. A weapon like this, one tied to her soul, deserved something more than just being "the sword."

Her violet eyes softened as she thought about Fódlan—what it needs. Hope. And Ashen’s forces casting a shadow over everything, hope was more important than ever. She had never been one for grand ideals, never thought herself as someone meant to inspire—but she had come this far. She had found allies, people she cared for, people she wanted to protect.

She turned the sword in her grip one last time, feeling the weight of its power, before whispering, “Luxora.”

Arval, who had been watching her closely, blinked. “Luxora?”

Shez nodded. “It means hope. Light in the dark.”

Arval was silent for a moment, then let out a small hum of approval. “Luxora… I like it.” His tone was soft, almost thoughtful.

A rare smile crossed Shez’s lips as she ran a hand over the blade. “Yeah… me too.” Then, with a quiet breath, she focused. The fiery glow dimmed, the energy pulling back into herself as she let go of her awakened form. Her hair returned to its usual deep purple, the strange white markings fading from her skin. The air around her stilled, the burning power within settling once more.

As she place Luxora away she stood up, stretching slightly before turning toward Arval. “We should head back,” she suggested, already dusting off her cloak.

But the moment she turned around, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Edelgard was standing right there.

Shez’s heart stopped. She hadn’t heard her approach. Hadn’t sensed her presence. The emperor was mere feet away, arms crossed, her crimson eyes unreadable in the dim moonlight.

Arval absolutely freaked out. “Shez,” his voice hissed in her mind, panic rising rapidly, “How long has she been standing there?! Was she there the whole time?! Did she see?! Oh no—oh no no no—”

Shez barely kept herself from jumping, but the way her breath hitched betrayed her nerves. Her entire body tensed, her fingers curling slightly as she fought to remain calm. Slowly, she turned to Edelgard, her mouth opening—only to stutter when she tried to speak.

“H-How long have you been there?” she asked, her voice tight, uneven.

Edelgard didn’t respond right away. Her eyes bore into Shez with quiet intensity, unreadable beneath the pale glow of the moon. The waterfall’s roar filled the silence between them, but it did nothing to mask the weight pressing down on Shez’s chest.

The moment stretched, heavy and suffocating, before Edelgard finally spoke.

“Not long,” she admitted, her voice steady, but carrying an edge of curiosity. “But long enough.”

Shez felt a chill run down her spine. There was no telling exactly what Edelgard had seen—whether she had witnessed Shez’s transformation, heard the conversation, or merely arrived at the tail end of everything. Arval, on the other hand, was absolutely unraveling in her mind.

“Shez,” he hissed, his voice sharp with panic, “what if she tells Byleth? If he knows, then Sothis will know, and if Sothis knows—oh no, oh no, oh no, this is bad, very bad—”

Shez clenched her jaw, trying not to let her nerves show. Arval’s fear was valid, but she needed to keep a level head. Edelgard’s expression was unreadable, her arms now crossed as she stared at Shez, waiting for an answer.

“What exactly did you see?” Shez finally asked, her tone more guarded than she would have liked.

Edelgard’s gaze didn’t waver. “You tell me.” A test. She was testing her.

Shez swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully. “You saw nothing.”

Edelgard’s expression darkened. “Tell the truth.” There was no room for negotiation in her voice. It was not a request, but an order.

Shez hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. She felt Arval’s tension, his worry pressing against the edges of her mind. But then, she spoke to him directly, her voice steady and reassuring. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”

Arval didn’t look convinced, but he quieted. Shez inhaled and turned back to Edelgard. “If I tell you the truth… you must not tell Byleth.”

Edelgard crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And why must I not tell him?”

Shez felt her stomach tighten. How could she explain this in a way that wouldn’t cause more problems? The weight of Edelgard’s gaze bore into her, demanding an answer. Shez knew Edelgard wasn’t the type to let things slide—especially not when it came to knowledge that could shape the future of Fódlan.

A familiar voice stirred in her mind, low and edged with unease. "Shez, there might not be a way out of this." Arval’s words sent a chill down her spine. "If you want her trust, you have to tell her. Tell her what I am. Tell her that I am the power of a god the Agarthans once worshiped."

Shez’s breath caught. Her fingers clenched at her sides before she slowly looked up at Edelgard. “Because,” she began carefully, her voice quieter now, “the power I wield… it comes from a god.”

Edelgard’s expression did not waver, but there was a shift in her posture—a subtle, almost imperceptible tension in her shoulders. She waited, allowing Shez to continue.

“This god…” Shez hesitated, feeling Arval’s presence at the edge of her mind. “The Agarthans—the ones who slither in the dark—worshiped him.”

Silence. Edelgard remained still, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her gaze darkened, lips pressing into a thin line. Her right hand curled into a fist, her mind no doubt racing through a thousand different possibilities. “…Does this god still have involvement with them?” Edelgard’s voice was steady, but there was a quiet storm beneath it.

Shez shook her head. “From what I understand of the history… Epimenides—his son—was forced into some of their work."

Edelgard’s expression remained unreadable, but her crimson eyes sharpened, the weight of her curiosity pressing against Shez like a blade at her throat. “What was he forced to do?” she asked, her voice steady but carrying an edge of quiet urgency.

Shez hesitated, her gaze flickering toward Arval. The spectral being had been unusually silent, lingering just at the edge of her vision. She could feel him there, his presence like a shadow against her thoughts. She reached for him in her mind, the words forming before she could stop herself. "Arval. What were you forced to do?"

For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, slowly, Arval exhaled—a sound that was not quite a sigh, not quite a breath, but something weary, something heavy. His golden eyes, usually filled with mischief or quiet observation, darkened with something else entirely. Regret.

He lowered himself onto the grass, his usual weightlessness gone, as if the burden of memory had suddenly become too much. Shez watched as he ran a hand through his pale hair, his expression shifting into something she had never seen before—something deeply, achingly human.

“I took the bones of the goddess,” Arval murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And the Crest Stone.”

Shez felt a sharp pang in her chest. “The Sword of the Creator,” she realized.

Arval's eyes dimmed, his usual mischievous glint lost in the depths of something heavier—something laced with regret. He looked at his hands, as if seeing them coated in something unseen, something ancient. “Yes,” he murmured. “I took the bones of the goddess and the Crest Stone. And because of that… Nemesis wielded the sword and slaughtered her people.”

Shez’s breath caught in her throat. She knew the history, the legend—how Nemesis had stolen the power of the goddess and led his band of Ten Elites in a bloody conquest. But this… this was something else. Arval wasn’t just telling a story. He was admitting to it.

“You—” She swallowed, her voice trembling. “You made it possible for Nemesis to—”

“Yes,” Arval said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was because of me.” His fingers curled into a fist. “And it didn’t end there.” He exhaled, something sharp and painful in his voice. “The Agarthans—they forced me to create more weapons."

Shez felt her heartbeat thunder in her chest. She knew what was coming before Arval even said it.“Aymr,” he whispered. “I made Aymr.” Silence fell like a blade between them.

Shez turned, her violet eyes locking onto Edelgard, who had not moved. The emperor stood still, her gaze fixed on the axe in her hand. The moonlight traced the blade’s edges, making its intricate details shimmer with an eerie glow. But Edelgard was not admiring it. No—she was studying it. Turning it over, fingers ghosting across the weapon as if seeing it for the first time.

Shez’s voice was quiet, but the weight of her words pressed heavy against the night air. “The god was forced to make the Sword of the Creator… and your axe.”

Edelgard’s grip on Aymr tightened. A long silence stretched between them. The waterfall roared, but its sound was distant, insignificant. In this moment, there was only Edelgard, her axe, and the truth that had just been laid before her.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trailing along the weapon’s hilt. “This being… created this?” she murmured. It wasn’t a question—it was a realization. A confirmation of something she hadn’t dared to believe.

Shez didn’t know what to say. What could she say? This wasn’t something Edelgard could simply cast aside. Aymr had been by her side for years, a symbol of her strength, of her will to fight for Fódlan’s future. And now, to learn that it had come from the very force that once enabled the Agarthans—the same force that had helped craft the Sword of the Creator…

Shez’s hands clenched at her sides. “Edelgard,” she said carefully. “I need you to promise me you won't tell Byleth.”

Edelgard didn’t look up. She kept her gaze on Aymr, lost in thought. But finally she lifted her gaze. Her  eyes sharpened, searching Shez’s expression for any sign of deception. “And why not?” Her voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—curiosity? Doubt?

Shez exhaled, glancing at Arval, who hovered beside her, his golden eyes unreadable. “Because the one I got my power from… he doesn’t want to rule Fódlan,” she said. “He isn’t trying to control anything. And if anyone finds out, they might not see it that way.”

Edelgard studied her for a long moment. Then, finally, she nodded, though her expression remained unreadable. “I will keep this between us,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But I must ask… why you?” There was no accusation in her tone, only a genuine need to understand. “Of all people, why did this power choose you?”

Shez glanced at Arval again, hoping for an answer. But the spectral being only offered a small, knowing smile. “Another time,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a promise.

Shez exhaled through her nose before turning back to Edelgard. “Maybe another time,” she echoed, before shifting her stance slightly. “But why are you here, Edelgard?”

The emperor studied her for a moment before speaking. “I was wondering how you were holding up.” Her crimson eyes softened, though they still carried their usual intensity. “And… I wanted to offer you something.”

Shez raised an eyebrow. “Offer me something?”

Edelgard nodded. “After the war—if we claim victory—I want you to train my daughter.”

Shez blinked. The words caught her off guard, hitting her harder than she expected. “…Your daughter?”

“Yes.” Edelgard’s gaze didn’t waver. “If we succeed, Fódlan will enter a new age—one that must be carefully guided. My daughter will be a part of that future, and I want someone strong, someone I trust, to be her mentor.”

Shez hesitated, her mind reeling. “But… what about Yuri and Leonie? Aren’t they already training Clainsiia?”

Edelgard acknowledged this with a slight nod. “That’s true. But Clainsiia’s training is temporary, shaped by various mentors who will come and go. You, however, would be permanent.”

Permanent. The word sank into Shez’s chest, heavy and unfamiliar. She had never trained anyone before—never even considered it. She had always been a lone mercenary, living from one battle to the next. Then, a thought struck her. Berling.

Berling had taken her in, raised her, trained her. She had given Shez more than just skills—she had given her a purpose. Shez hadn’t realized it until now, but in a way, she was already carrying on Berling’s legacy. And to pass it down to someone else… She let out a slow breath. If Berling were still alive, she’d want this. “Alright,” Shez finally said, meeting Edelgard’s gaze. “I’ll think about it.”

Edelgard’s lips curled into a small, pleased smile. “Excellent.” She turned slightly. “Come, we should head back.”

As the two women turned to make their way back to camp, the moon’s pale glow casting elongated shadows upon the grass, a sudden tension rippled through the air. It was subtle at first—like a thread pulled too tightly, ready to snap. Then, the weight of something unseen pressed down upon them.

Arval gasped. “Shez,” his voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried an urgency unlike anything she had ever heard from him. His form trembled, his usually composed golden eyes wide with fear.

Shez halted mid-step, every muscle in her body tensing. She had never seen Arval react like this before. She turned sharply, her pulse quickening. "What is it, Arval?"

Arval’s entire spectral body began to flicker, shaking violently as though something—no, someone—was pulling at his very essence. His voice quivered. "He's here."

Shez’s breath hitched, her instincts flaring like a wildfire as a powerful force pressed down upon the air. Her fingers clenched into fists as her body moved on its own, her awakened power flooding through her veins. White markings blazed across her skin, her violet hair shifting to fiery hues as she transformed. The crescent halo of energy flickered behind her, casting her in a burning light.

Edelgard, already gripping Aymr tightly, stepped beside her, her crimson eyes scanning the shadows. She could feel it too—the suffocating presence, the unmistakable weight of something dangerous looming nearby.

Her voice echoed through the clearing. "Ashen! Show yourself!" Her gaze swept the sky, her senses sharp, searching for any sign of movement. Silence. The night stood still, the waterfall’s roar the only sound filling the air. "Where are you!?" Edelgard demanded, her voice cutting through the tension.

Suddenly, their movements came to a halt, and a whisper reached their ears. "Right behind you."

The voice was chilling, smooth yet edged with something unearthly. A shiver ran down Shez’s spine as she and Edelgard reacted instinctively, their weapons swinging in a desperate attempt to defend themselves.

However, Ashen moved like a ghost. His sword split into twin curved blades, and with an effortless motion, he intercepted their strikes, steel clashing in a shower of sparks. With a calculated force, he broke the deadlock and propelled himself back a few yards, his feet landing soundlessly against the soft earth.

He lifted his head, his burning orange eyes locking onto them with an intensity that sent a chill down Shez’s spine. Then, to their surprise, he exhaled softly and said, “It’s good to see you again.”

The words were unexpected, unnatural coming from the god who had cut a bloody path through Fódlan. There was no mockery, no threat, just… a strange sincerity laced beneath them. Shez stiffened, her grip on her sword tightening. “Your army isn’t far, is it?” Her voice carried urgency, her stance tense, ready for another battle.

Ashen held her gaze, then nodded. “Yes. They are stationed beyond the ridge.” His admission sent a ripple of unease through the air, but then, he added, “However, I am not here to fight.”

Edelgard studied him carefully, noting the lack of hostility in his tone. There was no arrogance, no cruelty. Something was different. She narrowed her eyes. “If not to fight, then what do you want?”

To her and Shez’s shock, Ashen did something completely unexpected.

The twin swords in his hands flickered with a faint glow before vanishing entirely, dissolving into thin air as if they had never existed. Then, he reached to his left hand, his clawed fingers grasping at something—his ring.  Without hesitation, he slid it off and placed it into his bag.

Shez tensed immediately, eyes narrowing. What is he playing at? That ring was what allowed him to summon his weapons—without it, he was unarmed. Vulnerable.

Edelgard, too, watched with caution, but she noted something else—something deeper. He wasn’t just disarming himself physically. This was symbolic. A show of submission? A declaration of peace? It was unclear, but one thing was certain—this was not the Ashen she had faced before.

Ashen’s gaze, no longer laced with the usual fire of battle, settled on Edelgard. “I want to talk,” he said, his voice steady. “About your daughter.”

The words hit her like a silent strike to the chest. Her grip on Aymr remained firm, but something inside her shifted. "My daughter? Why would he want to talk about her? And why now?" Her mind raced, searching for possible motives, but in the end, curiosity outweighed suspicion.

She slowly lowered her weapon, though she did not let go of it completely. “Talk?” she repeated, her eyes flickering with intrigue. “You came all this way just to talk?”

Ashen nodded. “Yes. And… about what led you to go against the church.”

Edelgard lowered her axe slowly, a sense of curiosity mingling with caution. Something felt off about him, but she remembered how he had spoken at House Gloucester before. Perhaps there was more to him than met the eye. She could sense that Ashen genuinely wanted to talk. “Very well.”

Before she could say more, Ashen lifted a clawed hand. “Only you and I will talk. I promise no harm will come.” His voice was calm, yet firm.

Immediately, Shez bristled at his demand, stepping forward with her sword still drawn. “Not happening,” she snapped. “I won’t leave Edelgard alone with you.” Her violet eyes burned with defiance, her stance unwavering. She refused to take her eyes off him, ready to leap in at the first sign of a threat.

Edelgard, however, placed a gentle hand on Shez’s shoulder, her voice calm yet resolute. “Shez… I’ll be okay.”

Shez looked at her, bewildered by the trust Edelgard displayed. “How can you say that?” she asked, frustration leaking into her voice. “You know what he’s done. He’s a monster—he killed all those people back at his village! How do we know he won’t do the same to you?”

Ashen remained still, unbothered by Shez’s accusation. Then, without warning, he did something none of them expected. His hand moved to his throat, glowing with a faint green light. The effect was instantaneous. His long, jagged claws receded, shrinking into the smooth, natural curve of human fingers. The dark, hardened scales that covered his arms and neck melted away, revealing the flesh of a man. The eerie molten orange of his eyes dulled, fading into a deep, vivid green. And his hair—once stark red—flowed into a cascade of emerald, the color rich and full of life.

Edelgard, Shez, and even Arval stood frozen in shock. Now standing before them was not the terrifying warlord, not the monstrous god they had come to know as Ashen. No. The man standing before them was something else entirely. A man, whole and human.

"Now… do you believe my words?" His voice, once a guttural growl, was now smooth and deep, carrying none of the monstrous distortion they had grown accustomed to.

Shez took a step back, her entire body tensing as she stared in pure disbelief. “What… the hell…?” Her grip on her sword trembled slightly.

Even Arval, always composed, was visibly shaken. His eyes widened, flickering with something between recognition and horror. “Wait, you’re—”

But before Arval could finish, Ashen turned his gaze on him and cut him off. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, his voice even. “I am still a god. But I want to talk. That’s all.”

Edelgard’s eyes studied him carefully. Even with the transformation, she knew he wasn’t just any man. He was still Ashen. Still Kazamir. But something about this moment felt… different. She nodded slowly.

Shez clenched her fists but exhaled through her nose, forcing herself to lower her sword. Her awakened form flickered, the fiery glow of her hair and markings dimming until she was back to her normal self. She shot Ashen a hard look. “Fine. You’ve got five minutes.” She turned and walked a short distance away, though her hands remained clenched at her sides, ready to intervene if necessary.

Edelgard turned to Ashen, standing tall, her expression calm but watchful. “Speak,” she said simply.

Ashen hesitated for just a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. Then, his deep green eyes locked onto hers, and he spoke. "You fought the church, led a war against it. Many say it was out of ambition, others say it was for the people." His gaze searched hers, unblinking. "I want to understand. What did you truly fight for, Edelgard?"

Edelgard’s eyes did not waver. She crossed her arms over her chest, her stance firm, but there was no hostility in her posture—only conviction. “I fought the church because its system was corrupt,” she said, her voice steady, yet carrying the weight of long-buried pain. “I was tired of the nobility’s privilege, of the Crest system that dictated a person’s worth based on their birth. Too many suffered simply because they were born without noble blood, while others, like myself, suffered because we were born with a Crest.” She exhaled sharply. “I wanted to create a society where merit mattered more than bloodline.”

Ashen’s curiosity deepened, but there was something in her words that made him pause. He leaned slightly forward, his green eyes narrowing. “You say you were sick of Crests… yet you bear two.” His voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable weight.

At this, Edelgard’s demeanor shifted. The firm mask she wore did not crack, but a shadow passed through her expression—an old wound, one that never truly healed. Her voice, when she spoke again, carried a sorrow that few had ever heard. “I used to have two Crests,” she admitted, her hands tightening against her arms. “But not by choice.”

She hesitated for just a breath, then continued. “I was a victim of unethical experiments conducted by a secretive group known as Those Who Slither in the Dark. They sought to create stronger humans, ones capable of bearing multiple Crests. I was one of their test subjects.” Her gaze darkened, her fingers digging into her sleeves as memories surfaced, unbidden. “I was not the only one. My siblings—my brothers and sisters—were forced to undergo the same procedures.” Her voice caught for a fraction of a second before she swallowed it down. “I was the only one who survived.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Ashen, who had been standing still before, now shifted slightly. He had seen atrocities, had caused them himself, but this—this was something different. Something deeply personal. His fingers flexed at his sides as his mind processed her words.

And then, Edelgard’s next words struck like a blade. “The church, too, conducted unethical experiments,” she continued, her voice sharp, filled with quiet rage. “You served them once, didn’t you? Then tell me, what difference was there, truly?”

Ashen’s jaw clenched. He had been a part of the church, had fought for Rhea and her vision for Fódlan. He had never turned a blind eye to its flaws, but he had also understood Rhea’s reasons. She had created the system to maintain stability, to preserve a world she believed would collapse without it. He had believed in her.... even when he believed she could bring back Sothis.

But now, standing before Edelgard, listening to the raw pain in her voice, he found himself at a loss.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “You should be dead.”

Edelgard blinked, caught off guard by the statement. “Excuse me?”

Ashen’s gaze bore into hers, piercing and thoughtful. “Bearing two Crests should have shortened your lifespan significantly. The strain alone should have killed you a few years ago.” He tilted his head slightly. “I assume your husband, Byleth, found a way to save you.”

Edelgard’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the weight of leadership, of war, of everything she had endured seemed to lift, if only slightly. “Not just me,” she murmured, “but a young woman named Lysithea also bore two Crests. Together, we sought a way to overcome our limited lifespans.”

Ashen, or rather Kazamir, absorbed her words carefully, his emerald eyes searching hers with quiet intensity. He remained silent for a moment, considering the implications of what she had just said. Finally, his voice, now free of the monstrous growl that once defined him, carried across the cold night air, steady and curious. “And now?” he asked. “What Crest do you bear now?”

Edelgard hesitated, but only for a moment. Then, she spoke, her voice carrying a tinge of bitterness. “A minor part of the Crest of Seiros still lingers,” she admitted. “The experiments done to me carved it into my very soul. But… the other one—” She exhaled, her arms tightening around herself slightly. “I had it removed. After the birth of my daughter.”

Ashen’s brows furrowed slightly, his expression unreadable. “You willingly gave up a part of your power?”

Edelgard nodded, her voice unwavering. “Yes.” She looked away for a brief moment, staring at the distant horizon as if recalling the painful decision she had made. “I spent my youth as a pawn—an experiment for a greater war. My body was forced to endure something no child should ever have suffered. I lived with the knowledge that I would not see old age, that every year I survived was a year stolen back from death itself. But when my daughter was born… I couldn’t allow her to grow up knowing that same fear.”

Ashen studied her intently, digesting her words. He had known power his entire existence. To him, power was both a tool and a curse. Yet, here stood a woman who had fought tooth and nail to build an empire, who had shattered the foundation of Fódlan itself… and she had willingly relinquished her strength for the sake of her child.

He exhaled softly, his fingers curling slightly at his side. “I see,” he murmured. Ashen’s gaze flickered, studying Edelgard closely. The flickering torchlight of the night cast elongated shadows over her face, making her crimson eyes glow with an eerie, determined intensity. He could tell there was more—more to her reasoning, more to the war she had waged against the church. And so, with a quiet curiosity laced in his voice, he pressed further.

“You didn’t just fight against the Crest system,” he said, his voice quieter now. “There was more to your war than just tearing down a system of noble privilege, wasn’t there?” His green eyes darkened slightly. “Tell me, Edelgard. What else did the church do?”

Edelgard’s lips parted slightly, then she exhaled. Her fingers tightened against the hilt of her axe, but her stance did not waver. “They did more than simply uphold the Crest system,” she admitted. “The church… suppressed any other form of religion through military force. They ensured that only the teachings of Seiros remained dominant. Any who opposed them—whether in faith or belief—were silenced.”

Ashen’s expression remained unreadable, but he inclined his head slightly, urging her to continue.

“The church controlled knowledge,” Edelgard went on, her voice edged with restrained frustration. “They concealed the truth of Fódlan’s past, of the Agarthans, of the war that shaped this continent... even you. They hid the existence of Those Who Slither in the Dark from the people, even though they knew the threat they posed. They refused to act against them, refused to acknowledge their crimes.” Her fingers tightened around the shaft of Aymr. “Because of their inaction, countless people suffered.”

Ashen furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That sounds… familiar.” His voice was low, barely more than a murmur. The realization settled heavily within him, but he didn’t speak on it just yet. Instead, he continued to listen.

“And then, of course,” Edelgard exhaled sharply, “there was their prejudice. The church maintained a long-standing superiority over foreign nations. They viewed the people of Almyra as barbarians, dismissed the Brigid people as nothing more than lesser beings, and showed little concern for the suffering of those beyond their immediate reach.” She clenched her jaw. “They claimed to stand for peace, but their actions spoke otherwise. They ensured that Fódlan remained isolated, ensuring their control.”

Ashen was silent for a long moment, taking in her words. Then, with a quiet hum, he spoke. “I see now why you waged war. And I must admit… your plan was well-executed.”

Edelgard blinked, her brows raising slightly. “My plan?”

Ashen’s gaze was knowing, sharp. “You used Those Who Slither in the Dark to your advantage.” His voice carried a strange hint of amusement. “You couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. You needed their resources, their influence in the shadows, to take down the church first. But you knew you couldn’t let them continue to exist afterward. So you bled them dry—let them expend their soldiers, let them weaken themselves in their prolonged battle with the church.” He smirked slightly. “And then, when the time was right, you struck.”

Edelgard’s eyes did not waver, but a flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps even unease—passed through them. His insight was unnerving. No one had ever laid out her strategy so plainly, not even Hubert.

She studied him, her arms still crossed tightly over her chest. Where would he stand? Ashen had been part of the church, that much was clear. He had fought for Rhea at one point—but at the same time, he had tried to kill her.

Finally, she voiced the question that burned in her mind. “If you had been around during Byleth’s time as a professor, which side would you have chosen?”

Ashen exhaled slowly, his emerald eyes flickering with thought. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, the weight of history pressing against his chest. When he opened them again, his voice was steady, but there was something raw beneath it, something almost painful. “I would have gone to war with the church.”

Edelgard’s eyes widened slightly. It wasn’t the answer itself that surprised her, but the way he said it—not with hatred, not with a thirst for conquest, but with quiet resolve. “Not for the same reasons as you,” Ashen continued, his voice unwavering. “Not because of the Crest system, or even their corrupt practices, though they are abhorrent. My reason would have been different.”

Edelgard tilted her head slightly, intrigued. “Then why?”

Ashen’s gaze darkened, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. “Because of the things they concealed.” His voice was laced with quiet anger. “The truth of Fódlan’s past, the lies they fed the people, the history they rewrote to suit their needs. They hoarded knowledge and hid the true events of this world. I would have torn down the church to expose the truth—to lay it bare for all to see.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Rhea and her followers crafted a world of ignorance. The people deserved to know. They deserved the choice to decide their own fate, rather than live in the illusion she built.”

Edelgard was silent, watching him carefully. She could see the conviction in his eyes, the fire that burned within him—not the fire of destruction, but of revelation. He had not wanted to rule over Fódlan for the sake of power. He had wanted to bring the truth to light.

But there was more. She could sense it. “And?” she pressed, folding her arms. “That isn’t all, is it?”

Ashen’s expression twisted slightly, his jaw tightening. “Broken promises.” His voice, though steady, carried a weight that Edelgard recognized all too well—betrayal. “She promised me a future,” he murmured, his voice low. “She told me I would rule Fódlan. That it would be my destiny. But she lied.” His eyes darkened further, burning with something bitter. “I would have gone to war with the church not only for the truth but because of the promise that was broken.”

Edelgard remained still, locked onto him, taking in his words with quiet intensity. The pieces were slowly falling into place—his hatred toward the church, his relentless conquest, the fury that burned in every action he took. There was so much pain woven into his every word, his every movement. But there was something else too—something deeper than rage, something fractured.

She probed further. “So if you had been there,” she said carefully, “you would have gone after Rhea first.” She studied his face, his expression unreadable. “And after her? What then?”

Ashen’s emerald gaze darkened slightly, his fingers flexing at his sides. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a man who had considered this question before. “Then… I would have gone after you and Byleth next.”

Edelgard felt a strange chill run down her spine. She had suspected as much, but hearing him admit it aloud struck differently. “Probably?” she repeated, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.

Ashen nodded, his tone unwavering. “Yes. If Byleth had stood against me, I wouldn’t have hesitated.” His eyes flickered with something unreadable. “And neither would you.”

Edelgard didn’t deny it. She had fought many who stood in her way. Byleth had been one of them once. If Ashen had risen as a force during those years, she had no doubt they would have clashed. Perhaps the world would have been different now.

But then, Ashen shifted, and his expression changed, a shadow passing over his face. “Now, for the other question,” he said, his voice quieter. “Your daughter.”

Edelgard tensed slightly, but her face remained composed. “What about Clainsiia?” she asked.

Ashen still had his hand pressed against his throat, maintaining his human form, but the longer he kept it, the more the strain pulled at him. He could feel the corruption underneath, crawling just beneath his skin, waiting for the moment his grip faltered. A part of him wanted to let it go...but he couldn't. Not now.

His voice, when he spoke, carried an unfamiliar weight. Not the usual cold authority, not the fury of a god preparing for war, but something more fragile. “The child is… concerned about me.” He exhaled sharply, his fingers twitching against his throat. “She discovered who I was. She… called me a broken man.”

Edelgard’s lips parted slightly, her expression shifting. "So Clainsiia had truly seen past this person." Her daughter had always been perceptive, but to reach even Ashen—to make him question himself—was something entirely different.

Ashen’s gaze flickered as if recalling something distant, something buried. “She asked me… who I used to be.” He shook his head, the tension in his body visible, as if the very question unraveled the chains he had so tightly wrapped around his past. “She wouldn’t stop asking. Kept pushing. Kept questioning. Even when I told her not to.” His voice darkened slightly, frustration laced within it, but beneath that… something else. Something unsteady.

Edelgard inhaled slowly, watching him carefully. “And did you answer her?”

Ashen hesitated. His claws twitched involuntarily, but he did not release his grip on his throat just yet. “I told her fragments. I revealed more than I should have.” His jaw clenched. “I did not tell her my name. Not completely.” But the truth hovered at the edge of his lips. Kazamir. That name—the man he had once been.

Edelgard’s face softened, and a small smile played on her lips. She closed her eyes and whispered, "That’s my girl."

The words drifted into the cold night air, barely above a whisper, but they were enough. Ashen’s head snapped toward her, his molten orange eyes widening with something that was neither fury nor amusement, but raw demand. His breath hitched, and then, like a fire given new oxygen, he erupted. "What did you just say?" His voice came out in a guttural snarl, sharp and accusing.

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Meanwhile... Shez sat on a boulder some distance away, arms crossed, her foot tapping impatiently against the rock. Arval floated beside her with anxiety as he glanced back toward the direction where Edelgard and Ashen had gone. The tension was gnawing at him.

"Has it been five minutes yet?" Arval asked, his voice laced with concern.

Shez let out a slow exhale, tilting her head. "Almost."

Arval's form flickered slightly as he clenched his ethereal hands. "I don’t trust him with her," he muttered, more to himself than to Shez. His gaze darted back in the direction of the confrontation. "We have to go. Now."

Shez frowned, but before she could respond, Arval suddenly stiffened. His golden eyes widened with an urgent alarm.

His voice was sharp. "Shez, don’t use your power."

Shez’s brows furrowed. "What? Why not—"Arval’s gaze darted behind her. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pointed past her shoulder, his expression darkening. Shez turned. Standing just a few feet away was Byleth.

The moonlight cast an ethereal glow over him, making his teal hair shimmer faintly in the dim light. His piercing eyes, filled with quiet intensity, met hers without hesitation. His hand rested loosely on the hilt of the Sword of the Creator, though it remained sheathed for now.

"Have you seen my wife?" Byleth asked, his voice calm yet carrying an undertone of concern.

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Ashen let go of his throat. The moment his fingers uncurled, the transformation overtook him with an unforgiving force.

Scales burst across his skin, claws lengthened, and the red in his hair bled back into its full, monstrous hue. His breathing turned ragged as his form shifted, his molten eyes burning with renewed intensity.

"What does a little girl want from me?" he bellowed.

Edelgard remained still, her posture composed, though she could feel the sheer heat radiating off of him. His power was suffocating, a dark aura bleeding into the night air.

Ashen stepped forward, his massive frame casting a looming shadow over her. "What does a little runt see that I don’t?" His voice carried a dangerous edge, a mix of frustration, confusion, and something else—something that bordered on desperation.

Then, without warning—he exhaled fire. A plume of bright, blue flames roared into the sky, illuminating the entire field in its glow. The heat seared through the cold night air, a terrifying display of raw, unchecked power.

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Back where Byleth and Shez were they saw the fire. Byleth's eyes narrowed. "Ashen!"

Shez’s stomach twisted with unease. "Edelgard!"

Byleth turned sharply toward Shez, his expression unreadable. "Why did you leave her alone with him?" His voice was calm, but the weight of his words carried unmistakable intensity.

Shez clenched her jaw, exhaling through her nose. "She wanted me to." She hated how small her voice sounded in that moment. There was no time for argument. Both of them ran. As fast as their legs could carry them.

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The cold night air burned Edelgard’s lungs as she faced Ashen, the heat of his previous flame still lingering between them. The flickering blue light illuminated the deep lines of tension in his expression. His breathing was ragged, uneven. His claws twitched at his sides, as if he was barely restraining himself from something—whether it was anger, pain, or something else entirely, Edelgard couldn't yet tell.

But she didn't waver.

Instead, she took a slow step forward. The weight of her words was deliberate, chosen with care. “Clainsiia sees something good in you,” she said softly.

The change in Ashen was immediate. His body stiffened, his molten orange eyes widening with something that teetered between surprise and confusion. Good? The word echoed in his mind, unfamiliar—unfathomable. "That little girl sees good in me?"

Edelgard pressed on, her tone unwavering. “Byleth taught her this. He told her, ‘If someone is hurt, broken, or even sad, try to help them. But understand what's truly wrong with them, and don't assume based on their appearance.’”

The night air was thick with tension. The roar of the waterfall was distant now, as if the world itself had quieted to hear them.

Edelgard took another step forward. “You telling her about some moments of your past made her curious,” she continued. “And now… she wants to help you become who you used to be.”

A sharp, bitter chuckle escaped Ashen before he could stop it. His head tilted slightly, his clawed fingers flexing at his sides. He turned away from her, the fire in his eyes dimming into something unreadable. For a long, heavy moment, silence stretched between them. Then, at last, he spoke. “That’s all I needed to know,” he murmured. His voice lacked its usual edge—it was neither a growl nor a threat. Just a quiet, tired statement. “But she's just wasting her time trying to help me.”

Edelgard’s brows furrowed slightly, but she said nothing. She only watched as he exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling with a barely restrained storm beneath his skin.

Finally, Ashen took a step away, his movements slow but deliberate. His wings trembled at his back, their dark, jagged edges catching the moonlight. “You all will see me tomorrow with my army,” he said, his voice steady once more. “Be prepared.”

He turned, his movements rigid, as though there was something heavy weighing him down. But just before he could take flight, Edelgard spoke again. “Before you go, I must ask.”

Ashen stopped mid-step, his claws curling slightly at his sides. Slowly, he turned his head just enough to glance at her over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable, his gaze sharp but uncertain.

Edelgard’s lilac eyes met his, unblinking. “What do you truly view yourself as?” she asked, her voice even. “A god… or a broken man?”

For a fleeting moment, the fire in Ashen’s eyes flickered—not with rage, not with arrogance, but with something deeper. Something that lay buried beneath centuries of blood and war. His jaw tightened. His wings flexed, restless.

The air grew thick with tension, suffocating, as though the weight of his own existence had suddenly pressed upon him. But in the end, he gave no answer. Instead, his wings snapped open, and with a single, powerful thrust, he ascended into the night sky, disappearing into the darkness.

Shez and Byleth arrived just in time to see Edelgard standing alone beneath the pale glow of the moon. The heat from Ashen’s flames had long since faded, leaving only the cold, lingering weight of his presence behind.

Byleth rushed forward, his hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of his sword. “Are you okay?” His voice, though steady, carried an undertone of concern.

Edelgard turned toward him, her expression calm, though there was something unreadable in her gaze. “Yes, I’m okay.”

Shez exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the tension coiling in her chest. “What the hell happened?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “We saw fire. It didn’t look like a friendly conversation.”

Edelgard let out a slow breath, her lilac eyes glinting in the moonlight. “He didn’t attack me,” she assured them. “But his army isn’t far.” She lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable. “We must be prepared for tomorrow.”

Byleth’s brows furrowed slightly, but he gave a small nod. He glanced in the direction Ashen had disappeared, his expression darkening with thought. “Then we should head back.” The three of them returned to House Galeta, their footsteps heavy with the weight of what was to come for the battle of House Galeta will begin soon.

Chapter Text

The next day, everyone was prepared for Ashen's army—both inside and outside the walls of House Galatea. The banners of the Adrestian Empire and House Galatea fluttered against the cold morning wind, their colors stark against the gray sky. The knights stood firm at the front lines, shields raised, while Pegasus Knights hovered in disciplined formations just above the battlefield, wings beating steadily. Archers lined the battlements, their bows taut and ready. Vestra Sorcerer-Engineers lurked in the shadows, prepared to unleash their experimental magics should the battle demand it.

Amidst the defensive ranks, Ferdinand stood near the rear lines beside Marianne, his sharp amber eyes scanning the horizon. His posture was noble as ever, but there was an unmistakable tightness in his expression—one only Marianne could recognize. He turned to her, his voice quiet but firm.

“Are you sure you’re prepared for this?” His tone carried more than just concern for the battle. It carried something deeper—something personal.

Marianne, her hands clasped together, closed her eyes briefly before nodding. "Yes," she said softly but with unwavering resolve. "I believe… after this, it will be my turn to do something for you."

Ferdinand blinked, caught slightly off guard by her words, before his lips curved into a soft smile. He had spent so long worrying about the war, about protecting her and ensuring her safety, that he hadn't stopped to think about what lay beyond it. But Marianne had. And now, here she was, looking toward a future that, for the first time, they could shape together.

“You’ve been thinking of our future,” Ferdinand murmured, his voice touched with something warm, something hopeful.

Marianne’s gaze met his, and her gentle smile was enough to steal his breath. "I have," she admitted. "Have you?"

Ferdinand's grip on his lance tightened ever so slightly, as if grounding himself against the weight of the emotions stirring within him. "More than you know," he confessed. His voice was steady, but there was a quiet intensity in it. "And when this is over, I would like to speak of it in earnest."

Marianne’s cheeks tinged with color, but she did not shy away. Instead, she nodded, her heart beating faster. "I would very much like that," she whispered.

Before another word could be exchanged, Yuri approached with his usual smirk, though it lacked its usual playful mischief. His violet eyes flickered between the two. “Not to ruin the moment, lovebirds, but you might want to look at that.” He pointed toward the hill beyond the battlefield.

Both Ferdinand and Marianne turned—and there, standing alone on the crest of the hill, was Ashen. He walked slowly, his steps deliberate, his figure cutting a solitary silhouette against the overcast sky.

From the gathered ranks of House Galatea’s forces, Ingrid broke away. Her steps were steady, her grip on Luin firm. Behind her, Byleth, Shez, Ashe, and Edelgard followed, their expressions unreadable, their gazes locked onto the man before them.

Fifteen yards. That was the distance between them when they stopped. The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. The winter wind howled softly through the valley, rustling banners, carrying with it the scent of frost and steel. No one spoke, not at first. They merely stood there, two opposing forces staring each other down, waiting for the first to break the stillness.

Then, Ingrid took a slow breath, her grip tightening on Luin. Without hesitation, she raised the sacred lance and drove it into the frozen ground before her. The blade sank deep, a defiant statement carved into the very battlefield.

"This is House Galatea," Ingrid declared, her voice unwavering, ringing clear against the cold air. "And if you think we will surrender, you are mistaken. My people will not bow to you."

Her words hung in the air like an unshaken banner, her stance resolute. And still, Ashen remained silent. He did not react, did not flinch, did not offer even the slightest shift in his posture. But he did look at Luin.

For a long moment, his glowing orange eyes fixated on the weapon, tracing its length with something unreadable—contemplation, curiosity, perhaps even nostalgia. Then, at last, he spoke.

"I see you wield Luin," he murmured, his voice quiet yet carrying across the battlefield. "The Hero’s Relic of House Daphnel. One of Nemesis’ Ten Elites… from so many years ago."

His words were not laced with arrogance, nor mockery. It was simply an observation, spoken as if recalling something from a distant past. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze shifting back to Ingrid. "I’ve always wanted to see that weapon," he admitted.

The silence that followed was heavy. The soldiers standing behind Ingrid and the others shifted uneasily, gripping their weapons tighter. The tension in the air was palpable.

Bernadetta, stationed along the battlements with her bow ready, kept scanning the surroundings. Her fingers trembled against the taut string of her arrow, but it was not from fear. It was from confusion. Something was wrong. She leaned slightly toward Dorothea, her voice barely a whisper. "Where is his army?"

Dorothea frowned, her own unease growing. Her sharp green eyes swept across the field, expecting to see the banners of Ashen’s forces cresting the hills, but there was nothing. No siege weapons, no soldiers marching in formation. Nothing but Ashen standing alone.

She narrowed her eyes. "Be ready," she muttered. "This doesn’t feel right."

Ashe took a few hesitant steps forward, his grip tightening around his bow. His blue eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the battlefield before landing on the lone figure before them. Swallowing thickly, he called out, his voice firm but laced with unease. “Where… where is your army, Ashen?”

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, Ashen exhaled, the breath curling in the cold air. His eyes, glowing with eerie intensity, flickered toward Ashe as if the question itself was foolish.

“You will see soon enough,” Ashen murmured, his voice calm yet carrying an underlying weight of something far more terrifying.

Then, his gaze shifted, settling on Edelgard. There was something deliberate in his stare—something measured. A flicker of movement.

Ashen’s eyes lifted, and Byleth’s instinct kicked in before his mind could even process it. His gaze snapped upward, following Ashen’s line of sight. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up. “El, watch out!” he shouted.

Without hesitation, Byleth lunged, shoving Edelgard out of the way just as a massive boulder came crashing down from the sky, slamming into the ground where she had stood. The earth shook from the impact, sending a shockwave rippling across the battlefield.

Everyone’s heads snapped up. Giant winged beasts, their bodies covered in thick, dark feathers, circled above like harbingers of destruction. Their monstrous talons clutched more boulders, ready to unleash devastation upon the forces of House Galatea.

Panic erupted across the ranks. Soldiers shouted, scrambling to evade the falling stones. Some moved fast enough to escape. Others weren’t as lucky. The sickening sound of stone meeting flesh echoed through the air as a few were crushed beneath the weight of the attack.

The sky darkened with the shadows of these monstrous birds, and as the defenders scrambled to counterattack, the air was filled with a deafening roar.

Then, figures leapt from the backs of the creatures—beast-like warriors clad in jagged armor, riding their avian mounts like predators descending upon their prey. The Knights of House Galatea barely had time to react before the enemy was upon them.

Pegasus Knights sprang into action, taking to the sky in an attempt to counter the airborne assault.

“Ingrid!” Ashe shouted, urgency bleeding into his voice as he turned to her. “They're gonna need you!”

Ingrid’s grip tightened around her lance. Her jaw set, and she gave a single decisive nod. “I’m on it,” she said.

Without another word, she sprinted toward her waiting Pegasus, leaping onto its back with practiced ease. With a powerful flap of its wings, the creature took off, carrying Ingrid into the fray.

But just as she ascended into the battlefield, a deep, guttural roar erupted from the hill where Ashen stood. It was not a sound of mere intimidation—it was something primal, something ancient, something that reverberated through the bones of all who heard it. The ground trembled.

Then, from beneath the frozen soil behind Ashen, massive chitinous legs burst forth. Giant crawlers, their armored bodies glistening in the pale morning light, dragged themselves free from the earth, mandibles clicking as if sensing the fresh prey before them. But before any arrows or spells could be loosed upon them, the creatures scuttled back underground, their massive forms disappearing into the frostbitten terrain.

Silence fell for a brief moment. And then the battlefield erupted once more. From the holes left behind, Ashen’s army surged forth. His forces, monstrous warriors clad in jagged armor and bestial forms, poured out like a swarm, their numbers spilling across the battlefield. They were not as numerous as at House Gloucester—but they were here, nonetheless.

Linhardt’s sharp green eyes scanned the enemy lines, and his brows furrowed in thought. Something was wrong.

“There aren’t as many as there were back at House Gloucester,” he muttered, mostly to himself. His voice was thoughtful but tinged with suspicion.

Ferdinand, standing beside him, turned with a questioning glance. “What are you saying?”

Linhardt rubbed his temple, his mind working quickly. “I don’t know… but it feels like something is missing.”

Marianne, who had been quiet, suddenly spoke. Her voice was soft but carried an unwavering determination. “Even if that is the case, we still need to win.”

The conversation was cut short as a group of beast soldiers rushed toward them, snarling, their weapons raised. Their massive, clawed hands reached for the nearest knights.

Marianne took a breath, her hands lifting. A sharp wind howled around her, and the sky darkened as frost gathered in the air. She whispered the spell’s name, and in an instant she used Fimbulvetr.

The furious blizzard roared to life around her, massive crystalline shards of ice spiraling forward, slamming into the incoming warriors. Their roars turned to guttural cries as the ice encased their bodies, freezing them where they stood.

Meanwhile, on the battlefield’s opposite end, Ashen cut through the Galatea soldiers with merciless efficiency. His double-bladed sword sliced clean through armor and flesh alike, his movements precise, methodical—unstoppable. One desperate knight lunged forward, his blade striking true against Ashen’s body, the steel biting into the scale-covered flesh... but the wound did not linger.

The soldier's face twisted in horror as he watched the gash in Ashen’s side seal itself, golden embers flickering across his body as his scales regenerated. He had no time to react before Ashen’s clawed hand snapped up, gripping the knight’s helmet with terrifying strength. The knight struggled, his muffled screams lost beneath the chaos of war—until Ashen exhaled.

A torrent of fire erupted from his mouth, engulfing the helpless soldier in a blinding inferno. The scent of burning steel and flesh filled the air as the knight’s cries were cut short. When the flames dissipated, only charred remains slumped lifelessly to the ground, armor still glowing red-hot.

Ashen turned, his glowing orange eyes scanning the battlefield, searching. Then he saw them. Byleth. Shez. Edelgard. They were locked in battle against a pack of his beast soldiers, their forms blurred with movement as they cut through his forces. Shez’s twin swords danced, carving through their enemies with unparalleled speed. Edelgard swung Aymr with powerful, sweeping strikes, her imperial resolve burning bright even amidst the chaos. Byleth fought with unshakable precision, the Sword of the Creator flashing as it cleaved through the opposition.

Ashen's wings burst forth from his back, unfurling with a powerful gust of wind. He surged forward, his speed inhuman, his blade gleaming as he descended upon the trio like an avenging god.

Byleth saw him at the last second. His instincts flared, his body moving before his mind could register the danger. He raised the Sword of the Creator just in time, the divine blade clashing against Ashen’s with a thunderous impact. Sparks erupted between them as the force of the collision sent shockwaves rippling outward. Their eyes met.

And Byleth demanded, his voice edged with something raw, something more than just the battle, “What did you and Edelgard talk about yesterday?”

For a moment, Ashen said nothing. His expression was unreadable, his glowing eyes reflecting the battlefield’s chaos.

Then, without a word, he broke the clash, stepping back as his wings flapped once, pushing him into the air. His stance remained firm, but his silence spoke volumes.

Byleth tensed, stepping in front of Edelgard and Shez, gripping his blade tighter. “Answer me.”

Ashen’s gaze flickered between them. Then, his voice—calm, unyielding—cut through the battlefield. “Focus on the fight.” And then the fire came. A torrent of flames erupted from his mouth, the heat blistering, the sheer force of it enough to melt the frozen ground beneath their feet. The three barely had time to react, leaping in opposite directions as the fire scorched the earth where they once stood.

Shez was the first to counter. She shot forward in a blur, her blades raised high, her instincts pushing her beyond thought. With a powerful leap, she soared toward Ashen, bringing her swords down with all her strength.

Ashen caught them. His double-bladed sword locked against hers in midair, holding her there as if she were weightless. His voice, tinged with something almost mocking, echoed between them. “When will I see that power again?” he mused. “Or is that little god afraid Sothis will find out?”

A sharp, sudden presence surged within Shez’s mind, the familiar weight of Arval’s consciousness pressing against hers like a vice. But this time, he wasn’t whispering only to her. No, his voice echoed outward, reverberating through the very air around them. He manifested beside her in an ethereal shimmer, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto Ashen.

"You heard it, didn’t you?" Arval’s voice was eerily calm, but beneath that calm was something deeper—something sharp and knowing.

Ashen’s eyes flickered, but his grip on Shez’s blades did not waver. For a long, tense moment, silence stretched between them. Then, suddenly, with terrifying force, he lashed out.

His boot connected squarely with Shez’s stomach, the impact sending her flying backward like a ragdoll. She slammed into the frozen ground, the force knocking the breath from her lungs. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as pain exploded through her body.

Ashen exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if dispelling a thought he didn’t want to entertain. "I heard it all," he muttered, more to himself than to them. His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words carried something dangerous.

Before he could linger on it, a blur of crimson and black flashed toward him. Edelgard was upon him in an instant, Aymr swinging down with devastating force. Ashen twisted, his double-bladed sword rising just in time to intercept the crushing blow. Sparks erupted from the clash, the sheer force of the impact sending a violent shockwave through the air.

Edelgard gritted her teeth, pressing down harder, her muscles straining. “You didn’t answer me,” she growled, her crimson eyes burning with fierce determination. "What do you truly see yourself as? A god? Or a broken man?"

Ashen’s expression darkened. He didn’t answer. Instead, with an abrupt surge of strength, he broke the deadlock, forcing Aymr away. In the same fluid motion, he spun—his movements swift as lightning. His leg shot out in a vicious roundhouse kick, striking Edelgard cleanly across the head. Her vision blurred instantly. The world tilted. Then—darkness. Edelgard’s body crumpled to the ground, her form limp against the frozen earth.

Ashen exhaled through his nose, his gaze impassive as he glanced down at her unconscious body. “Not today,” he murmured. But before he could take another breath, something tightened around his waist.

A sudden, violent pull yanked him backward. His feet skidded against the ground as he turned his head sharply—only to see the familiar glow of the Sword of the Creator, its segmented form wrapped around him like a chain. Byleth. With a forceful tug, Byleth reeled him in like a predator claiming its prey. Ashen barely had time to brace before Byleth’s fist collided with his face.

The impact sent Ashen staggering. The force cracked the air around them, but before he could fully recover, Byleth twisted his wrist, and the chains of the Sword of the Creator unwrapped with a metallic snap, setting Ashen free—but only for a moment. Ashen snarled, claws scraping against the ground to stop himself from sliding further. His molten eyes flickered upwards, and then he saw it—the bright blue glow of Agena Arrow forming above Byleth’s outstretched hand.

A single breath. Then the massive, celestial arrow hurtled downward, its radiance swallowing the battlefield in an ethereal light. Ashen’s pupils shrank, and at the last second, he threw himself to the side, rolling as the arrow struck the earth with a deafening explosion. The force sent dust and debris into the air, the shockwave knocking nearby soldiers off their feet.

Byleth didn’t wait. He advanced through the settling dust, steps measured and precise. His teal eyes burned with something sharper than fury—certainty. He stopped a few feet away, his grip on the Sword of the Creator firm. Ashen had already pushed himself up, his stance low and defensive, his twin blades still glowing with embered energy.

Byleth spoke, his voice calm but edged with steel. “I see you now.” Ashen remained silent, though his fingers curled tighter around his swords. He didn’t speak, but Byleth knew. He saw the hesitation, the weight in Ashen’s stance. He had expected something else—hatred, bloodlust, but instead, he saw a man who had been lost for too long. “All I see is a man who lost his humanity,” Byleth continued, stepping forward. “A man who doesn’t know who he is anymore.”

A deep, guttural growl rumbled in Ashen’s throat. His body tensed, and suddenly, a massive roar erupted from his lungs, shaking the very battlefield. A gray aura exploded outward from him, shrouding his form in an oppressive, suffocating power. The air around them warped, crackling with an unstable energy.

Byleth exhaled sharply, his hair shifting, the familiar sensation of something awakening within him. His eyes and hair ignited into a bright, piercing green , his presence magnifying with an overwhelming divine force. The ground beneath them trembled as the two forces collide. “You don’t understand me,” Ashen spat, his voice guttural and raw.

But before he could say another word, a sharp, searing pain shot through his shoulder. His breath hitched as he felt the unmistakable sensation of a blade piercing through flesh. His molten eyes widened in shock as he turned his head, just in time to see the familiar violet-haired mercenary behind him, her expression set in fierce determination. Shez gritted her teeth, twisting her twin blade deeper into his shoulder. “We still have a score to settle,” she growled, her voice taut with lingering rage.

Ashen snarled, his wings flaring wide as raw power pulsed from his form. Without hesitation, he reached back with a clawed hand, grabbing Shez by the collar. Before she could react, he wrenched her forward and then, with monstrous strength, hurled her through the air.

Shez barely had time to brace before she slammed into the stone wall of a nearby building, the impact rattling her bones. Dust and rubble cascaded around her as she gasped for breath, struggling to push herself up.

But Ashen didn’t stop moving. His fiery gaze snapped back toward Byleth just in time to see the professor charging at him, the Sword of the Creator igniting with divine energy. Byleth’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with purpose. Ashen moved faster.

In a flash of shadowed energy, he warped behind Byleth, his arms wrapping around the professor in an iron grip. Byleth’s breath hitched, his body tensing, but before he could react, Ashen leaned down slightly, his voice a low growl against Byleth’s ear. “Shall we take this elsewhere?”

And with a single pulse of his power, they vanished. The world shifted, and the next moment, they reappeared within the heart of House Galatea. Byleth barely had time to register his surroundings before Ashen struck. A brutal kick to his stomach sent him skidding backward across the stone pavement, his boots scraping against the cold ground as he fought to regain his balance.

Ashen didn’t let up. With a flick of his wrist, his double-bladed sword split into two separate weapons. Sparks danced along his arms, igniting the weapons in a surge of raw energy. He lifted both blades skyward, and in the next instant, a beam of searing light shot downward, aiming directly for Byleth.

Byleth’s heart pounded. Move. He twisted on his heel, sprinting as fast as his body allowed, the devastating beam chasing after him. It struck the ground behind him, obliterating stone and wood alike, the force of it reducing several buildings to rubble. The shockwaves sent waves of heat rolling through the streets, smoke rising into the sky.

Ashen’s relentless onslaught did not falter. His molten orange eyes burned with an intensity that sent a chill down Byleth’s spine, even amidst the scorching flames. Byleth gritted his teeth. He had to stay ahead, had to find an opening. He zigzagged through the ruins of House Galatea’s once-proud stronghold, his movements swift, calculating. Ashen hovered above, his gaze locked onto him, his double-bladed sword gleaming with deadly precision.

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Meanwhile, back on the battlefield, Edelgard groaned as she slowly pushed herself up from the cold, hard ground. Her head pounded, her vision still spinning from Ashen’s earlier strike. She forced herself to stay upright, shaking off the dizziness that threatened to pull her back down. She had no time to be weak.

The sound of rapid footsteps made her turn, and she saw Shez and Dorothea running toward her.

“Edie! Are you okay?” Dorothea’s voice was laced with worry, her green eyes scanning Edelgard for any signs of severe injury.

“I’m fine,” Edelgard replied quickly, brushing off the concern. “Where’s Byleth?”

Before either of them could answer, a deafening roar cut through the sky. Their heads snapped upward just in time to see Ashen hovering above the ruins, his hands glowing with ominous green energy.

With a sharp motion, he sent razor-sharp blades of wind screaming through the air—a spell none of them had ever seen before.

Dorothea’s breath caught in her throat. “Cutting Gale…”

Shez clenched her fists. “If Ashen’s up there, then Byleth has to be nearby.” She took a step forward. “I’m going to help him.”

Before she could take off, Edelgard’s hand shot out, grabbing Shez’s wrist. Her grip was firm, commanding. “Shez, you won’t be able to handle Ashen without your power.”

Dorothea blinked, confused. “What power?” Her gaze flickered between them, searching for an answer.

Edelgard hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I’ll explain later.” Her lilac eyes bore into Shez’s, serious and unwavering. “Find a way to use only a fraction of your power. Do not lose control.”

Shez exhaled sharply but nodded. “Got it.”

Without another word, she turned and sprinted toward the burning ruins of House Galatea, her heart hammering in her chest.

Dorothea turned back to Edelgard, her brow furrowed. “How long has Shez had… whatever this power is?”

Edelgard’s expression was unreadable. “For a while,” she admitted. “But right now, we need to help the others.”

Dorothea studied her for a moment longer before sighing. “Fine. But when this is over, you owe me a full explanation.” The two women turned, heading back toward the front lines where the battle raged on.

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Shez dashed through the ruined streets of House Galatea, her heart hammering against her ribs as she reached the scene of the ongoing fight. Flames licked at the shattered remains of once-proud buildings, their embers casting flickering shadows against the frostbitten ground. Above her, Ashen hovered with eerie grace, his molten orange eyes locked onto Byleth, who stood firm amidst the destruction.

A crackling beam of golden energy shot upward—Byleth’s Thoron, searing through the air with deadly precision. Ashen twisted midair, his body moving in impossible ways as he dodged each strike with inhuman fluidity, his wings carrying him effortlessly through the chaotic storm of magic.

Shez grit her teeth, frustration burning in her chest as she watched. “Damn it… he’s too fast.”

Arval’s voice stirred in her mind, calm but urgent. “Shez, if you want to intervene, you must be careful. He will not hold back.”

Shez exhaled, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword. “There has to be a way I can use my power—just a little bit—without triggering a full transformation.”

Arval hesitated before speaking. “Your sword,” he reminded her, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “The weapon I granted you. It is bound to my power, forged from it. If you focus, you may be able to draw upon a fraction of its strength—just enough to tip the scales without exposing yourself.”

Shez glanced down at her blade, the weight of it suddenly feeling different in her hands. A thought flickered in her mind, unbidden yet undeniably tempting. If she could harness just a fraction of the power within it…

She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes for a brief moment. Then, as if responding to her will, the sword ignited. Flames roared to life along its length, crackling like a living thing, their orange and gold hues flickering in the reflection of her violet eyes.

“Alright,” she murmured, adjusting her grip. “Let’s do this.”

Meanwhile Byleth barely managed to avoid Ashen’s rapid strikes, twisting and weaving between his opponent’s monstrous claws. Ashen lunged, his talons slicing through the air just inches from Byleth’s throat, but Byleth countered with a swift sidestep, bringing his blade down in a sharp arc. “Sagittae!”

The spell surged forth, a cluster of searing magical arrows hurtling straight toward Ashen. He grunted as the impact struck true, forcing him backward in midair. He landed lightly upon the crumbling remains of a rooftop, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off the pain.

Byleth lowered his sword slightly, assessing him. “You’ve gotten stronger,” Ashen admitted, his voice carrying something that almost sounded like amusement.

Byleth exhaled, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension in his muscles. “I trained a lot.”

Ashen's molten eyes flickered as they briefly shifted past Byleth, settling on the figure charging toward them. His gaze darkened slightly, something calculating flashing across his expression. “With her, I assume,” he muttered.

Byleth turned his head just enough to see Shez sprinting toward him, her blade glowing with the same searing energy he had seen before. She came to a halt beside him, her violet eyes locking onto Ashen with unwavering determination.

"Mind if I join in?" Shez asked, her tone light but edged with something sharper—anticipation, maybe even excitement.

Byleth gave a small nod. “I don’t mind.”

Ashen watched them for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before exhaling sharply through his nose. With a flick of his wrist, his double-bladed sword materialized in his hands once more, the embered energy pulsing along its edges like a living thing. He spun the weapon with practiced ease, the motion so fluid it was almost hypnotic. Then, without another word, he lunged.

Byleth barely had time to raise his blade before Ashen was upon them, his strikes blindingly fast, his movements refined yet relentless. Shez stepped in quickly, her own sword clashing against his in a burst of sparks. The sheer force of his assault sent shockwaves rippling through the crumbling ruins beneath their feet.

Ashen twisted midair, his wings spreading wide as he launched himself upward, only to dive back down in a vicious arc. His sword spun like a whirlwind, aimed to break through their defenses. Byleth met him in the air, the Sword of the Creator flashing as it parried the oncoming strike. At the same time, Shez darted low, her blade slicing toward Ashen’s exposed flank.

But he was fast. Too fast. With inhuman reflexes, he twisted his body, avoiding Shez’s strike by mere inches before slamming his foot against her shoulder, using the momentum to propel himself back into the fray against Byleth. Shez stumbled slightly but recovered instantly, her eyes narrowing as she adjusted her stance.

She grinned. “This is getting fun.”

Ashen exhaled sharply. “Then let’s see how long that lasts.” with that, he charged once more. His blades spun with deadly precision, cutting through the cold morning air as he lunged toward Shez and Byleth.

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Meanwhile, Bernadetta was still shooting her arrows at the beast soldiers, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled back the bowstring. Each shot flew true, piercing through the thick hide of her monstrous enemies, but no matter how many she felled, more kept coming. Her breath was shallow, her heart pounding in her ears. She barely had time to react as one of the beast soldiers lunged at her, its jagged blade glinting in the morning light, aimed straight for her chest.

Before she could scream, a blur of violet moved in front of her, and with a sharp clang, the attack was intercepted. Yuri had stepped in at the last second, his dagger gliding effortlessly to deflect the beast’s strike. With a swift twist of his wrist, he plunged the blade deep into its throat, pulling back just as the creature collapsed lifelessly onto the frostbitten ground.

"You better watch your surroundings, Bern," Yuri quipped, smirking over his shoulder as he flicked the blood from his dagger.

Bernadetta’s breath hitched, and she opened her mouth to protest—of course she was watching!—but then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement behind Yuri. Another beast soldier, raising its weapon for a killing strike.

Without thinking, she reacted. Her fingers tightened around her bow as she swiftly nocked an arrow and released it in one fluid motion. The arrow struck true, burying itself deep into the beast’s forehead. It staggered for a moment before slumping forward, lifeless.

Yuri didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around. He merely smirked. “Nice shot.”

Bernadetta stared at him in disbelief. “H-how did you not even flinch?!” Her voice was high-pitched, still shaken from the near-death moment.

Yuri finally turned to her, his smirk softening into something more knowing. “Because I knew you wouldn’t miss.” His violet eyes gleamed with confidence. “You wouldn’t kill your first friend.”

Bernadetta’s breath caught in her throat, her fingers loosening on her bow. She blinked rapidly, trying to process his words. And then, despite the battlefield raging around them, she smiled. A small, shy smile, but a smile nonetheless. “That’s… that’s true.”

Yuri winked. “Told you.”

She exhaled, lowering her bow for just a second before gripping it firmly once more. “Well, I’ve got your back,” she said, her voice steadier now.

Yuri nodded, turning back to face the battle. “And I’ve got yours.”

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In another part of the battlefield, Linhardt, Ferdinand, and Marianne fought side by side, moving in practiced coordination. Ferdinand was keeping close to Marianne—too close. Every time she moved, he was right there, blocking attacks, deflecting strikes, and ensuring she was never out of his sight.

Marianne took a deep breath, finally turning to him amidst the chaos. “Ferdinand, I appreciate you staying close, but—”

“But nothing,” Ferdinand interrupted, his tone firm, his golden eyes blazing with conviction. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

Marianne’s expression softened, her grip on her staff tightening slightly. Before she could ask what he meant, Linhardt spoke, his voice quieter than usual, yet carrying a weight that could not be ignored. “He lost close friends in this war,” Linhardt explained as he slashed at a beast soldier, his tone unusually serious. “And he’s afraid of losing who might be next—especially loved ones.”

Ferdinand didn’t respond. Instead, he thrust his spear forward, impaling a beast soldier. With a sharp twist, he wrenched the weapon free, the lifeless body slumping to the ground. He exhaled, his breath visible in the cold morning air. His hand tightened on the shaft of his spear, his knuckles white.

He wasn’t looking. Another beast soldier, a massive one, snarled as it lunged toward him, claws raised for the kill.

Marianne reacted before she could think. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a burst of wind magic, sending the beast soldier flying backward. It landed with a sickening crunch, unmoving.

She walked up to Ferdinand, her blue eyes gentle yet firm. “How will you protect me if you can’t protect yourself, Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand froze. He opened his mouth, but no words came. His fingers twitched on his spear, his mind racing. He had been so focused on keeping her safe that he hadn’t even considered himself.

Linhardt sighed, rubbing his temple. “You’re hurt. We’re all hurt,” he murmured. “But we need to look out for ourselves, not just each other.”

Marianne nodded, stepping forward and placing a gentle hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder. “We should look out for each other,” she said softly. “Together.”

Ferdinand remained silent, the weight of her words sinking in. He had lost Hubert the day Ashen returned. He had lost many soldiers under his command. The pain of those losses sat heavy on his soul. But as long as he lived, he had to fight—for them. So that their sacrifices wouldn’t be in vain.

His grip on his spear tightened. And then, with a sharp movement, he hurled it forward, striking a beast soldier that had been too close to Linhardt.

As the enemy collapsed, Ferdinand turned to his companions, giving a small, genuine smile. “Alright… let’s do it together.”

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At another part of the battle, Ingrid was still in the air, fighting the monstrous creatures that darkened the sky. She maneuvered her Pegasus with practiced ease, Luin gleaming in the dim morning light as she clashed with the airborne beasts. But even as she fought, her eyes flickered downward, searching for her comrades amidst the chaos below. That was when she saw them—Ashe and Ignatz, fighting side by side against the horde of beast soldiers.

Even amidst the bloodshed, there was a sense of familiarity in the way they fought together. Ashe would fire an arrow, striking an enemy through the skull, while Ignatz would swiftly follow up with precise, calculated sword strikes. They moved in sync, as if they had fought together all their lives.

Then, amidst the din of battle, Ashe spoke. “Ignatz,” he called, loosing another arrow into the heart of a beast soldier, “I have a strange request.”

Ignatz, who had just blocked a strike from an enemy, turned his head slightly, puzzled. “A request?” He slashed his blade forward, cutting down his foe before glancing back at Ashe. “What would that be?”

Ashe shot another arrow, his expression unusually thoughtful despite the chaos around them. “When this war is over… would you make a painting of me and Ingrid?” His voice was steady, but there was something deeper in it—a quiet, unspoken hope.

Ignatz blinked in surprise before a small smile crossed his face. “That’s all? Of course, I’d love to. I actually… I actually made a painting of her once, a long time ago,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck slightly.

Ashe raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why—” He never got to finish the sentence.

It happened in an instant. A hulking demonic beast with grotesquely large arms came barreling toward them, a steel sword gripped tightly in its monstrous hands. Before either of them could react, it swung its blade, impaling Ignatz straight through the chest.

Ashe’s breath caught in his throat as he watched, horror-struck, as the beast lifted Ignatz off the ground, the blade still embedded in his body. The painter let out a strangled gasp, his eyes widening in shock as blood spilled from his lips. And then, with terrifying ease, the beast yanked its sword free and flung Ignatz’s body to the side like discarded prey.

Ashe felt the world slow. “Ignatz!” he cried, his voice raw with panic, his hands trembling as he reached out—but it was too late. Ignatz’s limp body hit the frozen ground, blood pooling beneath him. The beast turned its grotesque gaze toward Ashe, raising its sword once more, ready to strike.

Before it could, a streak of silver cut through the air.

Ingrid dove from the sky like a falling star, Luin gripped tightly in her hands. With a swift, precise motion, she plunged the sacred lance deep into the beast’s chest, the force of her strike sending it stumbling backward. The creature roared in agony, its body convulsing as it collapsed to the ground, twitching before going still.

Without missing a beat, Ingrid leaped from her Pegasus and ran to Ignatz’s side, skidding to her knees beside him. Ashe was already there, his hands trembling as he hovered over Ignatz’s still body.

“Ignatz,” Ingrid whispered, her voice desperate, her gloved hands gently pressing against his chest as if she could will him to stay. “Stay with us.”

Ignatz coughed weakly, blood spilling from his lips. His breathing was shallow, his body trembling. But even now, even in his final moments, his lips curved into a weak smile. “At least…” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, “…I was part of this great journey we all shared.”

His fingers twitched, as if reaching for something unseen. His eyelids fluttered, his body giving one last shuddering breath. Then, he stilled.

The world around them seemed to blur, the sounds of war fading into nothing. Ashe and Ingrid stared at him, their chests rising and falling unevenly, their hands still clinging to the lifeless body of their friend. Ignatz… was gone.

Ashe swallowed hard, his throat burning as he turned his gaze toward Ingrid. He could see it—the guilt eating away at her, the way her fingers trembled as she reached for Ignatz’s hand. She should have been faster. She should have seen it coming. She could have done something.

The battlefield raged around them, but for that moment, it was silent. The sound of clashing steel, of battle cries, of war itself—none of it reached Ingrid. Only the image of Ignatz, still and lifeless, his blood staining the frostbitten ground beneath him.

Ashe placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm, grounding. “Ingrid,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “We have to move on.”

She didn’t respond at first. Her blue eyes were wide, unfocused, staring at Ignatz as if willing him to breathe again. Ashe squeezed her shoulder slightly, urging her to look at him.

“We can’t let his death be in vain,” he continued. His voice wavered, but his resolve did not. “He fought for this land. He fought for us. If we stop now, if we freeze—then we’re dishonoring him.”

Slowly, Ingrid exhaled, forcing herself to nod. She clenched her jaw, tightening her grip on Luin. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

A beast soldier had crept behind Ashe, its jagged blade raised, ready to strike.

Without hesitation, Ingrid reacted. She gritted her teeth, shifting her stance, and with a mighty throw, she hurled Luin. The relic lance spun through the air like a streak of silver lightning, embedding itself deep into the beast soldier’s chest. The creature let out a guttural snarl before collapsing, the life leaving its body instantly.

Ashe turned, seeing the fallen enemy, then looked back at Ingrid. He let out a breath. “Thanks.”

Ingrid merely nodded. She stepped forward, yanking Luin from the beast’s body before standing tall. The grief in her eyes hadn’t faded, but something else burned beneath it now. Determination.

Together, she and Ashe turned toward the battle once more. They charged. The battlefield was chaos. House Galatea’s forces struggled to hold their lines against the overwhelming strength of Ashen’s army. The air was thick with the scent of blood, the screams of the wounded, the clash of steel on steel. But Ingrid and Ashe moved as one, cutting through the monstrous soldiers before them.  Then Ashe saw it. A beast soldier standing atop a ruined battlement, bow drawn, its arrow aimed directly at Ingrid.

His breath caught. His body moved before his mind could process it. “Ingrid!” he shouted. Without thinking, he lunged, shoving her aside just as the arrow was loosed. Pain exploded in his chest. His breath hitched as the world seemed to slow. The arrowhead had pierced his armor, lodging just inches from his heart.

Ingrid stumbled, catching herself just in time to see him stagger, his knees nearly buckling beneath him. Her heart stopped. “Ashe!”

He barely had time to react before the beast soldier nocked another arrow, aiming for Ingrid again. But it never got the chance.

A blade sliced through the air, clean and precise. Edelgard’s crimson-clad figure blurred as she cut through the beast’s neck with one fluid motion. The creature’s body crumpled, lifeless, its bow slipping from its claws.

Dorothea was at Ingrid’s side in an instant, her eyes wide with concern as she reached out. “Ashe—” But Ashe let out a strangled groan, his body tensing as pain wracked through him.

He collapsed to one knee, his hand trembling as he reached for the arrow still lodged in his chest. His breath was ragged, strained.

Ingrid knelt beside him, her hands hovering uncertainly. “Hold still,” she ordered, though her voice wavered. She reached for the arrow.

The moment she touched it, Ashe cried out. His fingers dug into the ground, his entire body seizing up as agony lanced through him. “It burns,” he gasped. Ingrid’s eyes darted to the arrow. That was when she saw it—the slick sheen of something unnatural coating the shaft. Poison.

Edelgard’s eyes widened as realization struck, and she turned sharply to Dorothea. “Get him out of here! Now!” Her voice was urgent, unyielding, the voice of an emperor in command.

Dorothea didn’t hesitate. She knelt beside Ashe, her gloved hands wrapping around his arms as gently as she could. “Come on, Ashe. We need to move,” she urged, her voice softer, but no less desperate.

Ashe groaned, his breaths coming in shallow, labored gasps. Sweat beaded on his brow, his skin already turning pale from the effects of the poison. But when Dorothea pulled, he forced himself to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, but he didn’t fight her. He had no strength left to resist.

As they took off, Dorothea half-carrying him, Ingrid remained frozen in place. Her eyes flickered between the retreating figures of her dearest friend and the pool of blood Ignatz had left behind. She had already lost Ignatz. The weight of that loss pressed down on her, choking the air from her lungs. And now, Ashe—Ashe was poisoned, injured, dying. Her mind blanked, the battlefield around her becoming nothing more than a distant blur of screams, clashing steel, and the dull thud of bodies hitting the ground.

Edelgard turned to her sharply, her crimson eyes burning with urgency. “Ingrid, you have to stay focused!”

Ingrid barely heard her. Her breath was shallow, ragged. “Ashe… he could…”

“He won’t,” Edelgard cut in firmly. She stepped forward, grabbing Ingrid’s shoulder and forcing her to meet her gaze. “I understand how much you care for him. But right now, your people need you.” Her grip tightened, her voice unwavering. “Are you going to stand here and do nothing, or are you going to once again show me why I trust you to lead this territory?”

Ingrid’s fingers twitched, her grip tightening around Luin as she stared at the chaos unfolding around them. Soldiers—her soldiers—were being slaughtered. Their cries for aid, their desperate attempts to hold the line, echoed in her ears. A memory surfaced—Ashe had once given her a book, a story about a knight who froze when she saw the one she loved fall. She had hesitated, paralyzed by fear and grief. And in that hesitation, she nearly lost everything. But a friend had reminded her of her duty, of the people who still needed her. The knight had risen, not just for herself, but for all those who depended on her.

Ingrid exhaled sharply, feeling something shift within her. She looked down at Luin. The lance was glowing—burning with a faint orange hue, the color of embers waiting to be stoked into a full blaze. A reflection of her will.

Her heart pounded. She lifted her head, her expression steeled with renewed determination. She pointed her lance at the incoming beast soldiers, her voice ringing across the battlefield. “This is House Galatea! I will show you what it's leader truly is!” The words carried through the air, firm and unwavering. A declaration of defiance.

Edelgard’s lips curled into a small, approving smile. Ingrid was ready. Without another word, the two women charged.

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Back in House Galatea, Shez and Byleth clashed with Ashen, their blades ringing through the ruined streets with every strike. Ashen moved with a calculated precision, his twin swords whirling through the air like extensions of his will. Each clash sent sparks flying, steel meeting steel in a deadly dance of power and skill.

Byleth ducked under a vicious slash, twisting on his heel to bring the Sword of the Creator upward, aiming for Ashen’s exposed flank. But Ashen was faster. He pivoted sharply, one blade intercepting Byleth’s attack while the other lashed out toward Shez. She barely managed to block in time, her arms trembling as she held her ground against the monstrous strength behind his blows.

The fight was relentless. Shez darted around Ashen, her movements blindingly quick as she struck from multiple angles, forcing him to stay on the defensive. Byleth mirrored her assault, their attacks coordinated, precise. They had fought together before, had learned each other’s rhythms. But Ashen—Ashen was something else entirely.

His reflexes were near instantaneous, his monstrous strength allowing him to parry their combined strikes without faltering. Every time they thought they had an opening, he adapted, his body moving with an unnatural fluidity that defied reason. And yet, there was something different about him. A pause, a hesitation—he was thinking. Planning.

Then, suddenly, Ashen broke the clash, his leg snapping out in a brutal kick to Byleth’s chest. The force of it sent the former professor staggering back, his boots skidding against the bloodstained stone. Shez saw her opening and lunged, her blade aimed straight for Ashen’s ribs.

But Ashen had already anticipated her. His twin swords spun in a blinding arc, deflecting her strike with ease. With a sharp twist, he brought his knee up, slamming it into her side. Pain exploded through her ribs as she was knocked back, her feet struggling to find purchase on the uneven ground.

And then—Byleth struck. The Sword of the Creator snapped out, its segmented form extending like a whip. In an instant, it coiled around Ashen’s neck, glowing with divine energy.

For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, Ashen snarled, his claws tightening around the glowing chain of the divine blade. Shez, still recovering from the kick, saw her chance. She surged forward, blades flashing. Ashen moved before she could reach him. His foot lashed out, catching her at her side once more. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp as she was sent tumbling to the ground. At the same time, Ashen yanked hard on the Sword of the Creator, dragging Byleth toward him with inhuman strength.

Byleth barely had time to react before Ashen’s fist crashed into his face. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his skull, and for a moment, his vision blurred. The divine chains uncoiled, the energy dissipating as the Sword of the Creator released its grip.

Ashen exhaled sharply, stepping back as he looked at the two warriors slowly getting to their feet. His molten orange eyes flickered with something unreadable—thoughtful, calculating.

Why? Why could these gods not see each other? And how can they see each other? A slow, deliberate thought took root in Ashen’s mind. If he could make Sothis see Arval—if he could pull the veil away, force her to recognize the power that had crafted the weapon that slaughtered her children—perhaps… perhaps he could turn her against Arval entirely. It was a risk, but one worth taking.

Shez narrowed her eyes, gripping her blades tightly. “He’s planning something,” she murmured, her voice low but certain.

Byleth didn’t take his eyes off Ashen. He could feel it too—something else was on Ashen’s mind. Something beyond this battle. His grip on the Sword of the Creator tightened. “Be prepared,” he warned.

Ashen’s lips curled into a knowing smirk. Then, his mouth opened—and split unnaturally wide. Fire erupted from his throat, a blinding torrent of blue flames surging toward them. The heat was suffocating, scorching the very air around them. Shez and Byleth moved on instinct, darting to opposite sides as the flames consumed the space where they had stood.

Byleth wasted no time. He lashed out with the Sword of the Creator once more, the divine chains snapping forward. This time, the blade coiled around Ashen’s torso, binding him in its radiant grip. With a powerful pull, Byleth yanked Ashen off his feet, sending him hurtling toward a crumbling building.

The impact was explosive. Stone and wood shattered beneath Ashen’s weight, the structure collapsing around him in a cloud of dust and debris. Shez didn’t hesitate. She dashed forward, leaping through the rubble to strike him down before he could recover. But the moment her blade came down, Ashen’s swords were already there, blocking her attack with terrifying ease.

His leg shot out, catching her midair. The force of the kick sent her crashing backward, rolling across the broken ground. She groaned, forcing herself back up as she locked eyes with him and so did Byleth. For a moment, all three stood still, catching their breath, assessing.

And then Ashen’s gaze flickered past them—toward the battlefield, his soldiers were struggling. The beast warriors, once a relentless force, were beginning to falter against the combined might of House Galatea’s forces. The battle had turned. What was once an overwhelming force now staggered under the relentless coordination of Edelgard’s army and the defenders of House Galatea. His monstrous soldiers, once charging with feral rage, were now falling back, their numbers thinning by the second. For all their savagery, they were still mortal, and against a force that refused to break, even monsters had their limits. Ashen gritted his teeth, the embers in his molten eyes flickering with irritation. He hated this. He hated retreating. But this… this wasn’t the moment for victory. Not yet.

His wings burst forth from his back, the sheer force of their emergence kicking up a gust of wind and scattering loose rubble. With one powerful motion, he ascended into the sky, his crimson and black form stark against the darkened clouds above. Then, he gave a deafening, guttural roar—one that shook the very air itself.

The battlefield responded instantly. His soldiers, sensing the call, halted their assault. One by one, they turned, retreating into the shadows, their massive forms disappearing into the remnants of destruction they had left behind. The sky, once filled with monstrous birds and their beast-riding warriors, cleared as they fled, following their master’s command.

Ashen hovered for a moment, his gaze flicking back down to where Byleth and Shez stood. Despite the fatigue lining their bodies, the two warriors remained steadfast, weapons in hand, ready to continue should he decide to stay. A slow smirk curled across Ashen’s lips. “You got lucky this time,” he said, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a whispered promise. “But next time, luck won’t be enough.” And with that, he turned, wings propelling him forward as he disappeared into the distant sky.

Shez and Byleth stood amidst the smoldering ruins of House Galatea, their breaths coming in heavy, uneven gasps. The battlefield was eerily quiet now, save for the distant retreating roars of the beast soldiers. The remnants of Ashen’s army were withdrawing, their monstrous forms vanishing into the distance, leaving behind only the echoes of their devastation.

Shez exhaled, rolling her shoulders, wincing at the soreness that settled deep into her bones. “You think it’s over?” she asked, turning her head toward Byleth.

Byleth’s green eyes scanned the battlefield, watching as the last of Ashen’s forces disappeared beyond the hills. The wounded were being tended to, the dead were being mourned, but there was no more fighting. He let out a slow breath, his grip on the Sword of the Creator loosening. “I guess so,” he finally replied.

Shez, despite her exhaustion, grinned and lifted her hand up toward him. Byleth blinked, staring at her outstretched palm, confused. His mind went through every combat signal, every silent cue he had learned in his years of battle, but nothing matched what she was doing.

Shez smirked at his hesitation. “What, did you forget some basic mercenary customs? It’s a high five.”

Byleth’s brows furrowed slightly. He had seen others do it before but he had never done it himself. His father, Jeralt, had never done anything like that with him. Slowly, he lifted his hand, feeling oddly out of place. He supposed… it couldn’t hurt.

As he hesitated, Shez grinned and waved her hand slightly, her violet eyes glinting with amusement. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging, Teach."

Byleth blinked at the nickname, his expression unreadable. For a brief moment, he considered telling her the truth—that he had never done this, that Jeralt had never taught him something as simple as a high five. But instead, he just gave a small exhale and moved his hand forward.

Then, just as their palms were about to meet— "No!" Arval’s voice shrieked, his spectral form flickering with panic.

Before Shez could react, before Byleth could process the sudden warning, their hands touched. And the world… shifted.

A blinding cascade of gold and purple dust erupted around them in spiraling layers, as if the very air had shattered into fragments of celestial energy. Green and orange electricity crackled from their hands, lacing through the dust like veins of raw power, pulsing, throbbing—alive.

The sky darkened instantly. The bright morning sun was swallowed whole, as if a great unseen force had stolen its light. The battlefield fell silent. Every soldier, every knight—friend and foe alike—froze as an unnatural wind howled through the ruins of House Galatea.

Byleth barely had time to react before his body seized up. His fingers twitched against Shez’s palm, and for a moment, he felt something—something familiar yet completely foreign surging through him. The power of the goddess inside him flared in warning.

Sothis materialized, her radiant green glow stark against the swirling storm of energy. Her usual composed expression was gone, replaced with something Byleth had never seen on her face before. Panic.

“What is this?! This—this should not be possible!” Sothis’s voice, usually poised and regal, cracked with disbelief as she stared at the energy surrounding them. She reached toward Byleth, her ethereal hands trembling. “You must break away! Now!”

At the same time, Arval materialized beside Shez, his eyes wide with something bordering on horror. “Shez—break it! Break it now!” He reached for her, spectral hands grasping at her wrist in desperation. But the moment he touched her, a violent jolt of energy lashed out, sending him reeling backward, his form distorting like a shadow caught in a storm. His golden eyes flickered, mouth parting in shock.

At the same time, Sothis materialized beside Byleth, panic twisting her usually composed features. “Byleth! You must let go!” Her hands trembled as she reached forward, but just like Arval, the moment she touched Byleth, a surge of energy erupted, forcing her back with an agonizing cry. Her radiant form wavered, unstable.

The swirling dust around Shez and Byleth thickened, layers of golden and violet energy spiraling faster, like a celestial maelstrom tearing at the very fabric of reality. Gaps flickered within the storm—brief moments of emptiness, where nothing existed, as if something was struggling to fill a void too vast to comprehend.

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All around them, the battlefield froze. Every soldier, every knight—friend and foe alike—turned their heads upward, their weapons lowering as they stared at the phenomenon unfolding before them. Bloodied warriors, injured and uninjured alike, stood still, their breath caught in their throats. Edelgard, who had just driven Aymr through the chest of a beast soldier, barely had time to turn her head before she felt something—a deep, primordial force pulling at the very core of her being.

The wind shifted. A pulse, heavy and suffocating, rippled through the air.

From high above, Ashen, who had been flying toward the distant mountains, suddenly felt a strange heat prickling against his skin. A slow, unnatural sensation crawled up his spine, like invisible fingers grasping at the edges of his existence. His molten orange eyes narrowed as he turned his head over his shoulder—and froze.

The sight before him was unlike anything he had ever seen. Byleth and Shez, bound together by a storm of golden and violet dust, their bodies locked in a silent struggle. But it was not just the sight that unsettled him—it was the gaps within the dust. Empty voids, flickering erratically, patches of nothingness between the spiraling energy.

His hand twitched. Sparks. Gray and unfamiliar, danced across his fingertips. His breath caught. What was this? The storm thickened. The energy warped. Then a new though, unbidden yet undeniable, took root in his mind. "What if I interfere?"

His wings beat hard against the sky as he twisted midair, pivoting back toward the battlefield. The wind howled around him as he dove back down, his instincts screaming at him to act. To reach for something unseen—something on the verge of breaking free.

Edelgard caught sight of him immediately, her crimson eyes narrowing. “He’s coming back?” The weight in her chest deepened. “Why now?” Without hesitation, she turned to Dorothea, who was already looking at the phenomenon with wide, alarmed eyes. “Come with me,” Edelgard commanded.

Dorothea snapped out of her stupor and nodded. “Right.” Together, they ran toward House Galatea, their footsteps pounding against the frozen ground. The battlefield had fallen into an eerie stillness, every soldier frozen in place, their eyes locked on the swirling maelstrom of golden and violet energy surrounding Shez and Byleth.

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Meanwhile, within the storm itself, Shez and Byleth fought desperately to break whatever was binding them together, their muscles straining as they tried to pull away. But no matter how much they struggled, no matter how hard they tried, their hands remained locked together, an unseen force keeping them in place. The energy around them crackled and surged, golden and violet tendrils of light intertwining, tightening, as if something ancient and unknown was watching—waiting.

Shez gritted her teeth, her violet eyes burning with frustration. “Damn it! Why won’t it let go?!” She pulled harder, her entire body straining against the force, but it was as if something was latching onto her soul itself, refusing to release her.

Byleth remained silent, his teal eyes narrowed in concentration. He had faced powerful foes before, had experienced the divine weight of Sothis’ power flowing through him, but this—this was something else entirely. This was not just the force of gods. This was something older, something beyond comprehension.

Sothis flickered beside him, her radiant form dimming as she clutched at her chest, her fingers trembling. “This… this magic… it is unnatural!” she hissed, her usually regal voice edged with something raw. Fear.

Arval, his golden eyes wide with horror, hovered beside Shez, his form unstable, flickering as if he were being pulled apart. He clutched his head, shaking violently. “Shez! Break free, now! We must sever this bond before—before she sees me!” His voice cracked, panic rising in every syllable.

But even as Arval and Sothis remained unseen to each other, something shifted. At the same moment, their heads turned.

Arval’s eyes and Sothis’ emerald gaze locked onto the same spot, their expressions shifting into something between realization and dread. “Shez!” Arval called desperately.

“Byleth!” Sothis’ voice rang out in alarm.

And as if compelled by forces beyond their understanding, both Byleth and Shez turned in unison—turned toward where Arval and Sothis were looking.

Their eyes locked onto the figure descending from the sky, the air distorting violently around him. Ashen.

The sparks grew more erratic along his fingers, crawling up his arm like living veins of raw power. Red-black electricity cracked and snapped at the air around him, while the gaps in the swirling duststorm of energy around Shez and Byleth flickered into empty, endless gray. His molten orange eyes gleamed with something dark, something knowing.

Then, he reached out. The moment his clawed fingers extended, the red-black electricity arced outward, twisting and writhing like serpents unleashed from a cage. It surged toward Shez and Byleth, drawn to the storm that had ensnared them. The moment it made contact, the energy surrounding them fractured. A deafening explosion rocked the battlefield.

A blinding column of crimson and obsidian light shot upward, splitting the sky apart as an otherworldly force ripped through the air. The force of the shockwave sent Shez, Byleth, and Ashen hurtling backward, their bodies flung across the ruins of House Galatea like ragdolls.

Shez crashed into the crumbling remains of a watchtower, debris collapsing around her as she gasped for air. Byleth landed hard against the frozen ground, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. Ashen, despite his monstrous strength, was sent skidding across the battlefield, his claws digging into the dirt as he fought to steady himself. Then… silence.

The sky darkened unnaturally, an eerie, suffocating quiet settling over the battlefield. Every soldier—both friend and foe—stopped where they stood, their weapons forgotten in their hands as they turned their gazes upward, their expressions shifting from confusion to awe. A symbol burned into the heavens above them.

It was unlike anything they had ever seen before. A twisted fusion of two ancient sigils—the Crest of Flames and the emblem that pulsed on Arval’s chest—melding together in a perfect, unnatural symmetry. At its center, four blood-red gems glowed ominously, arranged in a circle, pulsing like the heartbeats of something unfathomable. But something was settled upon them all. The time would finally come. The three gods were about to meet.

Chapter Text

The dust was slowly settling, and Byleth's primary concern was Shez's safety. His heartbeat pounded furiously against his ribs, the raw sting of fresh injuries piercing through his body, but he didn't care about himself. His eyes anxiously scanned the broken landscape, searching, desperately searching for her.

Sothis, hovering just behind him, watched Byleth with intense worry etched upon her delicate features. Her ethereal green eyes were wide with alarm as she leaned forward, reaching toward him. "Byleth, are you alright?"

He struggled to his feet, ignoring the sharp waves of pain that cascaded through his muscles and bones. Every step felt like molten fire, but he pressed on, waving off her concern with gritted teeth. "I'm fine," he said firmly, though his voice was edged with pain and fear he refused to show openly. He could endure this, he had to.

He called out into the eerie silence that enveloped the ruins, his voice rough but unwavering. "Shez!" No reply came. The knot of anxiety tightened further in his chest. He called again, louder this time, his voice desperate, echoing amidst the charred remnants of buildings. "Shez, where are you?"

And suddenly, as if summoned by sheer desperation, her voice pierced through the dense cloud of dust and debris. "Byleth!" Her tone was shaky, laced with pain, yet there was undeniable relief and urgency there as well.

His head snapped sharply toward the sound, and finally, as the dust began to clear, his heart flooded with relief. She was there, clutching her arm close to her body as if it were shattered, her eyes wide with confusion and fear. Without hesitation, Byleth rushed toward her, the ache in his body forgotten as he moved to close the distance between them.

Yet, as he approached, his steps slowed. A figure stood beside her—a figure he at first mistook for Ashen—but upon closer inspection, realization dawned. It was not Ashen. It was Arval. And even more strangely, Shez's eyes were not upon Arval, but upon something—someone—else entirely. She gazed directly at Sothis, confusion and wonder shimmering within her violet irises.

Both gods locked eyes for the first time, Sothis stood frozen disbelief and seeing how Arval looked like...Epimenides. Arval felt a wave of terror crashing through him, but despite the fear clawing at his heart, he drew in a steadying breath and forced himself to appear composed. He knew what was at stake if Sothis saw him as Epimenides rather than who he is.

Before any words could be exchanged, the heavy flap of wings echoed across the scene. From the darkened sky, Ashen descended, his molten eyes blazing with a deep, unsettling satisfaction. He landed smoothly, his monstrous form towering over them, his presence immediately shifting the delicate tension into something far more sinister. A twisted smile played upon his lips as his voice reverberated across the destroyed remains of House Galatea. “At long last, the three gods meet.”

A hush fell over the battlefield, a silence deeper than death itself. Soldiers, both allies and foes, stood frozen in place, their weapons held in limbo, their gazes locked onto the scene unfolding before them. The remnants of war—the broken buildings, the bloodied soil, the fallen bodies—seemed insignificant compared to the confrontation that had begun.

Ashen walked slowly, crushing the charred remains of shattered stone beneath him, each step deliberate, heavy with purpose. His gaze was no longer on Shez or Byleth. No—his eyes had locked onto Sothis and the goddess looked back.

And she could see. She could see Arval. The realization struck her like a physical blow. Before, Arval had been a mere presence, he was the one she sensed. But now, the veil between them had been torn asunder. She saw him—truly saw him. And as she did, recognition flashed in her emerald eyes, a storm of conflicting emotions clashing within her soul.

Ashen watched, his smirk widening slightly as he tilted his head. “What will you do, O Goddess?” he murmured, his voice smooth, taunting. “For here stands the son of Epimenides, Arval. The heir of your old enemy.”

Byleth’s eyes widened in an instant, his body tensing. He turned sharply to Sothis, realizing what Ashen was trying to do. He could feel it, the weight of the past pressing against her, the unrelenting agony of an old war bubbling beneath the surface of her thoughts. “Sothis,” Byleth said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s the enemy—not them!" 

But Sothis didn’t respond immediately. Her radiant form flickered, her emerald eyes locked onto Arval as though she were seeing a ghost. No… not a ghost. A memory.

And Arval knew it too. His eyes trembled, his normally composed, mischievous expression utterly shattered. He could feel it—the sheer power radiating from Sothis, the divine fury that she was barely holding back. She could kill him in an instant. And yet, Arval forced himself to look at her, to speak, despite the terror gripping his very soul.

“I know… I know what you see,” Arval whispered, his voice barely above a breath, but the weight of it carried across the battlefield. “I know that I look like him. Epimenides.” His fingers clenched, his entire spectral form trembling. “But I am not him, nor do I wanna be him!”

Sothis remained silent, her glowing form flickering like a candle in the wind. But her eyes bore into him, piercing, searching, filled with something deeper than rage—confusion, uncertainty.

Ashen smirked, folding his arms over his chest. His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Tell me, Sothis,” he said smoothly, tilting his head slightly. “Does he not look just like your old rival? Your enemy from so long ago?”

Sothis remained utterly still, her emerald gaze fixated upon Arval with an intensity that felt like fire and ice combined. The battlefield, now still, seemed to fade into a blur behind her as memories flooded back, clear and sharp, each carrying its own sting of ancient pain.

Her eyes narrowed, her voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “Yes,” she admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying through the eerie silence. “He does.”

Arval visibly trembled, stepping back slightly, his spectral form flickering with uncertainty and fear. His golden eyes widened, his gaze locked onto the goddess before him. Shez saw him shaking, saw the usually playful, confident Arval reduced to a frightened shadow. Her heart twisted painfully at the sight.

“But,” Sothis’s voice sharpened, her gaze breaking away from Arval to stare defiantly at Ashen, her emerald eyes blazing, “I know exactly who my true enemy is, Ashen. You think your words can deceive me? You won’t manipulate me!" 

Ashen’s lips pressed into a thin line, his amusement slipping slightly as his fiery eyes narrowed. “Oh, Sothis,” he said slowly, voice smooth yet edged with something darker, “do you even know why your children died all those years ago?”

The air grew heavy. Sothis’s ethereal form tensed, her emerald eyes locking sharply onto Ashen. "Of course," she murmured, voice edged with sorrow and quiet anger. "Nemesis murdered my children using the Sword of the Creator—fashioned cruelly from my very bones."

Shez’s eyes widened in horror as realization struck her like a lightning bolt. She saw Ashen’s intent now. His twisted, calculated plan was unfolding rapidly, threatening to tear apart the fragile peace and unity they'd all desperately fought for. “No—Ashen, stop!” Shez shouted, desperation coloring her voice.

Sothis turned sharply to Shez, confusion and suspicion flickering in her eyes. Her gaze pierced into the mercenary with an intensity that demanded an explanation. “Child… what are you trying to hide? Is there something more he knows?”

Before Shez could respond, Ashen’s deep voice cut smoothly through the momentary silence, dripping venomously with subtle triumph. “Tell me, Sothis… did you ever wonder how someone so intelligent could forge a weapon capable of slaughtering your divine children?”

Sothis stiffened visibly, her luminous form flickering briefly. “The Agarthans,” she hissed bitterly. “They created the sword. The dark ones who crawl in the shadows—”

“Indeed,” Ashen interrupted sharply, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “But there is truth hidden beneath that statement. They lacked the means, the knowledge to forge such a weapon entirely alone. They needed a power far beyond mortal comprehension… a power divine.” Ashen slowly lifted a clawed hand, finger outstretched to point unerringly at the trembling Arval. “They needed him.”

Sothis’s gaze snapped toward Arval with blinding speed, her emerald eyes wide with disbelief and mounting horror. “What… what are you saying?” she whispered faintly, a tremor of dread entering her voice.

Ashen’s smile twisted into something darker, sinister, voice dropping lower yet unmistakably clear. “Though Nemesis wielded the blade and took the lives of your dear children… tell me, O goddess… does the blood of the innocent not stain the hands of the weapon’s creator as well?”

Silence. Heavy, crushing silence. Sothis stared at Arval, searching his golden eyes for deception, for lies. Her expression shifted slowly, confusion turning to suspicion, suspicion to dread—and finally to a terrifying, rising fury.

“Son of Epimenides,” she finally said, her voice trembling with barely contained wrath, the sound resonating through every soul on the battlefield, “Is this true?”

Arval's body visibly shook, terror and regret radiating from his trembling spectral form. The playful, confident god who’d teased Shez, guided her, been at her side for so long… he was gone, replaced by a frightened shadow. Arval cast his gaze to the ground, chest rising and falling rapidly, the weight of centuries-old guilt pressing down upon him.

“I demand an answer!” Sothis commanded, voice echoing sharply, pain resonating clearly through every syllable.

Slowly, painfully, Arval raised his head, meeting her gaze directly for perhaps the first—and last—time. He took a deep, shuddering breath and, with great effort, whispered just a single, heartbreaking word... “Yes.”

Sothis’s eyes widened in a storm of shock, disbelief, and raw agony. Her radiant aura trembled violently, her ethereal figure wavering as if struck physically by the devastating truth. A mother's grief, ancient yet fresh, tore through her anew, reignited by this revelation.

Ashen observed silently, his lips twisting upward with satisfaction as the goddess reeled from his unveiled truth. He leaned in closer, voice smooth yet coldly triumphant. “Now, goddess… tell me again. Who is your true enemy?”

Sothis clenched her fists tightly, eyes squeezing shut in an effort to control the maelstrom of emotion roaring within her soul. The echoes of her children’s screams reverberated through her mind. Finally, her emerald eyes opened, shimmering with unshed tears, and her voice came low and grief-stricken as she turned toward Byleth, her beloved vessel and friend. “Forgive me.”

Byleth’s brows furrowed in sudden confusion, heart dropping in dread. “Sothis…?”

Without warning, the goddess surged forward, her ethereal form merging violently into Byleth’s body. His figure jolted, his head thrown back in a silent scream as divine energy exploded from within him. His hair ignited into brilliant emerald green, his eyes snapping open and glowing brightly—yet now filled with the raw fury of Sothis herself.

Byleth—or rather, Sothis within him—turned sharply, glaring murderously at Arval. The voice escaping Byleth’s lips was distinctly hers, tinged with grief-stricken rage. “Murderer!”

Arval stumbled back, his eyes wild with terror and sorrow as he turned quickly to Shez, despairing apology trembling from his lips. “I’m sorry, Shez—!”

She reached desperately toward him. “Arval, wait—!”

But before she could finish, he surged forward, ethereal form plunging into Shez’s body in an instant. Her violet eyes blazed with golden energy, markings once again blazing across her skin as Arval forcibly took control. Shez felt her limbs move without her will, panic flooding her heart as her body fled swiftly away from the possessed Byleth, from the wrathful goddess within. Arval was running. Fast.

His legs carried him with an urgency he hadn't known since the days of the Agarthan war. The wind howled past him as he darted through the ruined corridors of House Galatea, his breaths ragged, his mind screaming. Shez could feel everything—her own body moving without her consent, her heart hammering with terror as Arval pushed forward, trying to escape the inevitable wrath from Sothis chasing them with the sword of the creator.

Byleth—no, Sothis—moved with an unnatural grace, her vessel’s steps unyielding, driven by divine fury. The  weapon in her grip pulsed with celestial energy, every swing of its glowing blade leaving behind green fire in its wake. Her emerald eyes, once kind, were now hardened with centuries-old pain, burning with the vengeance of a mother who had lost everything.

Meanwhile, Ashen watched as Sothis chased Arval, his fiery eyes narrowing with intent. He was on the verge of throwing his sword, intending to strike down one of the gods and tip the balance of this divine conflict, when suddenly the sword left his hand, cutting through the air with a lethal hiss. But before it could reach its target, the mighty blade was swiftly deflected, its trajectory violently redirected by a massive, unmistakable swing of Edelgard’s weapon, Aymr. The deafening clang echoed across the battlefield, reverberating in Ashen's bones. The sword spun wildly, landing behind Edelgard and Dorothea.

Edelgard stood defiantly, her silver hair billowing around her stern face, eyes burning with accusation and resolve. Dorothea was at her side, eyes sharp and alert, her fingers clenched around her tome in quiet determination. They both stared at Ashen, unflinching and unyielding, standing together in silent yet resolute opposition.

“What did you do, Ashen?” Edelgard's voice was deceptively calm, yet it held the intensity of a storm on the horizon.

Ashen slowly raised his hands, feigning innocence. A sly, subtle smirk played at the corner of his lips. “I did nothing.”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes suspiciously, voice tinged with mistrust. “Nothing? Do you honestly expect us to believe that?”

Edelgard’s gaze never wavered. Her voice grew colder, a touch sharper. “Then explain to me why Byleth is chasing Shez with such fury. What exactly transpired?”

Ashen tilted his head slightly, a facade of curiosity flickering across his features. Yet, behind his back, carefully concealed from their view, he subtly raised his index finger, middle finger, and thumb extended upward—a silent command guiding his hovering weapon. "I don't really know," he responded lying smoothly, eyes gleaming with cunning distracting the two woman. "But something must have happened when I flew off." His gaze momentarily flickered towards the ominous sight of his sword, suspended in midair behind the two women. "Then my hand sparked, and the barriers separating them seemed to weaken... I suppose, perhaps, I was the missing piece of this puzzle."

Dorothea felt a strange unease curl tightly within her chest, her instincts screaming at her that danger was near. Her eyes narrowed further, voice lowering cautiously. “Then why return now?"

Ashen’s expression grew dangerously calm, his molten gaze shifting between Dorothea and Edelgard with unsettling composure. “I just want to see how this plays out," he murmured softly, his tone edged with cruel curiosity. "Who knows? Perhaps this war will finally come to its end.”

Edelgard’s gaze hardened further, her grip on Aymr tightening almost imperceptibly. Her lilac eyes locked onto Ashen, unwavering in their intensity. “You still have not answered me, Ashen. What do you truly see yourself as?"

For the briefest of moments, something flashed behind Ashen’s molten orange gaze—a fleeting emotion that vanished as swiftly as it appeared, replaced by a cold emptiness. He stared deeply into Edelgard’s eyes, as though trying to read her very soul, then offered a small, cruelly detached smile. “Perhaps you’ll never find out, Edelgard.”

Dorothea’s heartbeat quickened sharply, her senses flaring with sudden urgency, adrenaline surging through her veins. Time seemed to slow around her as realization crashed in with horrifying clarity—Ashen's sword still hovered silently behind them, and the flicker of a cruel intent betrayed itself within his unreadable expression.

Dorothea turned quickly, eyes widening in panic as the sword shot forward with terrifying speed. “Edie, move!” She shouted desperately, shoving Edelgard aside with every ounce of strength she possessed. The Empress stumbled, surprise etched onto her face, her eyes wide with shock as she was pushed from harm’s way.

Time froze. Dorothea’s eyes met Edelgard’s for one heart-rending instant, her emerald gaze shimmering with fierce resolve and gentle apology. And then—a sickening, horrifying sound pierced through the air. The blade had impaled her.

Edelgard’s eyes widened in gut-wrenching horror, her heart seizing painfully within her chest as the world slowed to a crawl. A desperate scream tore itself free from her lips. “Dorothea!”

The blad had already pierced through Dorothea’s body, its cruel edge gleaming with fresh crimson. Ashen’s sword had struck its mark—not Edelgard, but the woman who had always stood beside her, the one who had always smiled and laughed, who had sung songs even when the world was at its darkest.

Dorothea gasped softly, her emerald eyes flickering with shock as she staggered, the strength leaving her limbs. The pain was sharp, overwhelming, but the weight of it seemed distant compared to the single thought that filled her mind—Edie.

Ashen, watching with cold detachment, spread his great wings. The wind from their movement sent dust and blood-stained snow swirling through the battlefield as he lifted into the air. His molten orange eyes flickered downward once, observing his handiwork before turning his gaze toward Sothis and Arval’s ongoing struggle. And then, without another word, he flew.

But below him, amidst the destruction and chaos, Edelgard caught Dorothea as she fell. “Dorothea!” Edelgard’s voice broke as she cradled her best friend, lowering her gently to the frozen ground. The warmth that had always radiated from Dorothea, the life and vibrancy she carried, was slipping away too fast. Blood pooled beneath her, the crimson stark against the white snow.

Dorothea managed a weak smile despite the pain contorting her features. “Sorry, Edie…” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

“No.” Edelgard shook her head violently, pressing her hands against the wound as if sheer willpower could keep her alive. “No, don’t apologize. I’ll get help. You’ll be fine. You have to stay with me.”

Dorothea chuckled lightly, but it was weak—fragile. “You always… say that.” Her emerald eyes searched Edelgard’s face, taking in every detail, every strand of silver hair, every tear-stained mark on her usually composed expression. “You always try to carry everything yourself.”

Edelgard’s hands trembled as she held Dorothea closer. “Because I have to. And you—” Her voice caught in her throat. “You can’t die. Not you. Not after everything we’ve fought for.”

Dorothea exhaled, the air misting between them. She was growing colder. Her hand weakly reached for Edelgard’s, and Edelgard grasped it tightly, as if her grip alone could keep Dorothea anchored to life. “What about… him?” Edelgard asked desperately. “He’ll be devastated.”

Dorothea gave a faint, knowing smile. “It’s okay.” Her voice was soft, as though she had already made peace with the inevitable. “Tell him… tell him to keep singing. For me.”

Edelgard squeezed her hand tighter, as if trying to pour all of her strength into Dorothea. But it was slipping—she was slipping. “No, no, Dorothea, please, you can’t go. Stay with me.” Her voice cracked. “Please.”

Dorothea gave a weak, tired smile, the light in her emerald eyes dimming. “Edie… I’m glad,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the chaotic battlefield, “that I had a friend like you.”

Her fingers twitched in Edelgard’s grip, then went slack. Her breathing hitched once, then stopped entirely.

Edelgard felt Dorothea’s hand completely slip from her grasp. The warmth was fading. Her vision blurred with tears as she shook her head in silent denial, gripping Dorothea’s limp form as if she could anchor her soul back to this world. But she was gone.

For a long, agonizing moment, Edelgard couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. It felt as if the entire world had gone silent, even as battle raged around her. It was as though the war—the countless fights, betrayals, and struggles—had all led to this singular moment of devastation. She had fought so hard, endured so much, all for the hope of a better future. And yet, that future had just been stolen from her hands.

Trembling, Edelgard reached out and gently closed Dorothea’s eyes. Her fingers lingered against her cold skin before she pulled away, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Who else? Who else would she lose before this war was over? The pain burned deep, but there was no time to grieve. Not yet. She forced herself to rise, wiping away the stray tears that clung to her lashes. Byleth. Shez. They were still in danger.

Her heart ached as she took one last look at Dorothea before turning away, forcing her legs to move. She ran, her breath sharp and heavy, dodging falling debris and the bodies strewn across the battlefield. Blood soaked the earth, the air thick with the scent of ash and death, but she pressed on, her focus set entirely on finding them.

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Sothis was still chasing Arval, unrelenting, her emerald eyes blazing with centuries of anger and sorrow. She leaped through the air, lifting the Sword of the Creator high, its divine power surging with celestial energy. With a fierce cry, she brought the sword crashing down toward Arval's form.

At the last possible moment, Arval, controlling Shez’s body, raised both of Shez’s swords, catching the powerful blow just inches above his face. A loud clang echoed through the ruined courtyard, a shockwave rippling outward from their collision. Arval’s arms shook violently under the immense strength of the goddess’s wrath.

Ashen landed gracefully upon a nearby rooftop, crouching silently as he observed the two gods locked in their brutal struggle. His molten eyes glowed brightly, narrowed with sinister anticipation. His wings folded gently behind him, poised and patient. He was waiting—waiting for the precise moment when their conflict would leave both weakened, allowing him to deliver the final, devastating strike. He watched intently, an evil smirk slowly forming on his face, as he glanced briefly down at his own hand, sparks of purple energy beginning to dance across his palm.

“You dastard!” Sothis snarled, pressing downward harder, driving Arval slowly to one knee beneath her furious assault. “You are no better than the man who wielded your vile creation! My children’s blood forever stains your hands!”

With an anguished cry, Arval forced all his strength into pushing Sothis back, just enough to create some distance. He thrust one sword into the ground, conjuring a blazing sphere of fire, and hurled it down at his feet. The explosion erupted into a thick cloud of smoke and ash, obscuring everything in sight.

Panting heavily, Arval retreated into the shadows, hiding amidst the ruins. His body trembled violently, his mind racing in desperate panic. Shez’s heart pounded within him—her voice inside his head urging him, begging him to explain, to calm the furious goddess.

Slowly, cautiously, Sothis stepped into the smoky haze. Her emerald eyes scanned the surroundings, her senses attuned to even the faintest movement. “Come out, coward!” she growled, voice shaking with anger and anguish. “You cannot hide from me forever!”

Behind a pile of wooden crates, Arval crouched, breathing rapidly. Despair gripped him, forcing tears from Shez’s eyes. He took a shaky breath, desperately trying to speak through his fear.

“Please listen to me, Sothis!” Arval’s voice was strained, pleading desperately. “I didn’t want to make that weapon—I swear it! I had no choice! My father forced me. If I refused, he threatened to—” Arval’s voice cracked painfully, anguish twisting his face. “I gave into fear, goddess. That’s my only crime. Please...forgive me.”

His heart pounding, Arval peeked cautiously around the crates, only to freeze in shock. The Sword of the Creator sliced straight through the crates as Sothis stabbed mercilessly toward him. Shards of wood exploded in every direction, and Arval stumbled back, lifting his blades desperately as she advanced.

Ashen merely laughed from his rooftop perch, delighted in his cruel amusement. His gaze flickered down to his hand, now glowing brighter with eldritch purple energy, his sinister smile widening further. Soon.

Sothis’s voice dripped with venomous pain as she stalked toward Arval, sword at her side, her eyes blazing. “It matters not if you acted from fear,” she whispered coldly. “You still played a part in murdering my innocent children. For that, you shall pay dearly!”

Sothis swung viciously, and Arval barely managed to deflect her blows. Her strength was immense, her movements filled with divine rage and grief. Each swing of the Sword of the Creator cut through the air, leaving trails of radiant green flames, forcing Arval into a desperate retreat. Finally, she aimed a brutal strike at one of Shez’s swords, and with a deafening crack, she shattered it completely. The blade snapped, fragments scattering across the ground.

Arval stumbled backward, desperately raising his remaining sword to meet each blow, his heart hammering in terror. “Sothis, stop!” he begged desperately, tears running down Shez’s cheeks. “This violence won’t undo the past! You know it won’t!”

But the goddess did not listen. She pressed relentlessly onward, driving him further back until they clashed again, weapons locked together fiercely.

Deep inside Byleth, the professor struggled desperately against the consuming presence of Sothis within him. His mind was screaming in desperation as he fought to regain control of his own body, to break free from this blind, consuming rage. “Stop, Sothis!” he shouted from within. “This isn’t you! You’re better than this!”

Shez, trapped within her own body as Arval struggled against Sothis, was equally desperate. She fought with all her might to regain control of herself. Finally, she felt a crack in Arval’s control. She seized it, her consciousness breaking through. Suddenly, her awareness flooded back in full force, allowing her to look around, horrified at the chaos surrounding her.

Shez’s gaze snapped sharply to her right—and her blood ran cold. A wall of pure darkness, swirling and pulsing, was slowly encroaching, silently surrounding them. “Byleth!” she cried out desperately, voice hoarse. “Look around us!”

Byleth’s eyes darted from side to side, taking in the unnatural phenomenon that had appeared around them. This wasn’t just magic—it was something far worse, something he had encountered before. His stomach twisted as he turned around, his eyes landing on Ashen. The monstrous figure stood tall amidst the chaos, his molten orange eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. His clawed hand pulsed with ominous purple energy, its glow stretching outward like grasping fingers of death.

Ashen’s lips curled into a wicked smile. “I forbid you gods… farewell.”

With that, he unleashed the forbidden spell of Zahras. The dark abyss surged forward like a monstrous tide, its gaping maw hungry for divine blood. Shez’s body tensed as the tendrils of abyssal energy wrapped around her limbs, the sensation cold and suffocating. She thrashed, panic rising in her throat. "Byleth!" she screamed.

Byleth had been through this before. He knew the void, knew its hunger. Without hesitation, he lunged toward Shez, his fingers barely managing to grasp her wrist just as the darkness swallowed them both.

For a moment, all was silent. They were gone. Ashen closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of smoke, ash, and scorched earth. The power surging through his veins ebbed, leaving behind a quiet satisfaction. A faint smile curled his lips, sinister yet pleased. He had done it. The gods were gone, banished to a void of nothingness, leaving only silence in their wake. He exhaled slowly, savoring the taste of victory.

"All too easy," Ashen murmured softly, turning around and beginning to slowly walk away, wings folding gently behind him.

But as he took a single step, a sharp, visceral sound ripped through the air—the unmistakable noise of metal tearing reality itself. Ashen spun around quickly, eyes wide in disbelief, just in time to witness the tip of the Sword of the Creator cutting through the very fabric of the abyss. From that piercing wound spilled radiant light, crimson and white mingling in a defiant explosion.

The fabric of the void shattered like glass, and Byleth emerged, pulling himself forward with agonizing determination. In his arms, he clutched Shez, her body limp but breathing faintly. He dragged her to the edge of the opening, his own body trembling with fatigue, every step costing him unimaginable strength.

Ashen stood frozen, staring at the impossible scene unfolding before him. He had wished Byleth dead many times, but even he couldn't deny the awe he felt at this raw display of power. He watched as Byleth gently, almost tenderly, threw Shez out of the rift. Her body hit the cold ground, her chest rising and falling weakly.

With a final surge of will, Byleth himself dove through the gap, collapsing beside Shez. The rift sealed shut behind him, leaving only a whisper of light that faded rapidly into darkness.

Shez struggled weakly, attempting to rise, but her strength failed her. Her body gave in, and consciousness slipped from her grasp. Byleth gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand. His voice trembled with exhaustion as he spoke quietly to the presence still lingering within him, his eyes hardening in grief. "Sothis... Why did you—" His words cut off sharply as Ashen surged forward with unnatural speed, delivering a powerful blow directly into Byleth’s chest. Byleth staggered backward, disoriented and gasping for air, the world spinning around him. Before he could recover, Ashen approached slowly, calmly, and with a cruel confidence.

Ashen’s voice was cold, edged with amusement. "Tell me... how does it feel?" He reached down, grasping Byleth’s throat in a merciless grip, lifting him effortlessly into the air. "How does it feel to be betrayed by the goddess you so foolishly trusted?"

Byleth gasped for breath, struggling weakly, his eyes glazed with pain but defiance still burning dimly within. Ashen’s molten gaze locked onto his, studying him intently, sensing the flicker of strength beneath his helpless exterior. He summoned his blade, its edge pulsing ominously with destructive power.

Yet, even as he stared at the helpless form of Byleth, a strange respect flickered briefly in Ashen’s heart. He tilted his head slightly, speaking quietly, almost reverently. "I must admit, Byleth… Your willingness to risk your life to save another... You're truly Jeralt’s son."

Ashen’s grip tightened, and he raised his sword high, preparing to deliver the killing blow— But before the strike could land, a sudden ripple tore through the air behind Ashen, and a massive, wolf-like soldier materialized, urgency etched upon his features. "My Lord, we have a situation!" Warg’s voice rumbled anxiously.

Ashen hesitated, annoyance flickering in his eyes as he turned sharply to his subordinate. "What is it now, Warg?"

The wolf soldier bowed his head, voice tense. "Fhirdiad is under attack."

Ashen’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he exhaled slowly, forcing patience. "The army we dispatched to House Fralddarius should already returned. Our forces can defend the Kingdom adequately."

Warg shifted nervously. "That’s the problem, my lord. Those soldiers never arrived."

Ashen’s molten gaze darkened instantly, his fury growing visibly. His hand shook with barely restrained anger, his thoughts rapidly calculating. He despised abandoning this moment of triumph, but the situation in Fhirdiad meant only one thing—someone had anticipated his movements and his army betrayed him. Then something else came to mind... Byleth's and Edelgard's children could be taken by whoever is attacking. 

Growling in frustration, Ashen violently hurled Byleth aside, the professor’s body hitting the ground hard, gasping for air. Ashen spun toward Warg, his voice a dark growl. "Take me there. Now!" Without hesitation, Warg grabbed Ashen’s shoulder, and in an instant, the two vanished in a ripple of dark energy.

Silence returned briefly to the battlefield. In the aftermath, Shez’s eyes fluttered open weakly, a groan of pain slipping from her lips. Edelgard rushed to their side, heart pounding in relief and fear, kneeling and carefully supporting Byleth.

"Shez… what happened?" Edelgard's voice trembled with worry.

Shez winced, forcing herself upright, body aching painfully. "It's a long story…" She exhaled shakily, glancing toward Byleth with concern. "We need to regroup."

Edelgard nodded firmly, sliding Byleth’s arm around her shoulder, and together with Shez, they lifted him gently. The trio moved slowly, painfully, searching for a safe place for Byleth to rest and recover, the weight of the battle still heavy upon them all.

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Elsewhere on the battlefield, Ingrid moved among the devastation, her expression haunted, yet resolute. Bodies of fallen knights and soldiers lay scattered, their faces etched with a final determination. She forced back her grief—her people needed her now more than ever. Yet one thought continued to consume her entirely—Ashe.

Her heart quickened sharply as she caught sight of Linhardt exiting the healer’s tent. Ingrid rushed toward him, urgency coloring her voice. "Linhardt! Is Ashe going to be alright?"

Linhardt regarded her calmly, though exhaustion showed clearly on his face. "Ashe is gone."

The words tore through Ingrid like a blade. Her chest constricted painfully, tears threatening at the edge of her vision, but she pushed them back fiercely. She couldn’t break—not yet. "I… I need to see him."

She brushed past Linhardt quickly, stepping into the tent. But her breath caught sharply in confusion and shock. Ashe’s body was nowhere in sight. She turned swiftly, eyes filled with confusion and anger. "Linhardt! Where is his body!?"

Linhardt blinked slowly, his expression genuinely baffled. "I told you, he's gone—Ashe left the tent. He went to help the—"

Ingrid didn’t let him finish. Overcome with a surge of emotions, she slapped Linhardt hard, the healer recoiling slightly in surprise. She spun around, rushing out into the chaos, desperately calling Ashe’s name, heart hammering painfully in her chest.

Then, in a surreal moment amidst devastation, she spotted him—standing, smiling gently, offering comfort and guidance to injured citizens. Ashe looked up, seeing Ingrid approach, his gentle smile widening slightly. "Ingrid! Looks like I get to fight another day. Though I may be injured, I can still help—"

Without a second thought, Ingrid surged forward, throwing her arms tightly around him, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. Ashe hesitated briefly before gently returning her embrace, his voice soft with genuine concern. "Ingrid, are you alright?"

She whispered shakily, clutching him tightly. "I’m just glad you’re okay, Ashe."

A strange noise rose from around them, breaking the quiet moment. Ingrid turned, eyes wide, as her people, her soldiers—the very citizens who once doubted and scorned her—began to cheer, chanting her name proudly. The air filled with gratitude, respect, and newfound trust.

Ingrid felt something shift deep within her. Hope bloomed amidst tragedy, responsibility weighed heavy but comforting on her heart. She realized in this moment—her people believed in her. They accepted her leadership, and this was only the beginning. Despite all the pain, something had changed for the better today.

Yet amidst the victory, one unanswered question loomed heavy in the air, unresolved. The thought lingered in her mind, echoing silently throughout the battlefield, haunting each survivor in turn:

After everything that had transpired, after the fracture between Byleth and Sothis—what would become of them now?

Chapter Text

Ashen and Warg stood atop the charred hillside, the cold wind biting at their skin as the distant glow of battle illuminated the night sky. Below them, Ashen's kingdom—his empire, his vision—lay in ruin. The once-proud banners that bore his sigil now lay tattered in the blood-soaked streets, and his soldiers, his mighty army, were struggling to maintain control. He had underestimated more of Byleth's friend's. That much was clear.

Ashen's molten eyes burned with fury as he scanned the battlefield, watching the rebels pick apart his forces with a precise and merciless efficiency. Every moment he had spent being away led to this. His focus had wavered, and now the consequences were unraveling before him.

Grinding his teeth, he turned sharply to Warg, who stood solemnly beside him, his wolf-like features drawn tight with unease. "I told Shamir to return if she failed. Where is she?"

Warg hesitated before stepping forward. "She did return, my lord… but it seems she has regained her memories."

Ashen's expression darkened instantly, his fingers twitching at his side as his mind pieced the betrayal together. Shamir—his trusted assassin, the one who became his own salve was no longer his. Her past had resurfaced, and with it, her allegiance had shifted. She was never truly his to command, and now she had turned against him.

"And where is the army she commanded?" Ashen asked coldly. "They should have returned."

Warg remained silent, his massive frame unnervingly still.

Ashen's gaze sharpened, his patience thinning to a knife's edge. "Warg," he said, his voice low and dangerous, "why are you silent?"

Warg hesitated, muscles tightening visibly beneath his wolf-like fur, his expression strained and uncertain. The tension stretched unbearably until he finally forced himself to speak, the words slow and filled with dread. "There’s… a chance they went to the heart of Fódlan."

Ashen’s heart froze instantly, a chill running down his spine despite the heat of battle around them. The heart of Fódlan—Garreg Mach. A fortress now left utterly vulnerable, its defenses weakened from countless clashes and the relentless drain of resources. His chest constricted painfully at the thought, the realization sinking in like a blade between the ribs.

"Garreg Mach?" Ashen’s voice was dangerously calm, yet Warg could sense the volcanic wrath simmering beneath its smooth surface.

Warg nodded grimly. "Yes, my lord. It is likely already overrun."

Ashen stood in chilling silence, fists clenched at his sides, his fiery eyes staring blankly ahead. The implications spiraled rapidly through his mind—Garreg Mach was weakened, its defenses barely adequate to withstand a concentrated assault. Without reinforcements, it had almost certainly fallen. Yet none of that mattered as much as the thought that now tore relentlessly through his thoughts—the children. Byleth and Edelgard’s children.

His jaw tightened, grinding his teeth harshly as his voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "The children," he demanded, his voice trembling dangerously with rage barely restrained. "Did they leave in time?"

Warg’s chest heaved rapidly, the wolf-beast's gaze dropping to the ground, betraying his answer before he spoke. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable, an animalistic dread clawing at him from within.

Ashen’s patience snapped, his calm facade shattering in an instant as his voice thundered through the cold air, ringing with unbridled fury. "Tell me, Warg! Did the children escape or not!?"

Warg flinched visibly, head bowed in bitter shame and fear. "No, my lord. They did not."

Without hesitation, Ashen lunged forward, his powerful grip closing ruthlessly around Warg’s throat. With a surge of raw strength, he slammed the wolf soldier against a tree, splintering the trunk from the impact. Ashen’s fiery gaze burned violently into Warg’s terrified eyes, his voice shaking with anger and a twisted kind of grief. "You left them to be reclaimed by our enemies!"

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Meanwhile, inside Fhirdiad, the battle raged with relentless intensity. The city streets were awash with the clashing of steel, the screams of soldiers and civilians alike, and the deep, guttural roars of beast soldiers. The once-proud capital was crumbling under the weight of the war, buildings engulfed in flames, smoke clouding the sky like an omen of doom.

Claude, his bow in hand, stood atop the remnants of a collapsed balcony, loosing arrow after arrow into the horde of beast soldiers that swarmed through the streets below. He inhaled sharply as his latest shot pierced through the thick hide of one particularly massive foe, sending it crashing to the ground. Behind him, Felix slashed through the enemy lines with fierce precision, his blade cutting deep, unyielding even with the wounds that littered his body.

"Still surprised that, with all those injuries, you're still willing to fight, Felix," Claude commented, sending another arrow flying.

Felix smirked, barely sparing Claude a glance as he cleaved another beast in half. "They attacked my territory. I'm just making things even."

Claude chuckled breathlessly. "Never thought I’d see you smirk in the middle of a fight. I must say, it suits you."

Their exchange was short-lived as they caught sight of a group approaching at full speed—Shamir, Petra, Lysithea, Caspar, and Leonie. Claude turned to them, hope flickering in his golden eyes.

"Any sign of Clainsiia or Jeralt?" he asked urgently.

Petra shook her head. "No, but most of the slaves have been saved."

Caspar, still catching his breath, added, "They went to the castle, but it was empty. Just some beast soldiers."

Lysithea’s expression darkened. "Jeritza and Nader are dealing with the elite soldiers, but I fear the children will get caught in the crossfire."

Shamir’s voice was firm, yet oddly reassuring. "Have faith. Ashen wouldn’t want Edelgard and Byleth’s children killed. If Byleth and Edelgard die, then the kids do. But not before. They are too valuable."

Leonie, gripping her lance tightly, nodded. "Then we’ll find them. We just need to keep looking."

The group split up, each heading toward different parts of the city, hoping to locate the missing children before it was too late.

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Flames consumed the buildings around them, the once-proud streets of Fhirdiad now a raging inferno of destruction and despair. The terrified cries of civilians and the clash of steel echoed in the distance, but Clainsiia and Arthur had no time to look back. Clainsiia clutched her infant brother, Jeralt, tightly against her chest, his tiny face contorted in fear as his cries blended with the cacophony of war. Arthur ran beside her, his hand firmly grasping her wrist, guiding her through the chaos toward the gates—their only chance of escape.

“We need to reach the gate!” Arthur urged, his voice barely audible over the roar of the inferno surrounding them.

Clainsiia gasped for air, her legs burning from the frantic pace. “How far!?” she asked desperately. But before Arthur could answer, the snarling of beast soldiers reached their ears.

The monstrous creatures surged toward them, their eyes glowing with murderous intent. Clainsiia turned sharply, shielding Jeralt with her body, her breath catching in horror. But then, the pounding of hooves echoed through the fiery streets, and from the shadows emerged a figure clad in dark armor, his crimson cape billowing behind him like the specter of death itself. Jeritza. The Death Knight. His cold voice cut through the battlefield like a blade. “Hmph. I expected a challenge.”

With eerie precision, he charged into the horde of beasts, his scythe carving through them as though they were mere insects. Blood and viscera painted the cobblestone streets as he struck down one after another, his movements effortless and deadly. Jeritza lifted his hand, dark magic crackling between his fingertips. “Thorns.”

With a swift motion, he unleashed the spell, sending thick vines bursting from the ground, ensnaring several of the creatures and hurling them into the crumbling walls of a nearby building. The force of the impact shattered the weakened stone, creating an opening—a new path to freedom.

Arthur's eyes widened at the sight of the damaged wall. “Princess! That’s our way out! Hurry!”

The children ran toward the broken exit, their small bodies shaking with fear and exhaustion. Every step forward felt like salvation, every breath bringing them closer to escape. Clainsiia held her baby brother, Jeralt, tightly against her chest, his tiny frame trembling in her grasp. The fires of war raged behind them, the crackling embers painting a hellish glow upon the ruined streets of Fhirdiad. They were so close. So close to freedom.

But then something happened happened. Slipped from Clainsiia’s bag was Ashen's journal. She skidded to a stop, heart pounding as she stared at the small,d book lying amidst the rubble. It was bound in worn leather, the edges of the pages singed slightly from the fires that had spread through Fhirdiad. 

Arthur turned sharply when he noticed her hesitation, his voice rising in alarm. “Princess, what’s wrong!?”

Clainsiia’s hands clenched into fists as she stood frozen, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She could hear the screams of the dying. The smell of blood and smoke choked the air. But in this moment, all she could think about was him. To the world, Ashen was a monster. To her, Kazamir is there somehow.

She wanted to see her parents, she needed to ensure her little brother survived—but her mind refused to let go of the thought that maybe there was still something in Ashen worth saving. Yes, the land of Fódlan saw him as evil. Yes, he had done terrible things. But she had seen his hesitation. His flickers of doubt. His humanity buried beneath the years of war and pain. If there was darkness, then there had to be light. If there was evil, then there had to be redemption.

Her gaze dropped to her baby brother, Jeralt, who whimpered softly in her arms. She swallowed thickly, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before turning to Arthur with determination in her eyes. “Take him,” she said, voice steady despite the chaos around them. “Get him out of here.”

Arthur's eyes widened in shock. He instinctively stepped forward. “What!? Princess, no! We have to leave—together!”

Clainsiia shook her head, holding out Jeralt to him. “I can’t go. Not yet.”

Arthur looked between the baby, the princess, and the war-torn city behind her. Everything in him screamed to stop her. But he knew that look. That determination. With a curse under his breath, he took Jeralt into his arms, securing him protectively against his chest. He wasn’t happy about this—not at all. But as Clainsiia turned, gripping the journal tightly, he knew he had no choice. Clainsiia gave him one last determined nod before turning away, running back toward the heart of battle.

Arthur watched her disappear into the smoke, his stomach twisting in agony. He could chase after her—but no. She had made her choice. And right now, his duty as her retainer was clear. “Damn it, Clainsiia,” he muttered under his breath before tightening his grip on the baby. Turning on his heel, he sprinted toward the wall’s opening, praying that Fódlan’s soldiers find him.

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Back at the hill, Ashen finally let go of Warg, his fury still seething beneath the surface as he turned away, fists clenched at his sides. His mind was an inferno of rage and disbelief. His army—his soldiers—had dared to defy him? The god they had once worshipped without question? Betrayal twisted in his chest like a knife, and his molten eyes burned with silent, livid intensity.

Warg coughed hoarsely, rubbing his neck as he scrambled to his feet. His wolf-like ears twitched in agitation, yet there was something else in his gaze as he stood—defiance. He met Ashen’s burning gaze, no longer holding back what had been simmering within him for far too long.

“My lord,” Warg started, his voice strained but unwavering. “Do you not see it? The army questions you now.” He stepped closer, his massive form tense, yet his golden eyes sharp with an eerie kind of certainty. “And why, my lord? Why do you think your men hesitate? Why do they disobey?”

Ashen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Explain, Warg,” he murmured, voice deceptively calm, yet his wings twitched, flexing ever so slightly.

Warg scoffed, a grim smile pulling at his sharp features. “It’s because you’ve gone soft.”

A deafening silence fell between them. Ashen didn’t react immediately, his expression unreadable, but something in the air changed. A dangerous, suffocating stillness settled like a storm before the lightning struck. Warg knew he was testing his god’s patience, but he pressed on.

“It’s because of those damn children,” Warg spat, his sharp teeth bared in frustration. “The children you refused to kill. The very same ones who should’ve been eliminated, yet you let them live! Do you understand what that has done? The army looks at you and sees a liar—a god who falters, a leader who hesitates!” His golden eyes burned with something close to fury now. “And thanks to that damn princess—” He snarled, stepping forward. “You’re becoming someone else! It’s no wonder your soldiers whisper behind your back. It’s no wonder they think you’re a failure!”

A violent gust of wind erupted as Ashen’s wings sprang to life, unfurling with an audible crack. The air grew dense, suffocating, as though the very world itself was holding its breath. His molten gaze burned with a searing intensity, the fire of his fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“They view me as what?” His voice was dangerously low, menacing in its quiet restraint. His glowing eyes locked onto Warg, the unspoken promise of violence hanging between them like a guillotine.

Warg took an instinctive step back, his wolf-like form stiffening, his massive frame suddenly feeling small beneath Ashen’s godly presence. He was strong, a warrior without equal among the beast soldiers, and yet, standing before his enraged master, he felt like prey.

Ashen took a slow, deliberate step forward. The blackened blade of his double-edged sword materialized in his hand, the runes upon its surface gleaming ominously. Without hesitation, he raised it, pressing the cold, sharp edge against Warg’s cheek.

Warg swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it. This was how he died. A tense silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Ashen’s molten orange gaze bore into Warg with a searing intensity, the blade of his sword gleaming dangerously in the flickering light of distant flames. For a moment, Warg swore he could hear his own heartbeat, each thud pounding against his ribs like the toll of a funeral bell.

Then—just as quickly as the moment had arrived—Ashen's wings flared open, and in a single smooth motion, he spun away, ripping his sword from Warg’s face. The movement was elegant, fluid—controlled, but deadly. His anger did not fade, but he forced it into something sharper, more focused.

Without looking back, Ashen spoke, his voice quiet but edged with a deadly finality. “Get the army out of here.”

Warg’s ears twitched, his body still rigid from the overwhelming pressure of his master’s rage. “Where do you want them to go, my lord?”

“Garreg Mach.” Ashen’s voice was cold, unforgiving. “Find the traitors.”

Warg hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. “…All of them?”

Ashen finally turned to face him, the depths of his molten gaze burning with absolute conviction. “Every last one.” His tone left no room for argument. “I will handle this army myself.”

Warg exhaled slowly, bowing his head in submission before turning to carry out his orders. His massive form disappeared into the darkened battlefield, leaving Ashen alone atop the charred hillside.

The word failure gnawed at the edges of Ashen’s mind. It haunted him, clawed at him, whispered doubts into the cracks of his resolve. "A failure? Me?!" The thought infuriated him, but more than that—it ignited something inside him. Determination. He would prove them all wrong. His wings flared once more, and with a powerful leap, he launched himself into the fray.

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Meanwhile, Claude and his group continued their battle within the ruined streets of Fhirdiad. Their primary objective was to free the slaves captured by Ashen's forces, but the relentless beasts made it near impossible. Each strike of the enemy threatened to overwhelm them, but they pressed on, knowing that if they failed here, more would be lost.

Claude stood atop a collapsed balcony, bow drawn, loosing arrows with deadly accuracy. Each shot found its mark, piercing the skulls and chests of the monstrous soldiers. Beside him, Felix fought like a tempest, his sword carving through beast after beast, unrelenting even as sweat and blood stained his face.

Then Felix’s sharp eyes caught sight of a group of slaves, their frail bodies bound by iron chains, their terrified eyes wide with both hope and fear.

"Hold them off! I'm going!" Felix barked before dashing toward the captives.

Claude turned briefly, nodding. "Go! I'll cover you!"

Felix reached the slaves, cutting through their chains with practiced efficiency. "Run. Now!" he commanded. The prisoners hesitated for only a moment before sprinting toward the broken wall that led to safety. As they ran, Claude exhaled in relief, glad to see them free—but then his instincts screamed danger.

His eyes snapped upwards just in time to see a massive wave of fire descending upon them. "Felix, move!" Claude lunged, tackling Felix aside just as the inferno scorched the ground where they had stood. Claude groaned, pushing himself up, his heart hammering. He followed the trail of the attack, scanning the smoke-filled sky—and his stomach clenched.

Descending through the haze of fire and blood, Ashen landed heavily onto the ground, the force of his arrival shaking the crumbling city beneath him. His molten gaze locked onto Claude with something between cruel amusement and simmering wrath. His claws flexed at his sides, sharp as daggers, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

"Are you here to avenge your friend?" Ashen asked, his voice smooth yet taunting, as he tilted his head slightly. "Back at House Gloucester, wasn't it?"

Claude gritted his teeth, his grip tightening around his bow. Lorenz’s death was still fresh in his mind, and seeing the monster responsible standing before him rekindled the rage buried beneath his strategist’s exterior.

Ashen smirked at Claude’s silence. “You should be thankful. He died fast.”

Claude moved instinctively, nocking an arrow, but Ashen was faster. With a flick of his wrist, the sky above them darkened as a surge of Miasma erupted from his outstretched palm, streaking toward Claude in a wave of writhing, poisonous magic.

Claude barely had time to react before a metallic clang echoed through the battlefield—Felix, the heir of Fraldarius, had thrown himself in front of the attack, the Aegis Shield absorbing the brunt of the spell. The energy dissipated around them, but Felix stood firm, his sword gleaming in the dim light of the flames.

"This is for my people," Felix growled, stepping forward with the determination of a true knight. "For every life your army has taken!"

With a battle cry, Felix charged, his sword raised high. His movements were swift, precise—worthy of a Fraldarius warrior—but Ashen didn’t move. He merely walked forward, each step exuding absolute confidence. And when Felix brought his blade down in a mighty arc— But Ashen warped.

In an instant, the god reappeared behind Felix, his double-bladed sword reversed in his grip. Before Felix could react, Ashen drove the back end of the blade straight through his chest. Felix gasped, looking down in shock at the crimson-stained steel protruding from his torso. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, each slowing beat a cruel reminder of his failure.

Ashen slightly turned his head, watching Felix's fading strength with an air of detached curiosity. "You fought like a knight, not like a ruler," he mused. "And so, you die like one." With a brutal yank, Ashen tore the blade free, and before Felix’s body could collapse, he exhaled a torrent of searing fire, engulfing the house ruler entirely. In seconds, there was nothing left but ash, the sword he once wielded falling to the ground, lifeless.

Claude clenched his fists, the loss of yet another friend sending a fresh surge of fury through his veins. His breath came quick and sharp as he reached for his bow. "You’re going to pay for what you just did!" he shouted.

With unmatched precision, he loosed a series of arrows. Ashen dodged the first few with ease, his movements fluid, his expression smug—until one arrow found its mark, piercing his shoulder. Ashen hissed, his eyes narrowing as he reached up and ripped the arrow free. Claude’s weapon, Failnaught, was a Hero’s Relic that can slay beings like him.

"Impressive,"  Ashen murmured, rolling his shoulder. The pain was fleeting, a mere annoyance, but the fact that an attack had pierced his flesh at all sent a flicker of irritation through him. He gazed down at the blood dripping from his shoulder where Claude’s arrow had struck, the faint glow of his divine essence knitting the wound together at an accelerated pace. "But ultimately futile."

Claude gritted his teeth, nocking another arrow. Since Failnaught was a Hero's relic it was the only weapon that could truly harm him—he had to make each shot count. His eyes locked onto his enemy, his breath steady despite the fury burning in his chest.

But before he could fire, the sound of fast-approaching footsteps and clinking armor filled the air. In an instant, a group of warriors burst onto the battlefield, surrounding Claude in a protective formation. Shamir, Leonie, Petra, Caspar, Lysithea, and Nader.

Ashen’s gaze flickered from one warrior to another before settling on Shamir. He clicked his tongue, his molten gaze narrowing slightly. "A shame you've regained your memories." His voice was edged with disappointment, yet laced with a cruel amusement. "You served me well, Shamir. But that wretched orange-haired girl, is perhaps why you got your memories back."

Shamir’s grip tightened on her bow, her eyes hard as steel. "You're wrong," she said firmly, standing her ground, her voice unwavering. "Leonie wasn’t worthless. She saved me from your influence. She reminded me who I really am."

Ashen chuckled, shaking his head. "Fascinating," he mused. "And now, you all think you stand a chance against me?" His voice darkened, fire licking at the edges of his words. His burning wings unfurled, stretching out like the ominous shadow of a divine executioner.

Caspar cracked his knuckles, his grin full of wild energy despite the tension in the air. "As much as I’d love to fight you myself," he admitted, rolling his shoulders, "we’re not the ones fighting you today. The Death Knight will."

Ashen’s molten gaze narrowed, his amusement flickering into confusion. "Death Knight?" he echoed, the title rolling off his tongue like a foreign, meaningless phrase. His smirk faltered, replaced by a calculating glint in his eyes. "And what, exactly, is a Death Knight?" 

But before he could dwell on the question further, the thunderous sound of hooves echoed through the battlefield. A shadow moved like a phantom through the chaos, cutting through the flames and smoke with eerie precision. Then, without warning, a razor-sharp scythe pierced Ashen’s shoulder, the curved blade slicing through his divine flesh like a hot knife through butter.

Ashen let out a sharp hiss, his molten orange eyes widening in shock as he was yanked backward, dragged violently by the scythe's chain. The force of the attack sent him crashing into the ground, dirt and debris flying into the air as the figure atop the monstrous black steed bore down upon him. Jeritza.

The Death Knight loomed over Ashen, his crimson cloak billowing ominously behind him, his piercing, emotionless eyes locked onto the so-called god. His voice, cold and unwavering, cut through the air like the edge of his weapon. "So… you are the god who has drowned this land in blood for months," he murmured, his tone void of fear, void of hesitation.

Ashen clenched his jaw, fury bubbling beneath his skin. With a roar, he reached up with his free arm, his clawed fingers glowing with intense heat, and he struck the horse’s leg with brute force. The sickening crack of breaking bone echoed through the battlefield.

The great beast let out a tortured cry as it collapsed, sending Jeritza tumbling forward. But the Death Knight was quick—he twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch as his steed writhed in agony behind him. His gaze flickered toward the fallen creature, but he did not hesitate. He did not grieve. Instead, he rose, unwavering, as he watched Ashen rip the scythe from his own shoulder and fling it aside, the blade landing inches from its master's feet.

"Not.. impressed," Ashen growled, flexing his fingers, golden ichor dripping from his wound. "Is this all you have to offer me?"

Jeritza merely tilted his head, his crimson eyes gleaming behind his mask. "You have yet to see all I have to offer."

Without warning, Ashen lifted his hand to the sky, and the air crackled with dark energy. A moment later, a deafening roar of thunder heralded the arrival of a devastating Bolting spell. The sky split apart, and a massive bolt of purple lightning crashed down upon Jeritza’s location.

The explosion sent smoke and debris billowing into the air, the sheer force shaking the very foundations of the ruined city.

Ashen stood still, his chest rising and falling heavily as he watched the thick clouds of dust settle. He scanned the wreckage carefully, his eyes narrowed. Gone? No. Not that easily…

Then—movement, from the dissipating smoke, a figure emerged with unsettling calm. Jeritza. Unscathed.

A whisper of steel, and then—pain. Ashen barely had time to react before Jeritza’s blade sank into his side. The impact sent him flying, his body crashing through the crumbling remains of a nearby building. The walls caved inward, stone and wood raining down upon him as he gritted his teeth against the pain. He shoved himself out of the wreckage, molten eyes blazing as he stumbled forward.

Jeritza stood at a distance, his grip on his scythe unwavering, his expression unreadable. "What’s wrong?" the Death Knight taunted, his voice eerily even. "Is that the limit of your divine strength?"

Ashen snarled, his fury igniting. "What are you?" he demanded, his voice dripping with venom. "Some kind of demon?"

Jeritza took a slow, deliberate step forward, his scythe glinting in the firelight. "Demon?" he repeated, tilting his head. Then, a twisted, almost inhuman smile curled at the edges of his lips. "Perhaps."

Ashen inhaled sharply, fire welling up in his throat before he exhaled a torrent of blazing destruction straight toward Jeritza. The inferno roared hungrily, swallowing the battlefield in scorching flames.

But through the fire, through the sheer heat of it all Jeritza charged. His form cut through the blaze like a shadow of death itself, the fire licking at his armor, but never slowing him down. “Gah—more!” Jeritza's voice was laced with something almost ecstatic, as though he were relishing the battle. "I still draw breath!"

With terrifying speed, he closed the distance, his fist slamming into Ashen’s face with a sickening crack. The impact sent Ashen stumbling backward, but Jeritza did not relent. Another strike. And another.

Blow after blow, each one driving Ashen further and further back until, with brutal efficiency, Jeritza seized Ashen by the shoulder and slammed him into the ground. The force of the impact shattered the wooden crates beneath them, the debris splintering around them as Jeritza grabbed him by the collar and drove his head against the wreckage again. And again. And again. Each slam sent ripples of pain through Ashen’s skull, his vision momentarily darkening from the sheer brutality of the assault.

Then, with a surge of defiance, Ashen roared and elbowed Jeritza with all his strength, the force sending the Death Knight stumbling backward. Ashen wasted no time—he spun on his heel and delivered a vicious side-kick, knocking Jeritza’s helmet clean off. The metal flew through the air, landing with a hollow clang on the bloodstained cobblestone.

For the first time, Jeritza’s face was fully visible—his sharp features contorted in something between rage and euphoria, his piercing eyes gleaming with a primal hunger.

Ashen exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he summoned his double-bladed sword into his grip. His claws flexed against the hilt, his expression dark, unreadable.

"Come forth, demon," he murmured, his voice dripping with deadly promise. His wings unfurled behind him, flames licking at the edges of his form. "Let a god put you out of your misery."

Jeritza let out a breathless chuckle, running his fingers over the fresh claw marks on his cheek, courtesy of Ashen’s earlier counterattack. He licked the blood from his fingertips before gripping his scythe tightly.

Then, with no further warning, they charged. The battlefield trembled as steel met steel.

Ashen swung his double-bladed sword in a deadly arc, but Jeritza was faster, ducking beneath the strike and retaliating with a precise slash of his scythe. Ashen barely dodged, twisting his body midair before delivering a devastating downward slash. Jeritza blocked, the force of the impact sent shockwaves rippling outward, the sheer pressure of their clash causing the ground beneath them to crack. Then—they moved.

Their strikes blurred into a dance of death, each attack met with equal ferocity. Sparks flew as their weapons clashed, neither willing to yield an inch. Ashen's flames flared violently, but Jeritza weaved through them with unnatural agility, his scythe moving like an extension of his body.

Then, with an unholy burst of speed, Jeritza lunged forward. His scythe carved through the air, its curved blade inches away from Ashen’s throat. Ashen caught it with his hand.

The force of the impact sent sparks flying, the steel of the scythe screeching against the unyielding strength of Ashen’s grip. For a moment, their eyes locked—molten orange against blood-red. Ashen’s lips curled into a smirk, his fingers tightening around the weapon’s shaft as he kicked Jeritza off with brutal force. The Death Knight was sent skidding backward, his heels digging trenches into the charred earth.

Without hesitation, Jeritza charged again, his movements a blur of deadly precision. Ashen dodged effortlessly, weaving through the relentless assault with a smirk of arrogance. He was toying with him. But then, in a single calculated moment, Ashen saw his opening. His double-edged blade split apart, forming twin swords in his grasp. With a vicious thrust, he drove them forward, one blade plunging into Jeritza’s left shoulder.

The Death Knight let out a guttural grunt of pain but did not falter. Instead, he surged forward, using the momentum to slam his armored forehead into Ashen’s face. The impact was brutal, sending shockwaves of pain through the god’s skull. Before Ashen could react, Jeritza’s leg shot upward, hooking around Ashen’s waist. With a powerful swing, he twisted, wrenching the swords from his flesh as he drove his own lance straight through Ashen’s stomach.

Ashen gasped sharply, the cold bite of the blade ripping through him as Jeritza spun and hurled him into a stone wall. The impact shattered the stone, sending debris crashing to the ground as Ashen slumped forward. Blood dripped from his wound, his breath ragged—but then, his molten eyes burned brighter. The flesh around his wound sizzled, knitting itself back together as the divine energy surged through his body. He straightened, his lips pulling into a slow, deadly grin.

Jeritza did not hesitate—he charged once more, scythe raised high. Ashen met his charge head-on, their weapons colliding in a deafening crash. Jeritza’s scythe curved through the air in a deadly arc, but Ashen twisted out of reach, the motion effortless, fluid. He countered with a brutal slash of his sword, but Jeritza blocked, his blade screeching against the edge of Ashen’s.

The battle raged, neither yielding an inch. Then, Jeritza snarled through his bloodied lips, his voice dripping with venom. “You fight with the arrogance of a failed man who has already lost.”

Ashen’s breath hitched, his grip tightening on his blade. The word echoed in his mind. Failure. And suddenly, it wasn’t Jeritza’s voice anymore. It was hers.... Rhea. He saw her again—standing above him, her cold eyes piercing into his very soul. "Why must you be a failure," her voice whispered in his mind, the words cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

Something inside Ashen snapped. His molten eyes widened, burning with a furious, uncontrollable rage. His aura flared violently, dark tendrils of power crackling around him as he lifted his hand. The ground trembled as the spell took form, the air thickening with the scent of death itself. Dark Spike T.

A monstrous spear of darkness erupted from the ground, impaling Jeritza in an instant. The Death Knight let out a choked gasp, his body arching as the shadowy magic ripped through him. His armor cracked, the impact sending him skidding backward, blood pouring from the deep gash in his chest. His breathing was ragged, his vision flickering. Death was near. But still, he stood.

Ashen’s lips parted slightly, his expression shifting from fury to something close to... admiration. "You’re still alive?" he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "Impressive."

Jeritza staggered, his grip on his scythe barely holding. But his bloodied lips curled into a grin. "I still… draw breath."

Ashen exhaled sharply before launching forward with terrifying speed. He grabbed Jeritza by the head, dragging him through the battlefield with unrelenting force. The Death Knight’s body smashed through the ruined remnants of buildings, debris exploding in every direction as Ashen drove him into the ground with enough force to shake the battlefield.

Jeritza, barely clinging to consciousness, ripped a dagger from his belt and in one final act of defiance, threw it straight at Ashen’s throat. The blade struck.

For the briefest moment, Ashen’s eyes widened in surprise as the dagger embedded itself in his flesh. He ripped it free, his fingers stained with his own ichor, golden and glowing like molten lava. His expression darkened.

With a single motion, he hurled Jeritza into the remains of a collapsed tower. The Death Knight hit the wall hard, his body slumping forward, unable to fight back any longer.

Ashen stepped forward, his expression cold, final. "You shall have your death," he murmured as he used Bohr-X. The air cracked and shattered as Ashen unleashed the spell, black tendrils of magic piercing through Jeritza’s body. He did not scream. He did not beg. He stood his ground, even as his body was reduced to little more than a broken shadow of its former strength.

But still… he moved. Limping. Bleeding. Barely alive. Ashen’s eyes narrowed. This man was barely standing—and yet, he refused to fall. Then, with the last of his strength, Jeritza raised his scythe for one final swing. Ashen barely blinked. In one fluid motion, he sliced off Jeritza’s hand.

The Death Knight staggered, his scythe slipping from his severed grasp, the once-feared weapon clattering to the ground in a pool of blood. A hush fell over the battlefield. Ashen bent down, his hand gripping the scythe’s hilt.

He took one last look at Jeritza, the once-mighty warrior who had defied him to the very end. And then, with one brutal stroke, Ashen swung Jeritza’s own scythe—and took his head. The Death Knight fell. For the first time since the battle began, the battlefield was silent.

Time seemed to stretch infinitely in that frozen moment. Ashen stood amid the wreckage, surrounded by the charred corpses of soldiers, the scorched earth beneath his feet still steaming. Jeritza’s headless body lay motionless, his mask shattered nearby, and his severed head rolled to a stop against the ruins—his crimson eyes finally closed.

No one moved. Claude, bow still drawn, stared in stunned horror, every fiber in his body screaming in silent rage and helplessness. Shamir’s breath hitched, a quiet gasp escaping her lips. Petra’s eyes were wide, her weapon slowly lowering as if the strength had left her arms. Lysithea covered her mouth with a trembling hand, eyes glistening. Caspar stood rigid, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, and Leonie whispered a barely audible, “No…” Nader, the veteran warrior, lowered his axe slowly, his mouth slightly agape.

It wasn’t just that Jeritza was dead—it was how it happened. He had been the grim specter of the battlefield, the nightmare that haunted enemies. And now, he was gone.

Ashen slowly turned toward them, blood still dripping from the scythe in his grip. His molten eyes met theirs—not with satisfaction, but indifference. As if what he had just done meant nothing. As if Jeritza, for all his might, had simply been a nuisance.

That was when Nader broke the silence.

His voice was rough, but sharp with clarity. “Kiddo…” He looked at Claude with urgency. “You gotta go. Now. We’ll hold him off.”

Claude’s mouth opened in protest. “No, we can’t just—”

“This is your best shot!” Nader snapped. “Get as many as you can and get out. If you stay, you die. We all do.”

The others turned to Claude. None argued. Their silence spoke volumes. They knew. If they were going to survive, this was the only chance. And Claude… he had to lead them.

Claude nodded once, slowly. He looked at each of them—his comrades, his friends—and saw it in their eyes. They were ready to die for this. He didn’t want to leave them. But he had to. He turned on his heel, shouting, “Fall back! Everyone we can save, get them out! Now!”

As the soldiers began to scatter, sprinting through alleys and broken buildings, Ashen’s eyes followed them, calculating. Slowly, his wings spread, casting a long, monstrous shadow across the earth. Then, a roar thundered from his chest. A deep, deafening sound that shook the skies.

Ashen rose into the air in a cyclone of fire and smoke. Lightning arced through the sky, storms forming above as if the heavens themselves feared his wrath.

He locked eyes with Nader, who stood with a cluster of remaining soldiers, his body now surrounded by a pale gray aura—the manifestation of his resolve. Ashen dove. The air split as he hurtled toward them. An explosion of dust and flame erupted as he slammed into the earth. Knights screamed as they were sent flying. Nader braced himself, shield raised.

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Meanwhile, Clainsiia was still running, clutching the worn leather journal tightly to her chest, her heart pounding louder than the explosions echoing in the distance. Her legs ached, lungs burned, and her thoughts spiraled around a single name—not Ashen. Not the god the world feared. But Kazamir. A human she wants to help... wants to save. 

Ahead, a group of  knights bolted through the scorched streets, their armor gleaming with soot and blood. But before they could take another step, a deafening explosion shattered the cobblestones beneath their feet. Fire and smoke engulfed them as a monstrous figure descended from the smoke-darkened skies. Ashen.

Clainsiia stumbled back, ducking into the nearest ruined house, her breath coming in sharp, fearful gasps. From the broken window, she watched in horror as Ashen cut down the soldiers with inhuman speed. Iron swords clanged against his divine flesh, but they may as well have been twigs. His wounds closed the moment they opened and he lifted his hand using the spell Hades Ω.

Some of the knights looked down at the ground—just in time to see a black and purple circle etch itself into the stone. Then it pulsed. Brighter. Brighter still. What began as a sigil quickly expanded, growing into a pillar of swirling, unmoving energy that resembled a tornado made of violet mist and flickering purple ores. The minerals ascended like embers from hell, striking the knights from below. One by one, they screamed—until nothing remained but ash and clattering armor.

Ashen roared, his voice echoing like thunder through the war-torn streets. Storm clouds rolled in overhead, answering their god’s call with crashing bolts of lightning and rumbling wind.

From the shadows, Nader leapt onto Ashen's back. The general’s weight bore down on him, and more knights joined, piling atop the godlike figure. Blades stabbed, fists pummeled, boots kicked—but then Ashen’s wings flared outward. With a single, explosive motion, he hurled the pile off of him like scattered leaves.

Several knights staggered to their feet, dazed—but Ashen wasn’t done. He flung his sword like a spinning wheel of death. The blackened steel soared through the air and sliced through their necks with deadly precision. Heads rolled. Ashen summoned the blade back to his hand with a casual flick of his wrist.

An arrow struck him from behind—then another. A half-dozen more followed. He winced, more out of irritation than pain. With a single word—"Wind"—he turned and unleashed a torrent of razor-sharp gales. The archers didn’t even scream before they were torn in half.

A desperate knight, trembling but determined, lunged and grabbed his leg. Ashen looked down in silence. Then, almost gently, he reached down, lifted her high into the air—then slammed her body into his knee with a bone-crushing crack. Her spine shattered.

Nader, groaning, forced himself upright. Around him, his comrades were being slaughtered. His soldiers—his friends. Ashen was relentless. He seized a fallen shield and sword, then charged again. Ashen split his double-bladed sword into two, meeting Nader’s swing mid-strike. Their blades clashed violently. Sparks flew. “What do you gain from this!?” Nader demanded.

Ashen didn’t answer. He simply struck with both swords. One blade collided with Nader’s weapon, and with a deafening snap, the sword shattered. Ashen’s weapons vanished. He stepped forward and began throwing punches, each one colliding with Nader’s raised shield. With every strike, the steel dented deeper… until, finally, the shield collapsed under the pressure.

Ashen’s clawed hand shot forward and seized Nader’s face. “This is where your fight ends!” Electricity surged through Ashen’s hand, coursing violently into Nader’s skull. The general screamed as the voltage seared his flesh. Smoke rose. His skin burned. Then, limp, he fell. Ashen let go of the body.

The remaining knights—those who still stood—gathered in desperation. Ashen summoned his twin blades once more and raised them. Their tips glowed brightly. "Disperse," he commanded.

Twin beams of light fired from the swords, sweeping across the battlefield. Knights turned and ran, but the beams caught them anyway. They disintegrated into dust mid-sprint, their armor collapsing in their place.

Those who had hesitated finally fled, bolting toward Claude and the others. Ashen rose into the air again, wings ablaze with heat. He opened his mouth—and unleashed a breath of fire. The retreating soldiers didn’t make it far. Screams pierced the air. One by one, they turned to ash. Ashen stood alone, surrounded by flames, his wings outstretched. And he roared in victory.

But Clainsiia couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed. Her heart thundered in her chest as she stepped out from the shadows of the ruined house, the journal still clutched tightly in her trembling hands. Her wide eyes scanned the devastation—the charred remains of armor, the soot-stained streets, and the silence that followed Ashen’s deafening triumph.

“All those soldiers…” she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the scorched air. “They had families. Loved ones.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She couldn’t understand how he could do this. How Kazamir—if that name still meant anything—could have allowed this to happen. But even amid her grief and horror, her hope refused to die.

She had read the journal. She had seen glimpses of the boy he used to be, of the heart buried beneath centuries of pain and anger. She remembered his voice when was human—so different from the monster standing in flames. She had heard the stories he told her. And she had seen the moment he was human again, even for just a heartbeat. It meant he could be again. If she could just remind him… he could be saved.

Clainsiia tightened her grip on the journal and stepped forward. Her body screamed in protest—bruises already forming, lungs struggling—but her resolve didn’t waver.

With all the determination her small frame could muster, she sprinted out into the open.

Ashen, high above, had already begun preparing his next spell. Fire coalesced in his hand, orange and gold like liquid sun. He cast it to the ground—just another volley in this endless war. But the moment the flames touched the earth where Clainsiia ran, a violent explosion ripped through the street. Clainsiia was thrown violently backward. Her small body spiraled through the air before crashing against the crumbling stone. She hit the ground hard, tumbling until she lay still.

Ashen’s wings flared as he hovered in place, the aftermath of the spell still glowing in the ruins below. Smoke and cinders rose. But then—he saw her. His molten orange eyes widened.

“No…” he whispered, voice hoarse, unsure.

Amid the soot and rubble, a small, unmoving form lay among the cracked stones. The journal—the one he had not seen in centuries—lay beside her, its leather cover singed but unmistakable. Clainsiia. The daughter of Byleth and Edelgard....stayed behind. 

He descended rapidly, the wind screaming past his ears. As he landed, the force cracked the stone around him. He approached slowly, his steps hesitant for the first time in years. He knelt. “Why did you stay?” His voice broke, his fury forgotten. “You had a chance to leave. You could’ve escaped with your brother, with Arthur. But you stayed…” She didn't answer. “Why?” He shouted... but still, she didn’t move.

Ashen leaned closer, his clawed fingers trembling. “Are… are you listening?” His voice was softer now—barely more than a whisper. He reached down to her wrist. No pulse. His hand hovered over her chest.  No heartbeat.

The realization struck him like a blade through the gut. For a long moment, Ashen stared at her in silence. The battle around him faded to a distant, meaningless hum. The screams, the clash of steel, the roar of fire—it all vanished. He had done this. He had... he had killed her.

He looked down at his hands—the same hands that once held her as a child, that wrote in the journal she now carried, that had burned down cities and shattered gods. Hands soaked in blood… but never before had they shaken even after killing children. But yet... they did.

He picked up the journal slowly, brushing soot from its cover. It was cracked, old, edges torn—but it was his. His words. His memories. His humanity, bound in leather and ink.

He turned to Clainsiia again, and something inside him broke. With the gentleness of a man long lost, he lifted her body into his arms. Her hair fell over her face, singed and tangled. Her hand dangled limply at his side.

Ashen closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. And he... felt pain. Real pain. He spread his wings and rose from the ruined earth, holding her against his chest, the journal tucked beneath his arm. The fires below reflected in his eyes, but no longer with satisfaction—only sorrow. He flew—not toward conquest, not toward glory—but to his army.

Chapter Text

At a distant hill, Claude and the remnants of his group had finally managed to put considerable distance between themselves and the smoldering ruins of Fhirdiad. Smoke billowed in thick plumes above the city, darkening the sky and casting a somber pall over the weary survivors. Soldiers, knights, and freed slaves alike stood in stunned silence, their expressions etched with grief and exhaustion. The burning city represented everything they'd lost—but also, strangely, everything they'd reclaimed.

Claude stared at the distant glow of flames, his heart twisted painfully in his chest. Nader was gone. His mentor, his guide—one who had stood beside him, fought for him, believed in his vision for a united Fódlan—had sacrificed himself so that Claude and countless others might live.

"Nader," Claude murmured, voice strained, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails drew blood. He knew the road ahead would be even harder without his steadfast friend. But grief would not paralyze him. Instead, it strengthened his resolve, crystallized his purpose. He would see Ashen defeated. For Lorenz. For Nader. For every life Ashen had carelessly extinguished.

Beside Claude, Shamir placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her presence quietly reassuring despite her own heavy grief. "Claude," she spoke calmly, voice firm yet gentle, "there’s nothing we can do for them now. They gave their lives to make sure we could keep fighting. We honor them by moving forward."

Leonie stepped forward, her gaze lingering on the survivors—many injured, all exhausted, yet their eyes glimmering with newfound hope and fragile freedom. "She's right. These people need us now. We need to tend to them, find out who needs healing, and figure out our next steps."

Claude nodded slowly, eyes still lingering on the smoldering horizon. "You're both right. We've got a long road ahead. Let's get to work."

Across the makeshift camp, knights began checking the former slaves, offering water, food, and tending wounds with practiced hands. The scene was one of fragile humanity, compassion prevailing amidst tragedy. Voices were hushed, respectful, offering gentle reassurances and quiet encouragement.

Caspar moved through the crowd, scanning for anyone who might need immediate assistance. Suddenly, a flash of movement caught his eye—a small figure sprinting desperately, a tiny infant clutched tightly in his arms. Concerned, Caspar quickly intercepted the boy, gently catching him by the shoulder.

"Whoa there," Caspar urged, softly but firmly, "slow down, kid. You're safe here now. What's your name?"

The boy gasped, chest heaving as he struggled to draw breath, eyes wide with desperation and lingering terror. Sweat and soot streaked his young face, and his small arms tightened protectively around the infant he cradled carefully against his chest. After several moments of frantic breathing, he finally managed to speak, his voice strained yet filled with urgent resolve.

"My—my name is Arthur," he stammered, still visibly shaken but fighting to compose himself. "I'm looking for Princess Clainsiia. Please, have you seen her?"

Caspar's eyes widened slightly in surprise at the mention of the princess's name. He quickly exchanged a glance with Leonie, who had approached at the sound of the commotion. The two exchanged concerned looks before Caspar returned his full attention to the boy.

"Princess Clainsiia? How do you know the princess?" Caspar asked gently, voice cautious yet curious. His gaze shifted downward, landing upon the small infant wrapped carefully in Arthur's arms. As recognition flashed across Caspar's face, his breath caught sharply in his chest, his heart pounding in sudden realization.

"Wait… Is that—" Caspar's voice lowered to a stunned whisper, barely audible even to himself. He gently brushed the cloth aside, revealing the sleeping face of the infant—Prince Jeralt. There was no mistaking the tiny features, the gentle expression etched across the child's face. Caspar exhaled slowly, processing the enormity of this discovery. His gaze snapped sharply back to Arthur, eyes filled with sudden seriousness.

"Arthur," Caspar spoke carefully, a quiet intensity coloring his voice, "tell me, who are you really?"

Arthur took a shaky breath, his posture straightening with a dignity and maturity that seemed far beyond his years. "I'm the princess's retainer," he said firmly, despite the tremor in his voice. "My duty is to protect her and Prince Jeralt."

Caspar regarded him with a mixture of admiration and skepticism, eyebrows knitted together thoughtfully. "A retainer? Aren't you a little young for something like that?"

Arthur sighed softly, lowering his gaze momentarily, shadows crossing his young features. "That's what I told Princess Clainsiia," he admitted quietly, a hint of a wry smile pulling at his lips. "But she… she was very kind to me. I wanted to repay that kindness—her trust. She trusted me to take Prince Jeralt safely out of the battlefield, to protect him no matter what. But if she's still back there, somewhere in that chaos. I have to find her!"

Caspar's expression softened profoundly as he absorbed the boy's words, moved deeply by Arthur's heartfelt sincerity and bravery. He reached out gently, placing a reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder once more.

"Arthur," Caspar said quietly, admiration glowing warmly in his eyes, "you've already done more than anyone could ever ask. What you did—running through that chaos, keeping Prince Jeralt safe despite everything—that was incredibly brave. You're a true hero."

Arthur's eyes widened slightly, a blush rising to his soot-streaked cheeks. "I… I just did what she asked," he murmured softly, humble yet undeniably proud to have kept his promise.

Caspar looked at the boy warmly, seeing the genuine bravery shining through despite the devastation surrounding them. He gently squeezed Arthur’s shoulder. "You know what, Arthur? The group really needs to hear this. Right now, we all need some good news."

Arthur glanced up hesitantly, holding Prince Jeralt tighter against his chest, anxiety flickering briefly across his features. Yet seeing the conviction in Caspar’s reassuring eyes, he slowly nodded. Together, the two of them began walking through the crowd of weary survivors, looking for anyone familiar. Caspar’s heart felt heavy with grief for those they had lost, yet a spark of hope glowed brighter with each step, thanks to Arthur and the precious life he held.

After several tense minutes, Caspar finally spotted two familiar faces: Petra and Lysithea were checking on injured survivors, carefully moving from one exhausted individual to another, offering gentle reassurance and healing where needed. Caspar broke into a run, waving his arm urgently to capture their attention. Arthur followed closely, his breathing rapid and anxious.

Petra immediately looked up, her amber eyes sharp with concern at the sight of her husband running toward them. "Caspar? What has happened? Is everything alright?"

Caspar slowed his pace, smiling breathlessly, a glimmer of joy finally breaking through the exhaustion on his face. "Yes, everything’s fine—better than fine, actually. Petra, Lysithea, you two aren’t going to believe this."

Lysithea raised a curious eyebrow, glancing down at Arthur, noticing for the first time the infant cradled protectively in his arms. "Who is this child?" she asked cautiously, her amethyst eyes widening slightly with curiosity and suspicion.

Caspar grinned, stepping aside slightly to reveal the infant more clearly. "Look closely," he urged softly.

Petra and Lysithea exchanged puzzled glances before leaning forward, examining the sleeping infant’s face closely. Both women gasped softly, their eyes widening in immediate recognition. They turned to each other, disbelief mingling with wonder and hope.

"It cannot be," Petra whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Lysithea shook her head slowly, though hope was already shining in her eyes. "We need to be sure." Gently, with a practiced tenderness, she lifted Jeralt’s little shirt, revealing a delicate golden necklace around his tiny neck. The pendant bore the unmistakable emblem of the Black Eagle—its wings spread elegantly, the eyes crafted from glittering black gems. Her breath caught sharply, tears prickling the corners of her eyes. "It really is him," she whispered softly, her voice barely audible. "Jeralt."

Petra turned her gaze to Arthur, her amber eyes filled with respect and wonder. "Please, young one, tell us your name."

Arthur stood taller, meeting Petra’s gaze bravely, though his cheeks flushed again under her scrutiny. "Arthur Launcelot," he declared clearly, his voice steadier this time. "I serve as Princess Clainsiia’s retainer."

Lysithea exchanged another quick, meaningful look with Petra, before nodding firmly. "Stay here, all of you. Claude has to see this." With that, she turned and sprinted through the camp, urgency and hope driving every step.

Claude stood quietly near the outskirts of the temporary refuge, his expression heavy with grief, exhaustion, and lingering anger. Leonie and Shamir stood nearby, their own expressions mirroring his. Lysithea arrived, breathing heavily as she approached, urgency etched clearly across her delicate features.

"Claude!" she called breathlessly, drawing the attention of everyone present.

Claude turned sharply, eyes narrowing slightly with concern. "What’s wrong, Lysithea?" he asked cautiously.

She shook her head quickly, eyes alight with excitement despite her exhaustion. "Nothing’s wrong—at least, not now. You must come quickly. A young boy named Arthur Launcelot has appeared. He’s holding an infant—a baby with the imperial seal, the golden Black Eagle necklace. Claude, it’s Jeralt!"

Claude’s golden eyes widened sharply, his breath catching audibly. He stood frozen for a single heartbeat before nodding quickly, his voice tight with emotion. "Show me. Now."

Leonie and Shamir exchanged stunned glances before quickly following Claude and Lysithea back through the crowded camp. Their pace quickened with each step, the weight of grief temporarily lifted by the possibility of such miraculous news.

Claude approached cautiously, his eyes settling firmly upon the young boy holding the tiny infant. His voice softened with gentle authority as he addressed him, kneeling slightly to be closer to Arthur’s eye level. “So, you're Arthur?”

Arthur stood up straighter, meeting Claude’s intense gaze with a mix of respect and uncertainty. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly but clearly, still gripping Prince Jeralt protectively against his chest.

However, as Arthur’s eyes drifted to the others who stood just behind Claude, his posture shifted abruptly. His body stiffened, fear flickering vividly across his features when his gaze landed on Shamir. Memories flashed vividly in Arthur’s mind of Shamir standing beside Ashen, cold and relentless. He took a hesitant step backward, his breathing growing quicker, heart pounding loudly in his ears.

Leonie immediately sensed Arthur’s fear, stepping forward gently but swiftly, her expression softening with compassion. “Hey,” she said calmly, her voice gentle yet confident. “You don’t need to be afraid. Shamir isn’t an enemy—she’s our friend.”

Shamir took a deep, steadying breath, and slowly knelt down on one knee to meet Arthur’s frightened gaze directly. Her emerald eyes were sincere, filled with remorse and understanding. “Arthur, I understand why you're afraid,” she began carefully, her voice steady and calm. “I served Ashen, yes—but not by choice. He took my memories from me, made me believe I belonged at his side. I wasn't myself then—I wasn't the Shamir these people know and trust. But I've regained my memories now, thanks to Leonie.” She paused, her expression softening further, vulnerability clear in her features. “I promise you, Arthur—I won’t hurt you, or anyone here.”

Arthur hesitated, his gaze flickering uncertainly between Shamir’s genuine expression and the reassuring faces of the others around him. Claude gave a firm, gentle nod of assurance. Leonie’s eyes glowed warmly, silently urging him to trust. Lysithea and Petra both nodded encouragingly, their eyes filled with compassion. Finally, Arthur released a shaky breath, visibly relaxing as he took their silent affirmation to heart. “Alright,” he whispered softly. “I… I trust you.”

Suddenly, Claude’s sharp gaze snapped upward, tension instantly returning to his posture as he saw something approaching swiftly from the distance. He drew his bow instinctively, voice ringing clearly with urgent warning. “Everyone, watch out!”

All heads turned sharply upward as they watched Ashen rapidly approaching through the smoke-filled skies. Panic surged momentarily through the camp—but then confusion replaced it. Instead of attacking, Ashen merely flew past them, continuing rapidly toward the horizon.

Claude’s brow furrowed, confusion evident. “Where’s he going?”

Without hesitation, Shamir swiftly retrieved her monocular, adjusting it carefully until the figure of Ashen became clear. Her heart froze as she realized what she saw.

“He has… Clainsiia,” she said urgently, dread thickening her voice. She hesitated, teeth clenching tightly as uncertainty and fear gripped her. “But…”

Claude turned sharply to her, worry etched deeply in his golden eyes. “But what?”

Shamir lowered the monocular, frustration and anguish clear on her face as she clenched one hand into a tight fist. “I—I can't tell if she’s dead or unconscious. She's not moving…” Her voice trailed off quietly, a painful silence settling heavily upon everyone around her.

The silence felt suffocating, each person silently grappling with the terrifying possibility that Princess Clainsiia might truly be gone. Claude finally broke through the heavy quiet, forcing steadiness into his voice despite his own fears.

“We can’t let ourselves think she’s dead. We don't know yet. Right now, these people need us, and Jeralt needs to be brought to safety. We’ll find a way to get Clainsiia back. For now, let's focus on what we can do.”

Everyone silently agreed, drawing renewed strength from Claude’s resolve. They set to work, carefully tending to the wounded, comforting those who had lost loved ones, and preparing to depart the devastated battle. Through it all, Arthur never left Jeralt’s side, holding him close, knowing that his duty now mattered more than ever.

Chapter Text

The next day, Byleth lay motionless in a tent, his breathing soft but steady. Edelgard sat beside him, eyes filled with worry, gazing down at his serene face as his head rested gently on her lap. She softly brushed her fingers through his teal-colored hair, her heart aching with uncertainty. Why had he attacked Shez? There had to be some reason, something behind those actions—was it the strange, ominous symbol that appeared in the sky, or perhaps a malicious spell cast by Ashen? Her mind raced, desperate for answers she couldn't find, and fear tightened in her chest as she continued stroking his hair, silently pleading for him to awaken.
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Byleth opened his eyes, but instead of the familiar surroundings of the tent, he found himself somewhere else entirely—a realm bathed in an ethereal, otherworldly glow. Before him sat Sothis, poised regally upon her throne, her emerald eyes piercing, expression unreadable.

"Sothis…?" he murmured softly, his voice filled with cautious reverence.

She lifted her gaze slowly, her delicate features set in a quiet, unreadable mask. Yet her voice betrayed a profound, hidden anger as she spoke, words cutting sharply through the silence. "Why did you fight me, Byleth? You resisted when I sought to end that wretched god's life."

Byleth took a careful step forward, heart heavy with regret, confusion mingling painfully within him. "Because you were trying to kill my friend, Sothis. You were attacking Shez—someone who has fought tirelessly by our side, who trusts us, depends on us."

A flicker of anger flashed vividly across Sothis’s serene face. Without warning, she vanished from her throne, appearing instantly before him, mere inches away. Her emerald eyes blazed fiercely, her voice stern, unyielding. "Your friend? Your friend who harbors a god responsible for murdering my children? The countless innocent lives lost because of the weapon he helped made?"

Byleth held his ground, eyes filled with quiet determination and genuine compassion. "Did you not hear him, Sothis? Arval said he acted under duress. He was threatened. He succumbed to fear—not malice. Please, just listen to him."

Sothis drew a sharp breath, her delicate jaw tightening, eyes blazing as if battling internally against centuries of grief, rage, and sorrow. Her voice trembled with restrained fury and deep, unresolved anguish. "Even if fear controlled him, Arval still forged the blade that slaughtered my children. His hands bear the stain of their innocent blood. Fear or not, the outcome remains unchanged!"

Byleth stepped closer, his voice softening yet becoming more urgent, pleading desperately, willing her to understand. "I’m not denying what happened, Sothis. But if we don’t listen, if we refuse even to hear his side, we're no better than the cruelty we fight against. I beg you, Sothis—listen to Arval. Hear him out, truly hear him, just this once."

Sothis closed her eyes slowly, releasing a deep, heavy sigh filled with profound weariness and centuries-old sorrow. After a moment's silence, she reopened them, her gaze gentler, softened slightly by the sincerity of Byleth's plea. "Very well," she whispered quietly, finally conceding. "For your sake, Byleth—I will listen."

The realm around them began to fade, dissolving gently into darkness, the ethereal glow diminishing gradually as Sothis’s figure vanished, leaving only the faint echo of her final words hanging in the air.
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Byleth’s eyes fluttered open once more—this time, returning to the waking world. He felt the softness beneath his head, the comforting warmth of Edelgard's gentle touch through his teal-colored hair. Her eyes, full of worry and care, immediately locked onto his. Her breath trembled slightly as she spoke, voice thick with relief. "Byleth, are you alright?"

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the fabric of the tent. Despite the ache pulsing in his muscles and the heaviness of his heart, he forced a gentle smile for her sake. "I'm fine, Edelgard," he reassured softly, gently placing a hand atop hers to steady her worry. "But... I need to talk to Shez."

Edelgard’s brows furrowed slightly, concern deepening in her gaze. She nodded slowly but paused, clearly hesitating, torn between respecting his wishes and needing answers herself. Finally, she drew a deep, steadying breath, voice wavering with gentle confusion. "Byleth... What happened out there? Why did you attack Shez?"

Byleth sighed deeply, turning his head slightly to avoid her searching eyes, shame gnawing at him. He felt the weight of the truth sitting heavily upon his shoulders, yet he couldn’t bring himself to fully reveal the turmoil with Sothis. Carefully choosing his words, he admitted quietly, "I lost control, Edelgard. My power—it overcame me."

His voice held sincerity; in a way, it was true. Yet the omission weighed heavily in his chest, guilt churning deep within. Edelgard regarded him thoughtfully, her expression a mixture of worry and quiet understanding. With tenderness in her voice, she gently suggested, "Perhaps you shouldn’t exert so much of your power in one day, Byleth."

Byleth nodded silently, appreciating her subtle wisdom. Edelgard squeezed his hand reassuringly before rising gracefully to her feet. "I'll find Shez for you," she murmured softly, her fingers briefly brushing against his cheek before she turned and left the tent, leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts.
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Outside, near the remnants of a fountain, Shez sat quietly upon its edge, head lowered as she stared at the broken sword lying across her lap. It was Berling’s sword, now shattered and lifeless. Her eyes traced each fragmented edge, her heart aching with quiet grief and bitter resignation. The weapon had been more than just a sword—it had been a final connection, a tangible memory of someone she dearly missed.

Beside her, Arval hovered quietly, his spectral presence tinged with sadness and guilt. "Shez," he began softly, his voice heavy with remorse, "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head gently, voice quiet but steady, carrying a strength she was struggling to maintain. "It’s just a weapon, Arval. I'll be fine."

Arval hesitated, his gaze flickering uncertainly, knowing the truth beneath her brave words. "But it meant so much to you. It was the last connection you had to Berling."

Shez’s chest tightened painfully at his words, memories threatening to rise, but she pushed them back firmly. She took a deep breath, forcing herself into a stronger posture, her voice determined, yet gentle. "I know, Arval. It hurts, but I have to keep going."

Movement caught her attention, and she turned her head to see Edelgard slowly approaching, her expression calm but her eyes full of lingering worry. Shez straightened instinctively, placing the broken sword carefully beside her. "Edelgard," she greeted quietly, curiosity coloring her voice, "what do you need?"

Edelgard hesitated for a moment, her gaze shifting briefly to the broken sword before she answered softly, "Byleth wishes to speak with you."

At the mention of Byleth’s name, Arval visibly stiffened, anxiety flashing vividly across his ethereal form. Shez immediately noticed his distress and reached out to him through their bond, her voice calm, soothing, and unwaveringly confident. "It’s alright, Arval. I promise you don’t have to worry this time."

Arval’s eyes flickered uncertainly, his presence shivering slightly, clearly still fearful. Yet, seeing the unyielding determination and quiet strength in Shez’s eyes, he reluctantly nodded, his voice gentle yet firm. "Alright, Shez. I trust you."

Shez rose gracefully from the fountain’s edge, dusting herself off before turning to Edelgard, her expression calm and steady despite the tension she felt inside. "Take me to him."

Edelgard nodded quietly, turning to lead the way. Shez fell into step behind her, each footfall resonating with the pounding of her heart. The distant murmurs of wounded soldiers and whispered reassurances from healers blended into a background hum, but her thoughts were far from here. Her mind raced with questions, uncertainties, and the gnawing fear of confronting Byleth once again—this time without the shield of battle between them.

When they arrived at the tent, Edelgard paused at the entrance, turning to Shez. "I’ll wait outside," she murmured gently. Her crimson eyes were filled with unspoken curiosity, clearly wondering more about what had transpired, but she withheld any questions. "Speak freely."

Shez nodded her head slowly, gratitude and apprehension mingling in her gaze. "Thank you, Edelgard," she said softly, stepping past her and entering the tent.

Inside, the air was thick with tension, heavy and suffocating. Byleth sat quietly, his teal eyes rising to meet Shez’s. Yet almost immediately, their gaze was drawn beyond each other. Sothis stood quietly beside Byleth, her presence radiant and regal, her emerald eyes piercing sharply into Arval, who hovered nervously near Shez.

"Child," Sothis spoke gently, her voice stern yet softened by a genuine attempt to understand. "What did you mean when you said you were forced to create the Sword of the Creator?"

Arval flinched visibly, anxiety rippling through him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, gathering his courage. "My father Epimenides... he forced me," he began shakily, his voice trembling with the pain of memories long suppressed. "He said if I refused to help him, if I didn’t forge that weapon…" His voice broke momentarily, tears beginning to shimmer in his eyes. Anger suddenly surged through him, and he crushed his fist tightly. "My friends!" he shouted, agony raw in his voice. "He threatened to kill my friends!"

Sothis’s eyes narrowed slightly, yet she remained silent, allowing him space to speak. Arval continued, grief and guilt pouring from him. "I believed him. So I did what he asked. I forged that blade. And the next day…" His voice quivered, thick with anguish. "Nemesis slaughtered your children. Epimenides wasn’t satisfied—he made me create more relics. Again and again."

Byleth’s expression softened, realization dawning on him. He spoke gently, voice full of sorrowful understanding. "But you stopped," he murmured, quiet but firm. "And that means—"

Arval’s shoulders shook violently, tears openly streaming down his face. He collapsed onto his knees, guilt and despair crushing him. "Epimenides…he used Aymr on them," he sobbed bitterly, his heart breaking anew with each word. "He tested the weapon on them—all but one. It’s my fault. They’re dead because of me."

"Arval…" Shez whispered softly, her voice filled with heartache, unable to find any other words to ease his torment. She knelt beside him, gently placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, trying to convey the depth of her sympathy through her simple touch.

Sothis, however, watched Arval closely, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. A puzzle piece lingered in her mind, unanswered questions tugging persistently at her thoughts. She studied Arval carefully before finally speaking, her voice gentle yet sharp with curiosity. “You said all but one, correct?”

Arval looked up, eyes red and swollen, his voice trembling as he replied weakly, “Yes.”

Sothis inclined her head slightly, her gaze shifting meaningfully toward Shez. “Yet here we have Shez. Out of all the mortals you could have chosen, why her?”

Arval’s eyes widened, and he turned slowly to face Shez, realization dawning visibly across his tear-streaked face. The silence stretched between them, heavy and filled with the weight of hidden truths and painful memories. Finally, Arval took a shaky breath, gathering the strength to admit the truth.

“Shez…” he began softly, his voice raw with vulnerability, “You reminded me of someone—someone very dear to me, someone I once tried desperately to save. Your ancestor.”

Shez’s eyes widened, taken aback by his revelation. “My ancestor?” she asked quietly, her voice wavering slightly in confusion and awe. “Who?”

Arval’s gaze dropped, haunted by memories long buried beneath the weight of centuries. “His name was Zemislav. He was one of my closest friends—someone I considered family. One day, he was gravely wounded. I used my powers to heal him, to give him more time… but just days later, Epimenides found him. My father ended Zemislav’s life, leaving behind his wife and son.” Arval’s voice trembled with sorrow and regret. “I made a promise then—a vow I swore to myself. I promised Zemislav I would watch over his family, to protect his descendants, to atone for my sins.”

Shez stared at Arval, absorbing his words carefully, her heart aching with sympathy and a deep, quiet wonder. Her voice was hesitant, yet filled with genuine curiosity as she finally asked, “But why me? Why didn’t you choose someone else from my bloodline? And…why didn’t you tell me before?”

Arval’s eyes softened, and he spoke with deep sincerity, his voice gentle yet firm. “Every single ancestor of yours, Shez—they thrived. They had happiness, strength, safety. I watched them from afar, silently guiding them, never interfering directly. But you…” His voice broke momentarily, his emotions overwhelming him again. “You were different. Of all your lineage, you suffered the most. You carried burdens no one should have to bear alone. I wanted to be there for you, but I couldn’t—not openly, not without risking discovery by Sothis. So I hid myself, cast a spell on both of us. It’s why no one else ever saw me…until now.”

Sothis regarded Arval quietly, her gaze now filled with newfound understanding. Yet one critical question lingered on her mind, her expression growing serious once again. “One more question, Arval,” she said softly yet firmly. “Is your father still alive? If someone like you managed to survive, I must know—does Epimenides yet live?”

Arval shook his head immediately, determination flashing vividly in his eyes. “No,” he whispered firmly, voice thick with conviction. “Epimenides is gone. But even if he were alive, I would stand beside you, Sothis. I don’t wish to rule Fódlan or see it drown in blood... I want only peace. Nothing else.”

Byleth, moved deeply by everything he had witnessed, slowly approached Shez. He placed a comforting hand gently upon her shoulder, lending silent support as he turned his steady gaze toward Sothis. “Sothis,” he murmured quietly, “what do you see now?”

Sothis remained silent, her emerald gaze softening considerably as she looked at Arval. He was nothing like Epimenides—not even close. Instead, he was like a child in many ways, someone deeply hurt and burdened with guilt. Yes, those children—her children—were gone forever, a loss that time itself could never heal. But who could truly blame someone like Arval, who had been little more than a slave to his father's cruel ambitions?

Quietly, gracefully, Sothis floated towards Arval, extending her hand gently. Her eyes conveyed understanding, compassion, and genuine forgiveness. Arval looked up hesitantly, tears still glistening in his eyes, his gaze uncertain yet hopeful. Slowly, almost reverently, he reached out and took her offered hand. As their fingers touched, Sothis’s gentle voice broke the silence.

"I understand now," she whispered softly, her words filled with genuine remorse. "I am sorry for yesterday, Arval. Although you forged the Sword of the Creator, I cannot fault you for desperately wanting to protect your friends."

Arval rose to his feet, steadying himself as strength flowed from her touch into his spirit. His voice trembled with sincere gratitude as he met her gaze, determination shining brightly through his pain. "Thank you, Goddess Sothis. I promise you—I will do everything within my power to set things right."

Byleth and Shez watched silently, their expressions gentle yet thoughtful. Finally, Byleth turned to Shez, his teal eyes holding a quiet sorrow. "I’m truly sorry about your sword," he murmured softly, his voice tinged with guilt and regret.

Shez gave a gentle, reassuring smile, though the ache of loss still lingered in her eyes. "It’s alright, Byleth. Yes, it was the last thing I had of Berling, but the memories we shared—they'll never fade. Those moments will always inspire me to keep going."

A soft, genuine smile touched Byleth’s lips as he nodded, deeply understanding her sentiment. "I understand exactly what you mean. Losing my father—losing so many pieces of my past—it's painful. Yet, every moment we spent together shaped the person I've become."

Shez chuckled softly, warmth returning to her expression, lightening the heavy atmosphere that surrounded them. "You know, it always surprises me how much we have in common, Byleth."

Byleth allowed himself a gentle laugh, nodding thoughtfully. "Two strange people with strong powers, burdened by pasts we never asked for—yet, we find ourselves sharing more common ground than we could have imagined."

Sothis and Arval exchanged knowing smiles, quietly observing the sincere connection forming between Shez and Byleth. Without another word, their ethereal forms began to shimmer softly, gently fading until they disappeared entirely, leaving the two mortals alone.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, Byleth and Shez stepped out of the tent together, the sunlight warming their faces, chasing away lingering shadows. Edelgard waited patiently, her crimson eyes bright with relief as she noticed their calmer expressions.

"Everything alright now?" Edelgard asked carefully, a gentle hope coloring her voice.

Both Shez and Byleth nodded their heads simultaneously, quiet confidence and understanding passing silently between them. Edelgard returned their nod, satisfied yet solemn as her expression shifted to one of determination.

"It’s time to meet up with Claude and the others," she said firmly, voice quiet yet full of authority. "But first, we need to prepare the funerals."

Shez hesitated momentarily, concern shadowing her gaze as she asked softly, "And what about the injured?"

Edelgard’s expression softened, her voice reassuring yet decisive. "They will stay behind and rest here. Healers and caretakers will tend to them—we can trust they’ll be in good hands. Right now, our duty is to honor those who gave their lives."
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Lots of time had passed, and every citizen and soldier gathered solemnly, their gazes fixed upon the rows of fallen heroes who lay silent and still, bathed in the soft, golden glow of sunset. Ingrid held a torch firmly in her hand, her grip steady but her eyes heavy with grief. Ashe walked quietly beside her, his gentle eyes cast downward, mourning silently alongside her.

Ingrid paused for a moment, her heart swelling with pride and pain as she raised her voice, steady but deeply emotional, addressing those who gathered:

"These people gave their lives for House Galatea. These fallen soldiers fought with courage and honor, standing firm in the face of danger and defending their people with everything they had. Even those who weren't raised here gave their lives just to help protect the place we call home. They were not just warriors, but beloved friends whose sacrifices we will never forget."

Her voice trembled slightly as her eyes met Dorothea's lifeless form and Ignatz's gentle features frozen in peace. Her throat tightened, and tears welled up, spilling silently down her cheeks. But she clenched her fist, determination igniting fiercely within her, forcing her voice louder and clearer. "Their sacrifice will never be forgotten, and their bravery will always be remembered! We owe it to them to continue fighting, to keep their memories alive, and to ensure that their sacrifices were not in vain. We must honor them by carrying on their legacy and working towards a better future for all of Fódlan. We must not forget the lessons we have learned from this battle, and let us strive to become stronger and more united as a result. We will continue to fight with courage and honor, knowing that those who have gone before us will forever live within our hearts."

Ingrid turned solemnly, lowering the torch and igniting the pyres that surrounded each fallen warrior. The flames surged gently, bathing the silent heroes in warmth and golden light as they began their final journey.

Nearby, Edelgard's eyes lingered upon Dorothea's peaceful face one last time, heart aching profoundly. Byleth quietly placed his hand on her shoulder, offering gentle comfort as he felt her trembling beneath his touch. Edelgard's voice was soft, laced with deep regret. "I should have done more to protect Dorothea. It should have been me taking that blow."

Byleth shook his head gently, voice filled with firm reassurance. "Don't blame yourself, El, Dorothea made her choice—to protect her best friends. Everyone here knew the risks when they chose this path. They fought willingly, bravely, knowing what it could cost. All because they believed in us, in this fight—and because they wanted to save our children."

Edelgard took a deep breath, her resolve renewed by his comforting words. She nodded slowly, her voice steadier, stronger. "You’re right. And we will not let their deaths be in vain."

Byleth gently embraced her as she rested her head upon his shoulder, her words firm with resolve and love, "For the fate of our children."

Byleth echoed softly, conviction deepening in his voice, "For the fate of our children."
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Meanwhile, Shez stood quietly beside Yuri, noticing something deeply troubling in his expression. Before she could speak, Yuri abruptly turned away, walking swiftly from the mournful gathering. Shez hurried after him, voice gentle yet urgent. "Yuri, wait. What's wrong?"

Yuri paused briefly, his shoulders slumping in quiet grief. "She's gone now, Shez."

Shez hesitated, a thought striking her memory sharply—words Dorothea had once shared, cryptic yet heartfelt. Realization dawned in her eyes, voice soft and filled with sorrowful understanding: "Wait, Yuri… were you and Dorothea…?"

Yuri sighed heavily, eyes misted with grief. He turned toward her slightly, his voice quiet yet tinged with nostalgia. "Oh, Ladybird.... We got married sometime after Edelgard and Byleth’s wedding. We started an opera company during the postwar rebuilding period. It began humbly, but over the years it grew, rivaling even the Mittelfrank Opera Company in its greatness. Our most beloved production was about a disillusioned songstress making a comeback, aided by her ambitious lover—Yurikins. Me."

Shez approached gently, her voice filled with cautious sympathy. "What happened between you two?"

Yuri shook his head bitterly, his gaze distant and regretful. "Mercenary work happened. People needed protection, and I provided it—my days of licking boots for nobles were over. But it consumed me, distracted me, and in the end, I failed to focus on my Ladybird. I neglected her dreams, our dreams…"

Shez placed a comforting hand lightly on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Yuri. If I'd known…"

He gently interrupted, voice gentle yet firm: "It's fine, Shez. You weren't around back then—you couldn't understand what we all went through after the war."

Shez regarded him closely, sincerity in her voice. "Are you sure you'll be alright, Yuri?"

Yuri gave a sad, resigned smile, eyes filled with quiet honesty. "Honestly? I don't know. This pain is unlike any mask I've ever worn... can't hid it this time."

Shez squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, her voice gentle yet firm. "Yuri, you're not alone in your pain. Allow yourself time. Let go of your emotions for as long as you need to. Just know... you got people here for you."

Yuri nodded softly, offering her a brief, grateful smile. He turned again, walking slowly away into the twilight, the weight of his grief visible in every step.

Shez watched him go, her heart heavy yet determined. The flames flickered around her, the memories of the fallen burning brightly in her heart, reminding her of why they fought and what they risked. Each loss, each sacrifice, strengthened their resolve—binding them closer, deeper, united in their grief, and stronger in their shared purpose.
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Meanwhile, closer to the fire, Ferdinand stood silently, lost in the flickering flames, their heat mirroring the turmoil raging inside him. The weight of grief pressed down heavily, and he felt it tightening around his chest. How many close friends had he lost in this unending battle? Too many. Each face danced vividly before him, Dorothea, with whom his friendship had blossomed slowly, delicately over time—transforming from irritation and misunderstanding into a bond of mutual respect and deep affection. He could still hear her laughter, her songs filling the air with beauty amidst chaos. And Hubert, that ever-loyal strategist who had quietly grown into someone Ferdinand could trust with his life. Their friendship, forged in the crucible of war, had become a silent understanding built upon mutual reliance. But now they were both gone, their lives extinguished far too soon.

A gentle, hesitant touch startled Ferdinand from his thoughts. He glanced down to find Marianne holding his hand, her delicate fingers trembling slightly, not from her own anxiety but because she felt deeply the pain radiating from him. She didn't hold his hand because she wanted to, but because she needed to—needed to ground herself, to comfort another soul drowning in grief.

"I understand," Marianne whispered softly, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "It hurts deeply, losing friends. It never gets easier."

Ferdinand sighed, voice heavy and weary, as he gazed sadly into her kind, gentle eyes. "It feels like I'm losing everyone I care about, Marianne. Each loss feels like a piece of me is torn away, and I don't know how much more I can bear."

Marianne squeezed his hand gently, offering comfort in the simplest gesture. "I know it's hard," she murmured gently, voice filled with empathy. "But you're not alone, Ferdinand. You still have me—and so many others who care deeply about you."

Ferdinand turned toward her fully, gratitude softening his sorrowful expression. "I am grateful for you, Marianne. Truly. But finding the strength to keep moving forward—it's not that simple."

Marianne nodded slowly, understanding deep in her gentle gaze. "I know. But you must remember that our friends wouldn't want us to give up. They fought bravely, believing in our future. They would want us to continue fighting, to keep living—not just for ourselves but for them, too."

Ferdinand took a deep breath, steadying himself as her words resonated deeply within his heart. "You're right," he said softly, voice steadier than before. "I promise you, I'll do my best to move forward—for their memory, for their sacrifices, and for you."

Marianne smiled softly, a quiet reassurance shining in her eyes. Together, they stood silently by the fire, drawing strength from each other's presence, readying themselves to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
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At the same moment, Ingrid stood surveying the scene around her, watching her people mourn and gather strength from the ashes of devastation. Her home had been saved—but at what cost? Her heart ached, torn between her new role as House Galatea's leader and the unyielding desire to continue fighting beside Edelgard and Byleth against Ashen.

A soft footfall approached, and Ingrid turned to see Count Galatea approaching slowly, concern etched clearly upon his features. "Something troubles you, Ingrid," he observed quietly. "Tell me—what weighs on your mind?"

Ingrid hesitated briefly, then sighed deeply, her gaze filled with quiet uncertainty. "I'm not sure, Father," she admitted, voice laced with conflicted emotions. "I'm torn between my duties here as the new house leader and continuing to fight alongside Edelgard and Byleth. I only have an hour to decide, and I truly don't know what's best."

Count Galatea gently placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his eyes softening with understanding. "It's natural to feel conflicted," he murmured reassuringly. "But ultimately, you must follow your heart and choose what's best for you and our people. Tell me—what does your heart say?"

Ingrid paused thoughtfully, her mind reflecting deeply upon his words, weighing the future carefully. Then, with conviction strengthening her voice, she spoke clearly, "My heart tells me to keep fighting. I cannot allow this threat to remain unchecked. If I do nothing, how can I truly protect our people? I must do everything within my power to ensure their safety."

Her father smiled warmly, pride evident in his gaze. "Then you must follow that path, Ingrid. I have faith in your courage, your strength. You have the power to make a real difference in this world—and your mother would be incredibly proud of you."

Ingrid felt warmth spread through her, bolstering her determination. "Thank you, Father," she said quietly but firmly. "I will not let our people down." After an hour later, everyone departed from House Galatea. Hearts heavy with loss yet fortified by the strength of their resolve, they moved forward, determined to reunite with Claude at the Conand Tower. Though the losses they had endured weighed heavily upon them, each step forward reinforced their commitment to the cause. And as the sun set over House Galatea, bathing its lands in gentle golden hues, a promise hung quietly in the air—a promise that no sacrifice would be in vain, and that hope, however fragile, would continue to guide their journey.

Chapter Text

Garreg Mach Monastery, the once majestic academy, now stood in ruins, its grandeur reduced to rubble and echoes of the past. Ashen and his army fought mercilessly against the traitors who dared defy their god, their lord. Rain poured relentlessly from darkened skies, heavy droplets washing over the battleground like tears from the heavens themselves. The traitors, despite their desperation and defiance, stood no chance—not against Ashen, and certainly not against the depth of his grief-driven wrath.

But the scars of conflict weren't merely physical. They etched themselves deeply into Ashen's very soul, tormenting him endlessly over his actions—actions that had led him here, standing amidst the ruins of what was once a sanctuary, now a grim scene of judgment and execution. His heart throbbed painfully with memories he couldn't escape— Clainsiia's death.

In the monastery, the last remaining traitors were bound and helpless before him. Ashen, with a mixture of anger and sorrow in his molten eyes, gazed upon them. Each defiant word uttered by the traitors only intensified his inner turmoil. He would admit silently that they were bold, astonishingly so, to disobey orders from their lord. One traitor lifted his head, eyes blazing with a desperate courage.

“You've changed, Ashen,” the traitor spat defiantly, his voice trembling yet unwavering. “Even as you slaughter us, we see it—everyone sees it. You're changing because of that child. You may deny it, but you cannot hide from yourself!”

Ashen remained silent, his gaze unwavering and cold. With a fluid, merciless motion, he summoned his sword, swift and unforgiving, severing the traitor's head from his body. The room fell into an eerie silence, punctuated only by the soft, sickening thud as the traitor's lifeless form crumpled to the ground. Ashen turned sharply to Warg.

“For those who want to redeem themselves, test them,” Ashen commanded, his voice heavy with a burden that seemed almost tangible. “But these four... do what you wish. I'll be in the audience chamber.”

“My lord,” Warg hesitated cautiously, uncertainty flickering in his golden eyes. “Will you see the girl again?”

Ashen didn't respond, his silence thickening the already heavy atmosphere. “My lord, the child is dead,” Warg reminded him cautiously, his voice low and measured. “Perhaps… perhaps it's for the best—”

Ashen's molten gaze snapped sharply toward Warg, eyes blazing with a dangerous fury that silenced the wolf-like soldier instantly. Without another word, Ashen turned and strode away, leaving Warg watching his master's retreating form, worry etched deeply upon his wolfish features.

In the audience chamber, amidst the shattered remnants of Garreg Mach, Ashen stood silently before Clainsiia's lifeless body. She lay gently upon a stone table, adorned with delicate flowers, a white blanket softly covering her small form. Ashen's guilt weighed heavily upon him, magnified painfully by the peaceful expression on her face. He had witnessed countless deaths, countless peaceful expressions upon those he had slain, yet this time—it felt different. More profound. More unsettling.

“Why… why did you stay?” His voice quivered with raw sadness and self-reproach. He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingertips gently against her cold, lifeless cheek. “Did you truly believe there was any good within me?”

Tears, unexpected and unbidden, welled up within him. They spilled down his cheeks—tears shed for a child he had kidnapped, whose innocence and genuine curiosity had somehow reached through the darkness within him. Despite everything he had done, every life he had taken in his quest to claim Fódlan, Clainsiia had seen something in him worth saving. Every question she had asked, every innocent curiosity expressed, helped him remember fragments of who he once was.

“I’m sorry,” Ashen whispered, his voice choked with regret. The depth of his remorse overwhelmed him, and his eyes caught sight of a nearby mirror. Compelled by a desperate need, he approached slowly, facing his own reflection. Placing a trembling hand upon his neck, he willed his appearance back to its human form—green eyes and hair, familiar yet painfully distant.

His mind wandered back to the day he had inflicted the scar upon his chest, embedding the crest stone within himself. “At least… you made me see my—” Ashen stopped abruptly, eyes widening in shock. Looking down, he noticed a fresh, unhealed scar upon his chest. A sudden, vivid memory surfaced—the moment he had been inexplicably revived, his life tied inexorably to the crest stone's power, a perfect copy of the Crest of Flames.

The revelation shook him to his core, stirring a flurry of thoughts and emotions. His mind raced, seeking connections, grasping for understanding. “If a crest stone revived me…” Ashen murmured, urgency filling his voice as he cast a complex spell, desperately scanning Clainsiia’s lifeless body, searching for any sign of latent power or crest. The spell shimmered across her body, yet revealed nothing. Panic surged through him. “You…you don’t bear a crest!?” he shouted in anguish, a desperate edge in his voice.

Frantic, Ashen sprinted across the chamber, his heart pounding relentlessly as he searched for the worn, treasured journal that held his notes and memories—the anchor of his fragile humanity. As his trembling hands grasped the leather-bound book, an echo from deep within his consciousness resonated clearly, the gentle voice of Sitri flooding his mind.

“Kazamir, I understand that you're afraid of failing. But let me tell you, failure is a natural part of life. We all fail at some point, and that's okay.”

His younger voice, trembling with vulnerability, rose in response from the depths of memory. “But I can’t handle it. It feels like the end of the damn world if I fail!”

“I understand the feeling,” Sitri's comforting tone soothed him, filled with warmth and wisdom. “But think of it like this—when you fail, it's an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

Ashen's breathing quickened as he flipped through pages of his journal, notes and diagrams blurred through his tears. With desperate urgency, he summoned two beast soldiers, his voice roaring with fierce determination. “Bring me hearts—quickly! Remove them from the fallen traitors! Go, now!”

The beasts scrambled, sensing their lord’s desperation. Ashen’s hands trembled as he meticulously began preparing the ritual, but Sitri’s voice lingered, wrapping around him like a comforting embrace.

“But if I fail,” his younger self had asked, broken and vulnerable, “how can I redeem myself? What if I can’t recover?”

“You can always redeem yourself,” Sitri's gentle reassurance echoed in his ears. “It’s never too late to try again, Kazamir. Even if you don’t succeed the second time, keep trying until you get it right. Let me tell you something else—the fear of failure is often worse than the failure itself. Don't let that fear hold you back. You're capable of so much more than you realize.”

Ashen closed his eyes, gripping the journal tightly, his breath shaking with intensity. Sitri’s words reverberated through him, tugging insistently at the buried shards of humanity within his heart. His hand trembled as he carefully placed the journal aside, and with determined eyes, he moved swiftly to Clainsiia's lifeless body.

He knew he carried the blood of the goddess. His own blood could be the key to redemption. With meticulous care, Ashen made a precise cut on his palm, allowing a crimson droplet infused with divine energy to fall onto Clainsiia's forehead. Carefully, he repeated the ritual, following the intricate instructions he had documented long ago. His hands moved with practiced precision, yet anxiety knotted his chest tightly.

Gathering his immense powers, Ashen channeled his energy, summoning forth a crest stone—but immediately sensed something wrong. The heart before him, pulsating with energy, violently exploded, throwing him backward. Pain surged through his chest, disappointment weighing heavily upon him as he scrambled to his feet, frantically reviewing the notes.

"Umbral stones... smithing stones imbued with luck and magic," Ashen murmured bitterly, frustration gnawing at him. He lacked those materials, yet he refused to succumb to despair. His thoughts raced, desperate for an alternative, when suddenly, a distant memory emerged clearly—Jeralt's voice during a rigorous training session.

“Kazamir!” Jeralt had scolded sharply, noticing his distraction. "Your heart isn't in this duel. Where is your spirit, your determination?”

His own voice, young and vulnerable, had answered quietly, "I can't do this, Jeralt. I'm just... not good enough."

Jeralt’s strong, reassuring voice resonated in Kazamir’s memories, clear as if spoken mere moments ago. "Never give up on something you truly want to achieve, Kazamir. There's always hope—always a chance to succeed. But you must be willing to keep trying, even in the face of failure."

Ashen gritted his teeth, the echoes of Jeralt’s wisdom fueling his resolve. Each failed attempt tore painfully at his spirit, the crest stones erupting violently, their explosions shaking the crumbling chamber. Yet he persisted, his brilliant mind tirelessly searching through layers of ancient magic, forbidden rituals, and forgotten lore. Still, the stones burst in fiery defiance, mocking his desperate efforts.

"It's hard to keep going when you're not making progress," Kazamir’s younger voice whispered within Ashen’s memory, laced with despair.

"That's where hope comes in," Jeralt’s voice returned gently yet firmly, anchoring him to strength. "You might not see it now, but there's always hope. Hope for improvement, hope for victory, hope for a better tomorrow. You just have to hold onto it and keep moving forward."

Yet now Ashen stood exhausted, resources depleted, frustration and anger clawing mercilessly at his heart. The desperation to save Clainsiia pressed heavily upon him, each explosive failure heightening the bitter taste of inadequacy. His fists clenched tightly, knuckles turning bone-white as he slammed them furiously against the bricked floor, leaving deep, jagged impressions born of sheer anguish.

Suddenly, amidst scattered rubble and broken remnants of his repeated failures, a glimmer of gold caught his weary gaze. Intrigued yet cautious, Ashen approached carefully, breath hitching in anticipation as his trembling fingers grasped the object—a beautifully ornate chest etched with intricate patterns. Turning it slowly, his heart stopped at the words delicately carved upon its surface: "Kazamir's heart."

A wave of overwhelming emotion crashed upon him as memories surged vividly through his mind. With shaking hands, he unlocked the chest, revealing the precious contents hidden within. A crest stone—the very one he had painstakingly created all those years ago, carefully preserved beside a small, lovingly rendered painting of himself and Rhea. Recognition struck sharply, and tears welled uncontrollably in his eyes.

"You kept it…" he murmured softly, voice breaking under the weight of profound realization. His heart swelled painfully yet beautifully at the depth of his mother's love—despite their bitter estrangement, despite everything he had become, Rhea had preserved this fragment of him, holding onto hope even when he had long since abandoned it.

A newfound determination flooded his heart as he wiped away tears, his gaze shifting resolutely toward Clainsiia’s still form upon the stone table. His voice was steady now, carrying a quiet strength born from conviction and love. "Thank you… mother."

The child’s voice, innocent and challenging, echoed powerfully in his mind. "Gods are supposed to be smart, powerful… even capable of miracles. So why don’t you prove it?"

His heart quickened with renewed purpose. With precision born of fierce determination, Ashen set about preparing the ritual once more, this time carefully embedding the long-lost crest stone—the heart he had crafted with his own hands—into the meticulously prepared vessel. His breath steadied, each movement purposeful and unwavering as he delicately placed the stone upon Clainsiia’s chest.

"You wanted a miracle," he whispered softly, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. "Then I will show you one."
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After hours, the surgery was done—less brutal than what Ashen had once inflicted upon himself, yet no less desperate. His hands trembled as he withdrew the final scalpel, the blood-soaked cloth falling limp to the side. Clainsiia lay motionless before him, the ancient crest stone pulsing faintly within the heart chamber he had formed. And still… nothing.

Ashen sat back slowly, wings drooping behind him like dying embers. His scaled fingers curled against the stone floor, claws scraping with an edge of quiet rage. He had tried everything. Every incantation, every seal, every drop of divine blood he could give. He had emptied himself into this miracle. And it had failed.

He exhaled shakily. A deep, agonized sigh that pulled from the depths of his chest. “I… failed,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with grief.

He leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead with unsteady fingers. The child who had believed in him. Who had stayed behind. Who had died because of him.

His eyes clenched shut. The pain in his chest had nothing to do with wounds. This was something deeper. This was what it meant to be broken. But then… something changed. A subtle, almost imperceptible shimmer danced across her hair. At first, Ashen thought it was just a trick of the light—a cruel flicker from the embers burning low in the ruined chamber. But as he opened his eyes and leaned in, he saw it—vivid and real. Her hair. It was changing.

The lifeless strands shifted slowly, gradually deepening into a rich, verdant green, soft and luminous. The very same hue that had once marked his transformation… the same hue that had defined the lineage of the goddess. A breath caught in his throat.

“No…” he whispered, afraid to hope, afraid it was only another illusion.He moved quickly but with trembling caution, pressing two fingers gently to the side of her neck. Nothing. His heart sank—but only for a moment. He shifted slightly, repositioning, fingers moving toward her wrist. There. A flutter. A pulse. Faint. Fragile. But real.

He froze completely. Not a breath. Not a twitch. The world went still as his mind caught up with what his senses had confirmed. She was alive. A sound escaped him—a breathless, almost disbelieving chuckle. Then another. And then… a smile. A real smile, tugging faintly at the corners of his mouth despite the scaled, inhuman form that cloaked his features. His clawed hand lifted to his mouth as if to stifle the rising disbelief, but he couldn’t suppress it. "It worked," he breathed, the words light with awe.

The weight in his chest lifted like fog retreating from the dawn. His wings slowly unfurled behind him—not in power or wrath, but in relief. The journal lay open beside him, its pages soaked in sweat and blood, but his gaze now belonged solely to her

And then—her eyes opened. A slow, blinking motion at first, hazy and uncertain. Clainsiia stirred, her breathing shallow, a hand twitching at her side. She groaned faintly as she sat up with effort, confusion furrowing her brow. Her emerald hair tumbled forward in uneven strands, her hand lifting instinctively to touch it, brushing through the unfamiliar color. Her eyes, too, had changed—no longer the soft hues of her father, but a vivid, glowing green. But yet it did resemble Byleth when he gained the goddess power.

She looked around, bewildered, her gaze searching the unfamiliar space—the chamber bathed in dim magical light, still heavy with incense and ash. She flinched slightly when her eyes landed on Ashen, who stood frozen in place, still smiling. She blinked slowly. “Where… am I?”

Ashen's smile faded, just a fraction, the weight of truth pressing back onto his shoulders. He lowered his gaze for a moment, exhaling a quiet breath. “You… died,” he said quietly, voice gentler than she had ever heard it. “And I brought you back.”

Clainsiia’s eyes widened, her mouth parting just slightly. “I died?”

Ashen nodded once, reluctantly. “You were caught in the blast. I didn’t realize it was you… until it was too late.”

She stared at him, the words sinking in with terrifying slowness. But before she could speak, something across the room caught her eye—a tall, cracked mirror, leaning slightly against the far wall. She pushed herself off the stone table slowly, her legs still weak and unsteady. Ashen instinctively stepped forward, but stopped himself. She had to process this herself.

Clainsiia approached the mirror with tentative steps. Her reflection stared back—wild green hair, a soft glow in her eyes, and skin still pale from the magic that clung to her. She reached up, touched her face, rubbed her eyes to see if it was some lingering dream. But no—it was real.

She spun a lock of hair slowly around her finger, tilting her head in consideration.

Ashen tilted his own. “…What are you doing?”

Clainsiia turned to look at him, the faintest grin tugging at her lips. “I like it.”

Ashen would then blinked. “You… like the green?”

She nodded, smile growing. “It’s my favorite color.”

Ashen stared at her for a beat too long, processing the childlike honesty in the middle of such madness. After everything she’d endured, after everything he had done… she smiled. He exhaled slowly, lips twitching upward again. “Alright,” he said softly. “I accept that answer.”

But the smile faded from his face, his expression growing more serious. His arms crossed, gaze darkening just slightly.

“Why did you stay behind?” he asked, voice lower now. “You could’ve escaped. You knew what I’ve done. You’ve seen it with your own eyes.”

Clainsiia looked up at him without fear. Her smile softened, but it didn’t vanish. “Because I think there’s good in you,” she said simply. “And I still want answers.”

Ashen’s wings curled slightly inward, his posture tightening as he stared at her with disbelief. “You what?”

“I still want answers,” she repeated, her voice calm. “I want to know why you became like this.”

Ashen’s brow twitched. A strange mix of frustration, disbelief, and… admiration warred in his expression. He took a step forward, towering over her. “So… you stayed behind. Got killed. And now you’re still here, still my prisoner... just to get answers?”

Clainsiia stood tall—or at least, as tall as her small frame allowed. She looked up at him, bright green eyes wide and unwavering. "Yes!"

Silence settled in the room like snow on scorched earth. Ashen didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His molten gaze locked on hers, and for a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath. But then... he chuckled. A soft, amused sound at first. But it grew, rumbling from deep within his chest, transforming into genuine laughter—raw, almost startled. His wings twitched at his back as he tipped his head slightly, laughing like he hadn’t in years. Not the cold, mocking laugh of a god who found amusement in carnage. But a laugh that actually sounded… human.

Clainsiia smiled gently at the sound, tilting her head in quiet satisfaction. Ashen finally drew a long breath, his grin fading into something more subtle, more curious. He leaned forward slightly, studying her as though she were some unsolvable puzzle. “You are…” He shook his head with something between exasperation and awe. “You’re either the most foolish child I’ve ever met—or the bravest.”

Clainsiia’s grin widened. “Maybe I’m both.”

Ashen smirked. “Maybe you are.”

She stepped closer, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor. “Then tell me,” she asked softly, her voice tender but insistent. “Tell me how you became this.”

The question didn’t land like a demand. It was curiosity laced with concern. Ashen remained silent for a long moment, his molten gaze fixed on her with an intensity that seemed to weigh the very soul. He did, in a way, owe her an explanation after what he had done—killing her, albeit unintentionally, and then bringing her back in such a dramatic fashion. Yet, the words didn't come easily.

"Maybe... maybe tomorrow I'll tell you," Ashen finally said, his voice low, almost hesitant. He turned away from her, his massive form casting a shadow that flickered with the torchlight of the chamber. "But for now, you will be in a room, and it'll be guarded."

As Ashen walked to the door, his heavy steps echoing in the silent chamber, Clainsiia called out to him, a soft but firm voice that made him pause. "Kazamir!" He stopped, tensing at the sound of his old name. Slowly, he turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you for… reviving me. And for giving me my favorite color," Clainsiia added, a sincere smile touching her lips despite the surreal and grim circumstances of their encounter.

Ashen stood in silence for a moment, his eyes locked on hers. Then, almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth twitched, hinting at a smile that struggled to manifest fully. "You're welcome... Clainsiia," he said, her name sounding strange, yet fitting, as it rolled off his tongue for the first time.

His use of her name marked a moment of subtle significance—a recognition of her identity beyond just a subject of his whims or a casualty of his wars. It acknowledged her resilience and her spirit, which even death had not fully quenched.

Ashen turned back to the door, his silhouette framed by the dim light as he stood in the doorway, lingering for a moment in the threshold of decision. The heavy door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping out into the dimly lit corridor, leaving Clainsiia to ponder the depth of the conversation that had just transpired.

Clainsiia was then escorted to a room, not a cell, but a guest chamber of sorts, still within the confines of the guarded castle. It was comfortably furnished, a stark contrast to the bleakness of her previous experiences under Ashen's... no Kazamir's rule. Alone now, she walked to the mirror, studying her reflection once more.
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The rain had subsided, and the evening sun cast a golden hue on Garreg Mach. The monastery—once proud, now weathered and broken by time and war—stood beneath a sky painted in warm golds and aching reds. Light spilled through the shattered stained-glass windows, catching on fractured stone and empty hallways. For the first time in what felt like years, the world was silent.

Ashen walked slowly, the wind carried the scent of ash and rain, blending sorrow with nostalgia. He crossed the familiar bridge that lead to the cathedral building, the very same one where he and Rhea used to stand together, watching the sun disappear beyond the mountains in quiet companionship.

This place. Every step stirred old memories buried beneath years of bloodshed and regret. His clawed fingers brushed the moss-covered railing as he looked out at the vast horizon. He could almost see them—echoes of the past flickering like ghosts in the fading light.

He saw Seteth, shifting into dragon form and challenging him to races through the clouds. They would spiral and dive, their roars echoing in the wind, childlike laughter trailing behind them.

He saw Flayn, sitting by the water's edge, her feet dangling just above the lake, her hair shimmering like starlight. He remembered how she'd always bring too much bread and how they'd feed the fish while she hummed old songs of herself when she was called Saint Cethleann.

He remembered Jeralt, standing tall in the training field, sword raised, barking out corrections with that proud, unmistakable grin. Their duels would last for hours, always ending with Kazamir flat on his back and Jeralt offering a calloused hand to pull him up. Always followed by, “You’re improving, kid. That’s what matters.”

Sitri, her voice as soft as parchment turning in candlelight, would sit beside him in the library, reading aloud from ancient tomes. She always smiled when he asked too many questions, always patient, always kind.

Kazamir would lean forward on his chair, eyes wide and eager, hanging on every word she spoke, absorbing knowledge as though he were desperately gathering scattered pieces of himself. Each night spent in the quiet embrace of the library, illuminated only by the gentle flicker of candle flames, was a sanctuary for his restless soul. Back then, it had been simple, easy—there were no battles raging outside. There was only her gentle voice, filling his heart with wonder. He missed her terribly.... he missed them all now.

Ashen felt an ache deeper than any wound he'd ever suffered. Every memory that resurfaced felt like both comfort and torment intertwined—Sitri’s soft laughter echoing in his mind, mingled with the stark realization that he'd left behind everything good and pure.

His thoughts wandered back further, drifting to that defining moment when Rhea announced Kazamir as her son. He remembered the cheering in his head and sighed heavily. It had felt surreal then, standing at Rhea’s side, thousands of eyes watching as he was officially recognized as her son. The applause was deafening, resonating deep within his bones being the happiest moment of his life.

Footsteps echoed on the stone behind him, and Ashen sighed again, frustration and resignation mingling in his voice as he muttered, "What is it now?"

He expected another beast soldier, another tedious interruption—but the reply he received wasn't what he anticipated.

"It has been a lifetime… hasn't it, my son?" Ashen froze, a shiver crawling down his spine as the achingly familiar voice caressed his senses. Slowly, almost fearfully, he turned around.

His molten eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding violently within his chest. Standing before him—bathed in the golden glow of twilight, eyes gentle yet sorrowful—was Rhea. She looked exactly as she had before she’d died—no, no, she was dead, he thought frantically, this was impossible.

"Rhea?" His voice trembled, breaking under the weight of disbelief, confusion, and pain. "No… this is impossible. You… you're dead."

Rhea’s expression softened, her eyes glistening with sadness and longing as she stepped closer. Her delicate features illuminated by the setting sun, her voice soft, tinged with melancholy. "I never thought I'd see you again either, Kazamir. But here we are."

Ashen shook his head slowly, fists clenching at his sides, guard immediately raised—yet cracks of vulnerability bled through his usually impenetrable facade. "Why are you here?" he asked cautiously, eyes filled with turmoil.

"Does a mother need a reason to see her child?" Rhea replied gently, warmth flooding her voice. She moved even closer, each step graceful, elegant, and achingly familiar. "I raised you as my own, Kazamir. You were always my child in heart and spirit. But standing here, I sense a deep conflict within you. Why is that?"

Ashen stood motionless for a long moment, his gaze drifting toward the sunset again, distant and haunted. His thoughts swirled around the girl—Clainsiia, whose innocent curiosity had unexpectedly pierced his armor. Finally, he whispered quietly, admitting, "It's the princess. The child of Byleth."

Rhea nodded softly, her eyes filled with quiet understanding. "Ah, yes. The daughter of that professor and Edelgard. Her questions, her innocence… it brought forth memories you buried long ago, didn't it? She reminded you of who you once were."

His breath caught in his throat, unable to deny her words. "Yes," Ashen confessed, his voice breaking softly. "She did. And despite all the chaos I've caused… I feel regret."

Rhea gazed deeply into his eyes, her voice steady yet gentle. "Why did you save her, Kazamir?"

Ashen hesitated, overwhelmed by his emotions. His wings twitched nervously behind him, his gaze slipping away as he murmured uncertainly, "Because I needed an answer."

Rhea stepped closer, her eyes piercing yet gentle. "That’s not the real reason. Tell me the truth, Kazamir."

Ashen fell silent, gaze fixed on the horizon as he searched his heart for honesty. His voice shook with raw vulnerability as he confessed slowly, "I… I did it because it was the right thing to do. She reminded me of Sitri. Her innocence, her determination—it's like a beacon. I thought… maybe she could help me…"

His voice trailed off, tears welling uncontrollably in his eyes as he felt the sheer magnitude of his longing, his regret, his desperate need for redemption.

Gently, tenderly, Rhea reached out, clasping Ashen’s clawed hands within her own delicate ones. A comforting warmth radiated through her touch. He drew a shaky breath, feeling his defenses crumble beneath the familiar maternal affection.

"Kazamir," she said softly, "I may still bear resentment toward Edelgard and the professor… but even I recognize that the child holds the key to guiding you back toward the light. Perhaps it's time, at last, for you to open your eyes."

Ashen gazed into her eyes, anguish etched deeply into his features. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached up to touch his neck, shifting his appearance back to human form. Green hair spilled gently around his face, his emerald eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Rhea gave a sad, gentle smile, her expression bittersweet as she released his hands, stepping back slowly into the encroaching darkness. Her voice, filled with sorrowful wisdom, drifted softly toward him. "But when you do… it'll already be too late. Goodbye, my son."

His heart plummeted sharply, desperation surging through his veins as he realized she was disappearing, fading like mist into twilight. "Wait!" he cried out, frantic, reaching out helplessly as she began dissolving into nothingness. "Mother—no!"

He gripped his neck once more, letting go, and immediately felt the transformation overwhelm him—humanity slipping away as his cursed form returned, monstrous wings flaring outward. He staggered forward, reaching desperately toward emptiness, his voice breaking into a raw sob, a blend of longing, sorrow, and heart-wrenching loss echoing into the empty twilight.

But Rhea was already gone, leaving behind only silence and echoes of her wisdom, fading gently into his aching memory.

But Rhea was already gone, leaving behind only silence and echoes of her wisdom, fading gently into his aching memory. But then a voice broke through the lingering sorrow, gentle yet wary. “My lord... are you awake?”

Ashen opened his eyes, startled, momentarily disoriented. The cool embrace of night had enveloped Garreg Mach, casting the ruined monastery into a quiet, silvery darkness. High above, the moon was radiant, spilling pale light across the battered stone walls, while countless stars shimmered softly, distant yet reassuring. His breath came slow and heavy, as he tried to shake off the profound ache left by the encounter that now felt like a distant, fading dream.

Standing quietly at the entrance of the bridge was Warg, his golden eyes studying his lord with a cautious blend of concern and confusion.

Ashen straightened slowly, his heart still raw and heavy from the vision. "Where did she go?" he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the whispering night wind.

Warg tilted his head in confusion, ears twitching uncertainly. "My lord... no one else was here. It’s only been me."

Ashen blinked, the weight of realization pressing heavily on him. A dream. Or perhaps something more—an echo, a memory, a ghost conjured by his own troubled conscience.

"I can't say for certain that you were dreaming, my lord," Warg continued quietly, sensing his master’s turmoil, "but if someone did come here to see you…perhaps that person only wanted you to see their face. Maybe because…they missed you."

Ashen didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze downward, toward the shadowed waters beneath the bridge. The moon's reflection trembled on the surface, distorted and shifting, not unlike his own fractured thoughts. He remained silent for a long moment, lost in contemplation. The soft rustle of the night wind brushing gently across his hair. Eventually, Ashen sighed deeply, his voice weary yet steady as he asked, "Why did you come here, Warg?"

Warg hesitated briefly before answering honestly, his tone careful yet pointed. "I saw the child—Princess Clainsiia—is alive again. That means she still holds value, does she not?"

Ashen lifted his gaze, eyes sharp, piercing the darkness as he met Warg’s watchful stare. His response came slow, heavy with deeper meaning. "Yes... more value now than ever."

Silence stretched briefly between them, the weight of unspoken truths heavy in the cool night air. Ashen turned slightly away, the shadows softening the edges of his monstrous form, yet somehow making him appear all the more human.

"Warg," he said softly but firmly, a resolve filling his voice, "whatever villages still linger near Garreg Mach, I want you to go there. I want you to make sure they..."

His voice faltered abruptly, the words catching painfully in his throat. He had been about to give a command he had given countless times before—to kill, to destroy, to remove obstacles with ruthless efficiency. But something stopped him now. Something within his heart, something stirred by Clainsiia’s innocence and Rhea’s memory.

"No," he murmured quietly, his voice softer now, almost a whisper as he finished the command differently, with newfound purpose. "Not this time. Make sure the villagers run as fast as they can. Tell them never to return. Let them live."

Warg stared at him silently for a moment, visibly stunned. Then, without protest, the wolf soldier bowed respectfully, his golden eyes revealing nothing but obedience as he turned to fulfill the new command. "As you wish, my lord."

As Warg’s footsteps receded into the night, Ashen returned his gaze skyward, the moon reflecting in his eyes. Alone again, he stared at his hands, the scaled claws shimmering softly in the pale light. His heart ached painfully as he allowed his thoughts to wander freely, revisiting every face he'd lost, every soul who had once mattered to him—Sitri, Jeralt, Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn.

Each of them had died tragically, painfully, leaving behind only bitter lessons and unresolved grief. During this war he discovered Sitri’s gentle sacrifice—her very life given willingly to grant her crest stone to Byleth. She had died selflessly, lovingly, a final act of maternal devotion. Jeralt had fallen victim to treachery, struck down by those who slithered in the dark. And Rhea—she had died at the hands of Byleth and Edelgard.

Yet, Seteth and Flayn… their blood stained his hands directly, no magic or power could soothe could fix that. But he would rethink of everything... if he’d been there to witness Edelgard’s rise, he would have sided with Edelgard, yes—but not at the cost of their lives. He would have even pleaded with Rhea, begged her to surrender rather than destroy all he once loved.... if only he wasn't so blind to what he became before the birth of Byleth.

But there was no undoing what was done. They were gone, their lives extinguished, their dreams and hopes reduced to nothing more than bitter memories. And now, standing amidst of everything he had helped tear down, Ashen felt the profound, hollow weight of his loneliness. The last survivor of a world that had once been filled with love and friendship, now drowned in blood and despair.

His breath hitched painfully, his thoughts spiraling deeper into regret. What could he say, now that he alone remained, carrying the legacy of that once-proud group he had cherished? What words could possibly capture the depth of his sorrow, his regret, his longing for redemption?

Ashen closed his eyes slowly, breathing deeply as he struggled to find meaning in the overwhelming darkness. When at last he opened them again, the stars still burned brightly above, distant yet comforting—a silent, eternal reminder that perhaps even now, there was still hope. And with quiet resolve, he whispered softly into the night on the gentle wind, “I am sorry."

Chapter Text

It was night, and the Adrestian Empire had finally arrived at the Conand Tower. But as Edelgard's forces approached, there was still no sign of Claude or the others. The soldiers, tired yet vigilant, cast wary glances into the darkness, their eyes searching for any movement.

Shez shifted uncomfortably on her mount, her eyes narrowing with concern as she scanned the area. She broke the heavy silence first. "They should've been here by now," she murmured, unease creeping into her usually steady voice.

Bernadetta, anxiously clutching her bow, tried to sound reassuring, though her voice trembled slightly. "I'm... I'm sure everything went well! At least, I hope so..."

Byleth and Edelgard exchanged quiet looks, neither saying a word but understanding each other's fears. The silence stretched painfully as the army stood waiting in the moonlight, listening intently to the rustling wind.

Then Ashe, always sharp and attentive, suddenly straightened up, tilting his head slightly toward the hills nearby. His voice carried a cautious urgency. "Does anyone else hear that? It sounds like marching... footsteps."

Immediately, everyone's attention snapped toward the distant hills, their breath held anxiously as the noise grew louder—a rhythmic, steady march echoing through the cool night air. Weapons tightened instinctively, yet there was no call for alarm, not yet.

Linhardt squinted into the darkness, his voice thoughtful but puzzled. "Could Claude have recruited more soldiers?"

Marianne, with her quiet, keen observation, stepped forward slightly, eyes narrowing carefully into the distance. Her voice was soft but certain. "No, those aren't soldiers... those are citizens."

Edelgard immediately took command, turning swiftly to her army. "Prepare medical aid immediately! Get healers and supplies ready—we need to tend to their wounds!" Her orders rang sharply through the night, stirring her troops into motion.

As the army hurried to obey, the figures descending the hill finally came into clear view. Leading the weary procession was Claude, flanked by Petra, Caspar, Lysithea, Leonie, and Shamir. Their expressions were a complex mix—relief, exhaustion, and the lingering sorrow of recent losses etched deeply into each face.

Claude halted before Edelgard and Byleth, a tired yet genuine smile pulling at his lips despite everything. "I see things went well for you guys," he began lightly, though his eyes carried the shadows of heavy burdens. He glanced toward Shez, warmth flickering gently in his golden gaze. "It's good to see you again, Shez."

Shez, however, was not so gentle in her reunion. Without warning, she stepped forward swiftly and punched Claude hard in the arm, a fierce glare crossing her features. "Don't you ever ever spread rumors about me again!"

Claude winced, rubbing his arm dramatically. "Alright, alright, I won’t do it again! But did I really deserve that?"

"Yes," Edelgard replied smoothly, her voice calm but stern.

Byleth slowly shook his head, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite everything. But his amusement faded quickly, replaced by surprise and cautious hope as his gaze landed upon a figure he hadn't expected to see again—Shamir.

"Shamir..." Byleth's voice was quiet, filled with disbelief and careful optimism. He stepped closer cautiously. "Do you... remember everything?"

Shamir nodded firmly, relief and quiet gratitude shining warmly in her emerald eyes. "I do, Byleth. And I'm glad to be back... all thanks to Leonie."

Leonie blushed slightly, embarrassment and pride blending across her features as she exchanged a brief, grateful smile with Shamir.

But Petra's expression turned serious, her amber eyes scanning the faces around them, suddenly realizing a painful absence. "Where is Dorothea?"

Lysithea's voice was small, filled with growing dread. "And Ignatz...? I don't see him anywhere..."

Edelgard hesitated, the sorrow heavy in her eyes as the terrible silence stretched painfully. Finally, she spoke, her voice thick with grief. "They didn't make it. Dorothea and Ignatz... they're both gone."

A stunned silence settled over Claude's group, each of them wrestling with fresh waves of pain. Caspar sighed heavily, his voice weighted with sadness and understanding. "Looks like you guys got hit pretty hard too, huh?"

Ferdinand furrowed his brow, glancing uncertainly toward Caspar. "What do you mean? Who did you lose?"

Leonie lowered her gaze, sorrow darkening her usually fiery eyes. Her voice came out quiet, almost hollow. "We lost Felix. He gave his life saving prisoners from Ashen's forces. And Jeritza… he joined our fight, but Ashen killed him too. They both fought bravely—until their very last breaths."

Ingrid’s voice was tight, almost trembling, as if afraid of the answer she already anticipated. "Was there anyone else?"

Lysithea hesitated, her gentle eyes clouding with grief as she spoke softly, voice strained. "Danar... he didn't make it either. He chose to stay behind, to give us enough time to escape. He knew it would cost his life, but he did it without hesitation."

Silence fell over the group again, heavier this time, each warrior and soldier lost in personal grief. The weight of loss pressed down upon them all—friends, comrades, and family taken by a war they never wanted, leaving wounds that felt impossible to heal.

Finally, Yuri broke through the quiet, his voice gentle yet firm, offering a fragile glimmer of hope in the bleakness. "Defending House Galatea and getting these people that Claude brought to safety has been a bright spot. Their lives mean something—they mean that even though we've suffered tremendous losses, there's still reason to hold onto hope."

Claude nodded softly, his eyes clouded with sadness yet still carrying a faint spark of determination. "And there’s still one more bright spot left for us." Slowly, he turned his gaze behind him.

All eyes followed Claude’s gaze as Arthur slowly approached, gently holding a tiny infant securely in his arms. Edelgard's attention snapped immediately to the boy. She studied him closely, questions beginning to form in her mind. But before she could speak, her gaze fell upon the baby Arthur cradled protectively.

Her eyes widened, her heart suddenly pounding wildly in her chest. The baby—it couldn’t be, and yet… she recognized him immediately. Edelgard swiftly fell to her knees, arms instinctively reaching out. Arthur carefully handed the infant to her, and she drew him close, breath trembling with hope and disbelief.

Her fingers quickly brushed aside the soft fabric around the child's neck, revealing the delicate golden necklace emblazoned with the unmistakable emblem of the Black Eagle. Her breath hitched sharply, eyes growing misty. "Jeralt…" she whispered tenderly, her voice trembling. "My son..."

As if responding to his mother's call, Jeralt’s eyes slowly opened, blinking curiously at Edelgard’s gentle face. Edelgard lifted strands of her soft white hair, letting them gently dangle within his reach. Her voice was warm, filled with aching hope. "Do you remember me, Jeralt? Your own mother?"

With an innocent, joyful laugh, Jeralt reached up, his tiny fingers grasping her white hair. Edelgard’s heart surged with joy, tears flooding her vision. "Jeralt… Jeralt," she repeated over and over, her voice breaking softly, overwhelmed with profound relief and joy.

Byleth swiftly knelt beside Edelgard, his own heart swelling with emotions nearly too powerful to express. He wrapped a gentle, reassuring arm around her shoulders, his  eyes shining with deep happiness as he gazed lovingly at their son. The intensity of the moment filled him with gratitude and a sense of profound peace, the pain and loss briefly overshadowed by the joy of reunion.

He turned slowly, gently addressing Arthur, his voice calm yet filled with deep sincerity. "What’s your name?"

Arthur met Byleth's gaze bravely, his voice steady yet humble as he responded quietly. "Arthur Launcelot, sir."

Byleth studied the boy carefully, impressed and deeply grateful. "Arthur, have you been watching over our son all this time?"

Arthur nodded solemnly, yet pride subtly shining in his eyes. "Yes, sir. Princess Clainsiia asked me to protect him, no matter what. So I did."

Edelgard reached out gently, placing her hand warmly upon Arthur’s shoulder, her voice gentle but firm with deep appreciation. "Thank you, Arthur. You have no idea how much this means to us." Arthur blushed slightly, nodding with quiet pride and respect.

However, despite the happiness of this reunion, a shadow of unease flickered within Byleth. He glanced toward Claude, his voice growing tense with worry. "Claude… where is Clainsiia?"

Claude fell silent, pain flashing vividly across his expression, hesitation evident in the heavy air around him. Edelgard immediately sensed the tension and stood quickly, Jeralt held securely in her arms. Her voice shook, fear coloring her words as she demanded urgently, "Claude, where is our daughter?"

Claude’s jaw tightened, struggling with the words he didn’t want to say. "Clainsiia… she's still with Ashen, but—"

Shamir stepped forward abruptly, her voice quiet but troubled as she finished Claude’s thought, eyes filled with deep sorrow. "We saw her, Edelgard. But we couldn't tell if she was knocked out or..." Shamir’s voice trailed off, the silence screaming the implication clearly.

Byleth and Edelgard exchanged alarmed, pained glances. Byleth’s voice came out strained, choked with dread. "Or what?"

An unbearably long silence filled the air, each second stretching painfully as realization slowly dawned across the faces of all present. Shez finally broke through the tense quiet, her voice quivering slightly with horrified understanding. "No... don't tell me... you believe she really is..."

Lysithea’s voice trembled as she whispered softly, her tone filled with sorrow and reluctant acceptance. "I don't want to believe the princess is gone. But… we might have to accept—"

Edelgard's voice erupted suddenly, sharp and fierce, cutting Lysithea off with furious denial. "No!" Her eyes burned with defiance and desperation, determination etched deeply into her features. "I refuse to believe my daughter is gone unless I see it with my own eyes!"

Her words echoed sharply in the heavy silence, the intensity of her grief-stricken conviction gripping everyone's hearts. Byleth stepped beside Edelgard, a steadying hand gently gripping her shoulder, his expression matching the fierce determination in her eyes. "She's right. We cannot lose hope—not yet."

Claude exchanged glances with Leonie, Shamir, and the others, each of them wrestling silently with the heavy, painful doubts that hovered just beneath the surface. Finally, Shamir stepped forward, her emerald eyes gleaming with a thoughtful intensity.

"I think I know where they are heading," she spoke firmly yet cautiously, her voice carefully measuring her words as if reaching into difficult memories. "But I need a map."

A nearby knight quickly stepped forward, pulling a carefully rolled parchment from his satchel and handing it swiftly to Shamir. Everyone gathered closely around her, the weight of curiosity and lingering hope pressing heavily against them.

Shamir unfurled the map carefully, her fingers tracing slowly across the familiar contours of Fódlan. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she spoke thoughtfully, almost to herself, "Ashen said something once… something I didn't think much of at the time. He said, 'If the plan failed, then go to the heart of Fódlan.'"

Silence fell again, each person absorbing her words carefully. Glances flickered between them, uncertainty and quiet speculation passing like silent whispers through the crowd. But Byleth, his brow drawn tight with intense contemplation, focused on Shamir's words more and more—the heart of Fódlan.

His eyes suddenly widened, realization dawning sharply upon him. "Garreg Mach," he said quietly yet firmly, his voice carrying clearly in the hushed stillness. "That's where Ashen is. It makes sense—there is nowhere else he would consider 'the heart of Fódlan' but the monastery itself. After all it was his home."

Everyone's eyes immediately shifted toward Edelgard and Byleth, the implications of his revelation resonating deeply within them all. Edelgard tightened her hold on Jeralt, her heart racing with a mixture of hope and dread as she spoke softly, her voice edged with pain, "Then… Garreg Mach must have fallen. It must already be conquered."

Shez stepped forward, her expression serious but firm, unwavering in her resolve. "Then we know where Ashen is. If we move quickly, we could get there and confront him directly."

Byleth nodded slowly, but his eyes softened as he glanced toward Edelgard, noticing the weary strain etched deeply into her beautiful yet tired features. His voice was gentle yet decisive, understanding deeply what they all needed. "You're right, Shez, but everyone needs rest. We've been through much already. Before we take this step, we all need to gather strength."

His gaze shifted toward Edelgard, tenderness softening his eyes as they lingered lovingly upon Jeralt sleeping peacefully in his mother's embrace. Byleth's voice was quietly firm, filled with warmth and profound sincerity. "El and I would like to spend some time alone with our son. Just for tonight."

No one questioned him, understanding immediately the significance of their request. With quiet murmurs of understanding and respect, the soldiers and allies slowly dispersed, each finding their own corners of solitude or companionship, leaving Edelgard and Byleth to enjoy precious, much-needed time alone with their child.

But hidden nearby, unnoticed by any of the mortals, Sothis watched the entire exchange silently, her emerald eyes shadowed deeply with sorrow and self-reproach. The heavy burden of loss and guilt pressing mercilessly upon her heart felt almost unbearable.

Her thoughts swirled chaotically, tortured by what had transpired back at House Galatea—when Ashen deceived her into chasing down Arval in fury. If only she'd stayed focused, if only she'd ignored her anger and not pursued Arval out of vengeance… perhaps they could have defeated Ashen then. Perhaps Clainsiia might still be safe.

The princess dead… the possibility gnawed relentlessly at her heart, each passing second amplifying her guilt and sorrow. Her concentration had failed, and now an innocent child—one whose kindness and bravery had touched all their hearts—was possibly lost forever.

Arval hovered quietly beside her, his expression heavy with concern, sensing the turmoil raging within her heart. His voice was gentle yet cautious, carefully broaching the sensitive topic. "Sothis… is something troubling you?"

She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze distant and filled with pain. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft, raw with vulnerability and bitter regret. "What if Clainsiia is truly dead, Arval? What if I’m responsible for her death?"

Arval hesitated, clearly unsettled by the depth of sorrow and guilt evident in Sothis's voice. Yet he shook his head firmly, unwilling to accept that possibility. "You cannot think like this, Sothis—not until we know for certain. There is still hope. We must hold onto that."

But Sothis's shoulders trembled softly, her eyes squeezing shut against the tears welling uncontrollably within. "But it's my fault! If I hadn't let my emotions cloud my judgment, if I hadn't chased after you… maybe she would still be alive! Maybe we could have stopped Ashen at House Galatea. Maybe none of this would be happening."

Arval, deeply pained by her torment, struggled to find comforting words. But before he could speak, Sothis turned away sharply, her voice breaking softly, the weight of her remorse suffocating. "I just need to be alone."

And then, without another word, Sothis faded slowly from sight, leaving Arval alone, hovering quietly in the heavy silence, worry etched deeply upon his features. He wondered how she could possibly handle the weight of her regrets—especially if their worst fears about Clainsiia turned out to be true.

Then a gentle voice broke Arval's troubled reverie. "Arval?" He turned slowly to see Shez approaching, her violet eyes filled with quiet concern. She could clearly sense something amiss. "Is everything okay?"

Arval hesitated briefly before shaking his head softly, his voice quiet yet burdened with the truth. "Not for Sothis."

Chapter Text

Sothis sat silently upon her throne, lost in profound contemplation. Her ethereal realm, usually so calm and comforting, felt unbearably heavy now. Every corner of this infinite space echoed hauntingly with a single name... a name that had become a symbol of innocence and loss.

"Clainsiia," she whispered softly into the emptiness, her voice trembling with sorrow.

The princess’s face lingered vividly in her mind, those innocent, curious eyes, that sincere yet mischievous smile. The child who had held a pure heart, courageous and compassionate, now lay dead because of Sothis’s mistakes. That knowledge clawed relentlessly at her heart.

Guilt surged within her, overwhelming and suffocating. Sothis buried her face in her delicate hands, her slender shoulders shaking as tears spilled silently down her pale cheeks. "Forgive me," she murmured, her voice barely audible, muffled by her fingers, heavy with profound remorse. "Forgive me, sweet child. If only I hadn’t allowed my emotions to control me... If only I hadn’t pursued Arval in anger. You might still be alive."

She clenched her fists, a wave of self-directed fury consuming her. " My emotions got the better of me, and now an innocent soul... one so gentle and kind... is lost forever."

Yet, despite the torrent of guilt and grief, a strange sensation brushed gently against her senses. Something had shifted subtly around her, an alteration in the very fabric of reality. Curious yet cautious, she slowly lowered her hands, blinking rapidly as she gazed around her surroundings.

She was no longer in the celestial throne room, nor in the simple tent she had inhabited alongside Byleth and Edelgard. Instead, she found herself in a quiet, dimly lit room. Familiar and yet painfully distant—the soft candlelight illuminating modest furniture, tidy bookshelves lined with academic tomes, a neatly arranged desk by the window, and a simple yet inviting bed.

Recognition dawned slowly upon Sothis, her emerald eyes widening in disbelief. "This... this is Byleth’s old room from Garreg Mach. But... how?" Her voice echoed gently in the quiet space, confusion mingling sharply with nostalgia.

She stepped forward slowly, fingertips brushing softly against the wooden desk, memories flooding vividly through her mind—memories of quiet evenings spent conversing with Byleth, sharing wisdom and gently guiding him in his journey.

"Byleth?" she called softly, voice hesitant yet hopeful, the gentle echo of her words filling the silent room. But no response came, only stillness answering her query. Confused yet determined, she tried again, louder, urgency tinging her voice now. "Byleth! Are you here?" Her heart began racing anxiously, uncertainty gripping her. Why was she here? What force had transported her into this memory made tangible?

Before she could further contemplate, a soft, sleepy yawn echoed from behind her, followed by a quiet rustle of sheets and blankets. Sothis turned sharply, eyes narrowing carefully into the dimness as she searched for the source of the unexpected noise.

"Who’s there...?" The soft voice questioned cautiously—innocent, sleepy, and undeniably young. "Who’s making all that noise?"

Sothis’s heart skipped abruptly, her breath catching sharply in her throat. That voice... it couldn’t be. Slowly, with trembling steps, she approached the bed hidden in shadows. There sat a small child—a little girl—rubbing sleep from her vibrant green eyes. Her hair cascaded around her in messy, soft strands of brilliant emerald green, illuminated gently by moonlight filtering through the window.

"Who... who are you?" the child asked sleepily, blinking curiously at the ethereal figure floating gently toward her. Her voice—a voice Sothis had thought she would never hear again—was unmistakable. Familiar and achingly sweet.

Tears filled Sothis’s eyes instantly, disbelief mingling with cautious hope. "Clainsiia...?" she whispered softly, voice shaking. Her heart pounded rapidly, overcome by emotion and confusion.

The little girl blinked up at her, still half-draped in her sheets, her emerald hair falling messily around her face. Her soft green eyes shimmered like polished glass in the moonlight, full of sleepy bewilderment. She tilted her head, small brows furrowed in confusion.

“…How do you know my name?” Clainsiia asked, her voice quiet and hesitant, laced with the innocence only a child could wield. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket instinctively, though there was no fear in her eyes—only curiosity.

Sothis floated a little closer, her smile trembling as she gave a small laugh—light, gentle, almost like a mother hearing her child speak for the first time in years. “Oh… sweet child,” she murmured, brushing away the tears that blurred her vision. “You have no idea how alive you are right now.”

Clainsiia blinked slowly again, trying to process the words. She sat up straighter in bed, her head tilting further. “But… who are you?” she asked again, this time more intently. “You call me sweet child… but I’ve never seen you before.”

Sothis inhaled a steady breath, pressing a hand gently to her heart as she realized her mistake. “Ah… forgive me,” she said softly, her voice warm like a lullaby. “I am Sothis. The goddess.”

Clainsiia’s eyes went wide, her lips parting slightly. “The goddess?” she repeated, stunned. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palms, then pinched her cheek quickly. When she winced, she gasped. “This isn’t a dream...”

“No,” Sothis replied with a light laugh. “It isn’t.”

Clainsiia’s voice dropped to a whisper, as though even saying it too loudly would wake her from this moment. “You’re… the Sothis? The one my father always talked about? The goddess who gave him her powers?”

Sothis nodded with a soft, regal grace, her emerald eyes shining. “Yes. That’s me.”

The little girl’s awe was palpable. She slowly slipped out of bed and padded across the room on bare feet, stopping only when she was close enough to look up at Sothis properly. Her eyes sparkled with innocent wonder. “Do you always float?”

Sothis gave a gentle laugh, one that seemed to echo softly in the stillness of the quiet room. She smiled warmly, gracefully shaking her head. “That isn't important, my child. What truly matters is something far more significant—what happened to you, Clainsiia.”

Clainsiia blinked curiously, her innocent expression becoming thoughtful. She reached up with one hand to gently touch a strand of her emerald-green hair, as though suddenly reminded of her changed appearance. Her fingers slowly ran through the unfamiliar yet comforting locks. “You mean… my hair and eyes? You noticed too, didn't you?”

Sothis nodded gently, her emerald eyes glowing faintly with curiosity and concern. “Indeed. More importantly, I'm quite curious how we’re able to speak now. You and I, child, should not be capable of such direct communication—not under normal circumstances.”

The little princess's eyes softened, a tender, gentle smile warming her expression. Her voice was soft yet sincere, laced with a depth of appreciation that defied her youth. “Kazamir helped me.”

Sothis froze completely at that unexpected revelation, her expression shifting sharply into a mix of confusion and disbelief. Her heart quickened anxiously, racing beneath the calm facade of the goddess. Carefully, she took a breath, gathering herself and masking her unease as she spoke cautiously. “Kazamir? You mean… Ashen helped you? But… how?”

Clainsiia nodded firmly, her bright eyes reflecting an unwavering trust in the sincerity of her words. She spoke calmly, almost serenely, yet the gravity of her admission was heavy. “I died some time ago… and Kazamir brought me back to life.”

Sothis's ethereal form trembled subtly, her eyes widening with shock, awe, and uncertainty all blending in a tumultuous storm within her. Her mind raced frantically—searching for answers, explanations, possibilities. Her thoughts spiraled quickly into confusion, disbelief, and curiosity.

How had Ashen accomplished such an impossible feat? Resurrection, true resurrection, was rare, difficult, and fraught with danger, often requiring a great sacrifice. But more importantly, why had Ashen chosen to resurrect Clainsiia?

Struggling with the whirlwind of thoughts within her, Sothis reached out softly toward the girl, offering a gentle, comforting smile. “Clainsiia, my dear, hold out your hand to me. Please.”

Without hesitation, Clainsiia obediently extended her small, delicate hand toward Sothis. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room—soft and gentle. Then slowly, a shimmering, purple symbol gently appeared, softly illuminating the princess's palm.

Sothis felt her breath catch painfully, her ethereal heart pounding violently in her chest. Her emerald eyes widened in disbelief, the sight before her utterly shocking. “The Crest of Flames…” she breathed quietly, awe and apprehension mingling sharply in her voice. The symbol shimmered gently in Clainsiia’s small, delicate palm, glowing softly in the moonlight.

The significance struck Sothis profoundly. She quickly realized it must have been the copy—the replica crest stone Ashen himself had crafted long ago. Her thoughts raced wildly, desperate to piece together this impossible scenario.

Clainsiia tilted her head curiously, gazing down at the gentle glow emanating from her palm. Her eyes filled with innocent curiosity. “Is this why we can talk now, Sothis? Because of this crest?”

Sothis gave a slow, uncertain nod, struggling to maintain composure. Her voice trembled slightly, filled with cautious wonder and deep contemplation. “I… suppose it must be. It's the only explanation I can think of."

Clainsiia considered this carefully, a thoughtful frown creasing her delicate brow. But before Sothis could further elaborate, a wave of urgency surged suddenly within her—reminding her sharply of the desperate situation outside this gentle moment of calm.

Quickly, her gaze softened with gentle urgency, voice warm yet firm as she explained carefully, “Child, listen to me closely. Your parents, Byleth and Edelgard, they're heading toward Garreg Mach to save you from Ashen’s grasp.”

Instead of the relief Sothis expected, Clainsiia’s expression shifted abruptly into worry, her emerald eyes widening anxiously. Immediately, she began to protest, shaking her head fiercely. “No! They can't—I mean, they shouldn't! Not yet.”

Sothis blinked slowly, confusion and concern washing over her features at the unexpected reaction. Her voice softened with deep perplexity and gentle compassion as she asked cautiously, “But why, Clainsiia? Why don't you wish to be rescued? Your parents desperately want you safe—they've been suffering greatly from your absence.”

Clainsiia hesitated briefly, searching for the right words. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet but firm, tinged with deep sincerity and gentle resolve. “Because… I can’t leave yet, Sothis. I need more time.”

“More time?” Sothis repeated quietly, uncertainty flickering sharply within her ethereal gaze. Her brow furrowed gently as she tilted her head curiously. “Time for what, child? I do not understand. Surely you don't wish to remain with Ashen, do you?”

But Clainsiia’s emerald eyes glowed brightly with determination, her voice ringing softly yet resolutely with undeniable conviction. “Because I want to help him. Kazamir… I know there's good in him."

Sothis fell completely silent, utterly stunned. She stared at the little princess with profound disbelief, struggling to process Clainsiia’s heartfelt words. The sincerity shining vividly in the child’s gaze left her both deeply touched and profoundly unsettled. Was it truly possible? Could the girl genuinely want to help a god whose very name had become synonymous with death and destruction?

Sothis shook her head gently, her ethereal emerald eyes filled with concern, sadness pooling within their depths. Her voice trembled softly, an anguished plea beneath her regal bearing.

"Child, listen to me," she whispered desperately, leaning closer as if the proximity might somehow impart urgency to her words. "Ashen has killed so much already. So many innocent lives have been lost because of his fury. Do you even realize the extent of his cruelty?"

Clainsiia's emerald gaze wavered briefly, uncertainty shadowing her youthful features. Yet, despite Sothis's heartfelt warning, determination burned brightly within her small frame, undeniable and stubborn.

Sothis exhaled deeply, her voice shaking with sorrow as she reluctantly revealed the truth, hoping it might somehow dissuade the princess. "Clainsiia… he even killed Dorothea. The woman you viewed as an aunt—someone who cherished you deeply, who held you in her arms as a baby."

The silence hung heavy in the room, painful and suffocating. Clainsiia’s small frame stiffened sharply, her eyes widening, filling instantly with tears that shimmered beneath the soft moonlight. Her lower lip quivered slightly, grief overwhelming her expression. "Aunt Dorothea…" she whispered brokenly, voice quaking softly with sorrow.

Sothis reached gently toward the grieving princess, voice gentle yet resolute, filled with empathy and urgency. "I’m so very sorry, Clainsiia. But you must understand—this is the person you wish to help. He's caused pain beyond measure."

Clainsiia lowered her head, small shoulders trembling softly as she silently absorbed the devastating news. Memories flooded her mind vividly—Dorothea’s gentle embrace, her laughter filling the room, her songs echoing beautifully through halls and gardens alike. The pain of knowing someone she considered family had been cruelly taken threatened to crush her small heart beneath its weight.

Yet, even amid such overwhelming grief, Clainsiia lifted her gaze slowly, determination glistening fiercely through the tears pooling in her emerald eyes. Her voice shook softly yet carried unmistakable resolve. "I know he has done terrible things. And losing Aunt Dorothea hurts my heart… But there is regret in his heart... there is a chance to redeem himself."

Sothis stared silently at the child before her, a swirl of conflicted emotions raging within her ethereal form. She spoke carefully, voice soft yet edged with deep uncertainty. "Clainsiia… Ashen he-"

Clainsiia quickly cut her off, her voice filled with conviction, yet gentle, "He's not Ashen—he's Kazamir." Her emerald eyes glistened with determination, unwavering as she met Sothis’s surprised gaze. "I want more time, Sothis. Please, you have to let me try."

Sothis was completely taken aback, astonished by the earnest, stubborn resolve radiating from the little princess. Truly, this stubbornness was something that had clearly been inherited from Edelgard’s side of the family—a fierce determination to see things through, no matter the cost. Still, to hear such resolute faith in a being that had caused immense suffering was profoundly unsettling. She drew in a deep, steadying breath, attempting to understand the earnest desperation behind Clainsiia’s plea.

"Very well," Sothis murmured gently, softly accepting the girl’s wishes with deep hesitation. "I will attempt to return to you soon… but first, I must speak to your father."

Clainsiia’s expression brightened subtly, filled with gratitude. "Thank you, Sothis. I promise you—I know there's hope for Kazamir."

Sothis gently nodded in response, though uncertainty and worry lingered deeply within her. She paused momentarily, wondering briefly how she might possibly accomplish the task of communicating such vital information to Byleth. As she pondered, her thoughts drifted naturally toward Byleth, and a strange, sudden sensation overwhelmed her ethereal form pulling her sharply and abruptly toward him.

Before Clainsiia could even blink, Sothis vanished completely from sight, leaving the princess to stare wide-eyed at the empty space where she once stood.

"Sothis?" Clainsiia whispered softly, confusion shadowing her delicate features. "Where did you go?"

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Sothis’s ethereal eyes snapped open abruptly, finding herself unexpectedly returned to the reality of the camp. She immediately sensed the presence of Shez and Arval nearby and swiftly turned toward them, urgency coloring her voice as she demanded sharply, "Where is Byleth?"

Shez, startled by Sothis's sudden appearance, quickly responded, voice edged with concern and surprise. "He’s still in the tent with Edelgard. Sothis, is everything alright?"

Ignoring Shez's question momentarily, urgency flooding through her, Sothis flew quickly toward the tent, her presence shimmering vividly through the quiet night.

Within the warmth of the tent, Edelgard sat quietly on a wooden chair, gently cradling Jeralt in her arms, a tenderness radiating from her as she softly hummed a gentle lullaby. Her eyes reflected a mixture of love and concern, burdened by the weight of their impossible dilemma. How could they possibly care for their infant son amidst the dangers and battles they still faced?

Byleth stood near her side, his eyes carefully scanning the map laid out before them. He sighed softly, frustration edging into his voice as he suggested carefully, "Perhaps we could entrust Jeralt to a few loyal knights to protect him. They could carry him to safety while we confront Ashen."

Edelgard’s brow furrowed with worry, gently brushing her fingers lovingly through Jeralt’s soft hair. She hesitated briefly, torn between her fierce protective instincts and the realization of their dire circumstances. "I suppose that may be the safest choice... but still, the idea of letting him out of my sight pains me greatly."

Their discussion was abruptly interrupted by an unexpected presence—Sothis, her ethereal form glowing brightly, materialized swiftly before Byleth, floating close to his face. Her expression was deeply urgent, yet strangely comforting, as she gently grasped Byleth’s face between her ethereal hands, commanding his immediate attention.

Edelgard, oblivious to Sothis’s presence, continued softly humming to Jeralt, unaware of the goddess’s sudden arrival.

Byleth’s eyes widened in surprise yet quickly calmed himself, mindful of not alarming his beloved wife. Quietly, he addressed Sothis with cautious concern, "What’s wrong, Sothis?"

"Listen carefully," Sothis instructed quickly, her voice gentle yet sharp with urgency, "and please, do not panic. Remain calm for Edelgard’s sake."

Byleth silently nodded in understanding, forcing himself to remain perfectly still, voice echoing gently through his thoughts, "Alright, I’m listening."

Sothis breathed deeply, gathering herself before continuing carefully, her words filled with quiet intensity, "Byleth, Clainsiia is alive."

Immediately, Byleth’s teal eyes widened sharply in shock, his heart racing wildly within his chest. Yet he quickly forced himself to maintain composure, knowing that Edelgard’s observant nature would immediately pick up on any unusual behavior. Instead, he mentally pressed Sothis urgently for more answers, "How do you know?"

Swiftly, yet gently, Sothis explained in depth, "Because Clainsiia now possesses the Crest of Flames."

Confusion swirled sharply within Byleth’s mind, voice echoing incredulously within their shared consciousness, "But Clainsiia wasn’t born with a crest!"

Sothis nodded slowly, expression sympathetic yet deeply contemplative. "I am aware. It seems Ashen revived her using the replicated crest stone he created. Due to its connection to my powers, I was able to communicate directly with your daughter. Also... her eyes and hair have changed to green—like mine, and yours when you embraced my power. It appears permanent."

Byleth silently processed the information, profound relief swelling deeply within him despite his worry. Clainsiia was alive, regardless of how drastic the changes were; the fact alone brought immense comfort. Slowly, thoughtfully, his gaze softened tenderly upon Edelgard, heart aching with the knowledge of how profoundly this news would affect her if she knew. Yet he understood it was best to keep the revelation private for now, to prevent her heart from aching any further than it already had.

Quietly, he mentally questioned Sothis further, voice gentle yet serious, "Is there anything else I should know?"

Sothis hesitated briefly before revealing softly, her tone edged with quiet respect for Clainsiia’s wishes, "Your daughter requests a few days more—she desperately wishes to help Ashen find redemption."

Byleth paused, his eyes tracing the path laid out upon the map before him. His fingers brushed softly against the parchment, measuring the distance silently in his mind. It would take at least a few days to reach Garreg Mach. The timing, it seemed, aligned perfectly with his daughter’s request—but a storm of conflicting emotions raged within him.

He pondered carefully. If Ashen had gone to such extraordinary lengths to resurrect Clainsiia, surely there had to be something within him worth redeeming. Yet, uncertainty gnawed persistently at his heart. Could he truly trust that his daughter would remain safe, unharmed, until their arrival? Was he willing to gamble her safety on the fragile hope that Ashen could find redemption?

Sothis observed him quietly, sensing his turmoil. Her emerald eyes softened with understanding. Byleth finally exhaled slowly, finding quiet resolve amidst his inner conflict. He raised his gaze, meeting Sothis’s eyes firmly, voice steady but filled with gentle concern.

“Alright, Sothis. Tell her she has her three days—but promise me you'll watch over her closely tonight,” Byleth requested quietly, a deep sense of fatherly worry woven through his words.

Sothis nodded softly, her expression filled with sincere compassion. "I promise, Byleth. I shall stand by her side."

Byleth released a gentle sigh, feeling some measure of relief wash over him. He gave a small, heartfelt smile. "Thank you, Sothis."

Without another word, Sothis slowly faded away, her form dissipating like mist in the early dawn.

With Sothis gone, Byleth turned slowly toward Edelgard, who still held Jeralt gently in her arms. Quietly, he moved closer, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders and gently placing a soft kiss on Jeralt’s forehead. Edelgard tilted her head curiously, her crimson eyes filled with curiosity and quiet concern. "My love," she asked softly, her voice gentle yet cautious, "what was that about?"

Byleth met her gaze with warmth and reassurance, gently brushing her white hair back from her face. "Things are going to get brighter, El," he whispered softly, sincerity and hope blending in his quiet tone. "I promise."

Edelgard leaned into his embrace, closing her eyes softly, heart comforted by his gentle reassurance, though questions lingered silently within her thoughts. She chose not to press further, trusting in his unwavering support and wisdom. Instead, she quietly resumed humming softly to Jeralt, allowing peace and warmth to envelop the tent once more.

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Meanwhile, far away within the quiet, moonlit room at Garreg Mach, Sothis materialized softly before Clainsiia, her ethereal form shimmering gently. Her emerald eyes gazed at the child with a blend of compassion and sadness.

“Listen carefully, my child,” she began softly, yet with clear urgency. “Your father knows you're alive, and he’s granted you a few days more. However, that's all the time you have left."

Clainsiia’s emerald eyes widened in surprise and urgency, lips parting as she quickly protested, voice trembling, “But I—”

Interrupting gently, Sothis reached out, placing a translucent, comforting hand softly upon the girl's shoulder. "I'm sorry, sweet child. I truly wish I could offer more, but three days is all you have."

Clainsiia’s heart ached painfully, desperately yearning for more time, desperate to find answers, desperate to help Kazamir heal. Yet understanding filled her gaze, and she mustered the courage to softly request, “Okay... I understand. But, Sothis, could you please stay with me tonight?"

Sothis gave a gentle, reassuring smile, her eyes filled with warmth and genuine care. "Of course, Clainsiia. I'd be happy to stay by your side."

With relief, Clainsiia moved to sit on her bed, curling up comfortably. Sothis floated gracefully beside her, radiating a quiet, comforting presence. For a few silent moments, the gentle glow of candlelight filled the room with warmth.

Sothis’s gentle voice broke the silence, filled with curiosity yet compassion. "Tell me, sweet child, what do you see in A— I mean, Kazamir?"

Clainsiia hesitated briefly, her thoughtful gaze lingering upon the distant shadows dancing softly across the walls. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was gentle and sincere, filled with deep empathy. "Well... I see a broken man," she murmured softly, voice heavy with compassion. "I know he's done terrible things, but I've also seen glimpses of goodness, traces of his humanity and sadness. I believe he carries deep regrets. I want to understand what led him to become the person he is now."

Sothis exhaled gently, eyes filled with an ancient sadness and profound guilt. Her ethereal form trembled softly, feeling compelled to share the truth with the princess, no matter how painful it was for her own heart. Her voice quivered with sorrowful admission.

“Clainsiia… I must confess something important. The form Kazamir carries—it was my doing. But I swear to you, it was never my intention to cause him harm.”

Clainsiia immediately perked up, eyes wide with concern, voice filled with confusion and curiosity. “What do you mean, Sothis?”

Sothis sighed deeply, her ethereal form shimmering softly with regret. "When Kazamir approached me long ago, I peered deeply into his heart and saw darkness—such overwhelming pain and fury. I told him I could not walk the path he had chosen, for it would lead only to doom and sorrow. But he wouldn’t stop. Out of fear and instinct, I released my divine energy to defend myself—and unintentionally cursed him with the form he now bears. It was a grave mistake, one I deeply regret."

Clainsiia’s eyes widened further, surprise mingling with deep compassion. She took a moment to absorb the truth before gently interjecting, voice soft yet hopeful, "But surely there must be more to his story."

Sothis gave a slow nod, thoughtful and hopeful, though still shadowed with sorrow. “Indeed, child. Perhaps you’ll uncover it yourself. Tell me truly—do you believe this journey, this endeavor to help Kazamir, is worth it?"

Determination filled Clainsiia’s gaze as she clutched Kazamir’s worn journal tightly to her chest. Her voice trembled slightly, filled with earnest sincerity. "I do. From his journal, I can see that he was a good person once. And I believe he can be again."

Tears welled softly in Clainsiia’s emerald eyes, voice quivering gently with quiet desperation. "Is it wrong to hope for that, Sothis? Is it wrong to try and help someone like him?"

Moved deeply, Sothis gently wiped away the tears slipping softly down the princess’s cheeks, her ethereal touch warm and reassuring. Her voice whispered softly yet firmly, filled with profound understanding and compassion. “Oh, sweet child… it's never wrong to hope or try. But remember, what truly matters are the results. You must be prepared—there is a possibility that you may not succeed in helping him.”

Clainsiia quietly nodded, absorbing the wisdom with silent determination, her eyes fluttering softly closed after some time, finally drifting into a peaceful sleep.

Sothis remained faithfully by her side, quietly watching over Clainsiia throughout the night, her ethereal form radiating gentle warmth and protection. She whispered softly into the quiet darkness, voice filled with tender hope and a promise. “Sleep well, sweet child.”

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The next morning, Clainsiia and Sothis sat together on the bed, the soft morning sunlight filtering gently through the window, casting warm golden hues across the room. Their bond had noticeably deepened overnight, transforming into something more than just understanding—it had grown into a gentle, sincere friendship filled with mutual respect and warmth. Yet beneath the comforting companionship, both knew that their precious time together was fleeting.

Sothis turned her emerald gaze softly toward Clainsiia, a gentle sadness lingering within her eyes. "My dear child," she murmured gently, her ethereal voice tender yet firm, "I must go soon."

Clainsiia’s small shoulders slumped slightly, her bright eyes dimming for just a moment. She lifted her head slowly, gazing up into Sothis’s compassionate expression, asking softly, "Do you have to go already?"

Sothis nodded slowly, regret clearly etched upon her delicate features, a sadness pooling within her gentle emerald eyes. "I do, child," she admitted quietly, voice gentle yet firm, understanding deeply the necessity of caution. "I cannot risk being discovered by Kazamir—though surely he must have considered that we might have already met."

Clainsiia hesitated briefly, absorbing Sothis’s words carefully before lifting her gaze again, hope blossoming anew in her eyes. Her voice brightened with anticipation as she asked eagerly, "Will we see each other again?"

A soft, reassuring smile spread warmly across Sothis’s features, her ethereal presence comforting and gentle. She reached out, lightly brushing Clainsiia’s cheek with maternal tenderness, her voice filled with sincerity. "Of course, sweet child. We shall see each other again, I promise."

Clainsiia beamed brightly at Sothis, her heart swelling joyfully with gratitude. The opportunity to forge such a meaningful connection with the very goddess her father had encountered felt like a dream come true. Her voice bubbled over with joyful excitement as she exclaimed warmly, "Well then… goodbye, Sothis!"

Sothis’s gaze softened further, a deep mixture of pride and maternal concern shimmering vividly within her gentle emerald eyes. She gazed thoughtfully at Clainsiia, admiration clear in her expression for the brave determination radiating from such a young child. Gently yet firmly, she cautioned, voice heavy with affection and care, "Be careful, Clainsiia."

Clainsiia nodded resolutely, determination shining fiercely in her emerald eyes. Her voice rang firmly yet gently, filled with youthful confidence and quiet conviction. "I will, Sothis. I promise."

Touched deeply by the child's unwavering determination and bravery, Sothis gave a final affectionate smile, her ethereal form slowly shimmering before disappearing entirely, leaving behind a gentle warmth that lingered comfortingly in the room.

Clainsiia remained briefly still, savoring the warmth and security left behind by Sothis’s presence. Then, with a gentle sigh, she rose swiftly from the bed, grabbing Kazamir’s worn journal carefully from the bedside table and slipping it securely into a small bag. With quiet confidence and a bright smile, she reached out and pulled open the door, stepping forward boldly, ready to seize the precious moments ahead.

Yet, to her surprise, she found Ashen standing quietly right in front of her, his massive form looming quietly in the corridor, a mild expression of surprise crossing his usually inscrutable features. But it also looked like has about to knocked the door. "Child?" Ashen asked, raising one scaled brow curiously, voice gentle yet cautious. "You’re awake quite early. It's only eight in the morning."

Clainsiia’s emerald eyes sparkled brightly, determination brimming vividly within them as she met his gaze without hesitation. Her voice was clear and filled with gentle resolve, her smile unwavering. "I know it's early morning," she replied firmly, voice brimming with quiet confidence.

Ashen studied her thoughtfully, surprise quickly fading into quiet curiosity. Yet, deciding not to press further, he simply nodded slowly, turning around without another word. "Very well… follow me," he instructed softly, his voice calm yet unreadable as he began walking steadily down the corridor.

Clainsiia quickly fell into step beside him, determination sharpening her resolve with each passing moment. Deep within her heart, she understood clearly the weight of her decision—the precious, limited time she had to uncover answers, to discover the key to saving Kazamir from the darkness that consumed his soul. She knew she had only a few short days left, but she refused to falter. She would fight tirelessly, driven forward by empathy, compassion, and the unshakable belief in the goodness that is buried deeply within Kazamir.

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Back at the encampment, the soldiers of the Adrestian Empire bustled swiftly, their movements sharp yet weary from the previous day's battle. Every soldier diligently prepared for their journey ahead, carefully packing supplies and securing weapons, each one feeling the heavy weight of what awaited them at Garreg Mach.

Byleth stood quietly among them, teal eyes gazing thoughtfully toward the distant horizon, the bright morning sun gently illuminating his expression with golden warmth. Sothis silently floated near him, her ethereal presence offering quiet, comforting support.

Quietly, Byleth turned his gaze toward Sothis, voice gentle yet cautious, filled with concern. "Sothis," he murmured softly, "does Clainsiia truly understand the time she has left?"

Sothis nodded slowly, her emerald eyes gentle yet serious, filled with quiet compassion as she replied softly yet firmly, "She knows, Byleth. She understands."

Byleth sighed softly, lifting his gaze thoughtfully toward the bright sun rising steadily above them, bathing the camp in warm golden hues. His voice carried quiet contemplation and sincere hope, a father's unwavering belief in his child’s strength and courage. "Then I truly hope," he admitted quietly, sincerity and gentle worry blending in his words, "that my daughter knows exactly what she's doing."

Chapter Text

Ashen and Clainsiia ventured into the depths of the Holy Tomb beneath the monastery. This was the first time Ashen would be returning to this place since he became cursed—since he transformed into the being she saw before her now. The silence of their descent was oppressive, filled with the weight of unspoken history and sorrowful memories. The ancient stone steps, worn by centuries of footsteps, echoed quietly beneath their feet.

Breaking the heavy silence, the princess glanced upward at Ashen, her voice soft yet genuinely curious. "Where are we going?"

Ashen paused briefly, turning his molten gaze toward the child beside him. A distant sadness flickered in his eyes, softened by the quiet innocence reflected back at him. He spoke gently, voice quiet but thick with emotion. "To where I turned into… what you now see."

Clainsiia’s emerald eyes widened slightly, curiosity mingled with quiet concern. Yet she pressed no further, sensing the heaviness lingering behind his words. Instead, she simply continued walking beside him, her footsteps steady despite the eerie surroundings.

After what felt like an eternity of descent, they finally arrived at the Holy Tomb. Even though it bore the scars of Edelgard's assault many years ago, its sheer scale and grandeur left Clainsiia utterly captivated. Her eyes widened with amazement, mouth slightly agape, wonder radiating vividly from her features. "This place…" she breathed softly, voice filled with awe, "how could something this huge exist underground?"

Ashen watched her quietly, unexpectedly touched by her genuine fascination. A faint, small smile tugged at the corner of his lips—an expression so rarely seen upon his monstrous features. Her curiosity reminded him sharply of his younger self, once filled with a similar sense of wonder and innocence, exploring hidden places and seeking answers to mysteries that felt beyond comprehension.

He gazed gently at her, voice softening warmly as he spoke. "Perhaps, Clainsiia, it is time I tell you a bit of history."

Her eyes lit up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as they continued walking together, steadily approaching the distant throne. Ashen's voice filled the quiet stillness, deep yet surprisingly gentle as he recounted softly, "This place was built to honor Sothis. The goddess was laid to rest here, alongside her beloved children—the Nabateans."

Clainsiia listened intently, absorbing his words with quiet reverence, her emerald eyes fixed upon him. As they neared the ancient throne at the far end of the tomb, Ashen hesitated suddenly, eyes narrowing carefully. His attention was drawn abruptly to something unexpected—a chest, half-hidden in shadows, its polished surface faintly reflecting the dim glow of nearby torches.

Intrigued, Ashen walked slowly toward the chest, Clainsiia following closely behind him. Her curiosity brimming, the young princess carefully peeked inside. She rummaged through its contents, pulling out scattered notes and journals. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she sorted through them, voice bubbling softly with intrigue. "Look—there are notes inside!"

Ashen's gaze sharpened with interest as he stepped closer, heart suddenly pounding with distant recognition. Among the papers, something else caught Clainsiia’s attention. She carefully pulled out a neatly folded Officer's Academy uniform—pristine white and edged with delicate accents of soft, shimmering green. She glanced upward, her voice tinged with wonder as she softly asked, "Was this… yours?"

Ashen remained silent, heart pounding heavily within his chest as he stared quietly at the uniform in her small hands. The memories flooded back vividly, sharply recalling the days at the academy—the simple joy and pride he’d felt when Rhea presented him with the uniform. Its white and green hues had always reminded him of his deepest commitments—white for his mother, Rhea, and green to honor the goddess and her Nabatean children.

Finally, voice thick with emotion yet quiet with restrained sorrow, Ashen admitted gently, "Yes… it was mine, a long time ago."

Clainsiia continued examining the uniform, her intrigue evident. She tilted her head thoughtfully, genuinely curious. "But why is it white? I've never seen a uniform like this before."

Ashen exhaled slowly, eyes softening with distant memories, his voice gentle and reflective. "I chose the color white to honor my mother, Rhea. And the green… the green was chosen to honor the goddess, Sothis, and her children—the Nabateans."

He turned slowly toward the throne, stepping forward and seating himself carefully upon it, his massive form somehow seeming smaller within the echoes of the chamber. His gaze fell softly upon the young princess, a quiet, sincere expression filling his molten eyes. "Clainsiia," he began softly, voice gentle yet meaningful, "do you want to know why I chose Garreg Mach?"

Her eyes sparkled instantly, nodding her head vigorously. Ashen wasn't surprised—this child’s curiosity and endless desire for answers had touched him deeply, reigniting fragments of a humanity he’d believed lost forever.

Quietly, he admitted, voice soft with sincerity, "It’s because of you."

Clainsiia blinked rapidly, eyes widening with confusion. She tilted her head, her voice gentle yet clearly puzzled. "Me? What do you mean?"

Ashen paused momentarily, gathering himself before continuing carefully, deeply reflective and honest. "Your endless curiosity, your desire to understand who I once was… it stirred memories I had long buried. Coming here reminds me of those times—when I was truly a good man."

His thoughts began wandering softly, recalling precious, gentle moments from his past. A nostalgic warmth spread faintly within his chest, yet he clenched his scaled fists tightly, fighting the pain threatening to overwhelm him. Maintaining his composure, he finally lifted his gaze firmly toward her, quietly prompting her to continue. "Go ahead, child. Ask your questions."

A spark of excitement and determination flickered brightly within her emerald eyes. This was the moment she'd long awaited—the chance to finally understand who Kazamir once was, and what had brought him to become Ashen. Her voice trembled softly, gentle yet deeply earnest as she asked the one question burning within her heart. "Kazamir… what made you become like this?"

Ashen took a deep breath, steadying himself, preparing for the painful revelation he was about to share. Each memory held a weight greater than the stones beneath their feet, but he knew he owed her this honesty.

"It began on a night," he began quietly, his molten gaze distant, trapped within his past. "Garreg Mach was peaceful. Everyone slept soundly, unaware of the threat that crept silently toward us."

Clainsiia sat on the steps before the throne, her eyes fixed attentively on him. Ashen continued, his voice filled with quiet intensity. "It was then that I heard a explosion outside—shouts, cries of alarm. Bandits were attacking Garreg Mach. Immediately, I was prepared to confront them. But first, I prayed to Sothis, pleading desperately for her strength."

His gaze darkened slightly, recalling vividly the dread of that moment. Clainsiia's eyes were wide, deeply entranced by his story. "When we confronted the bandits, something was immediately clear—they were not ordinary thieves. Each fighter possessed skills rivaling those of the highest-ranked knights. My soldiers struggled, but we fought well. Then, I saw their leader—a man in a gold mask. What disturbed me most were the bandits themselves. They fought as though driven by fear, not hatred or greed. I soon realized why—they were not bandits at all. They were innocent people, villagers forced into battle by that masked man."

Clainsiia gasped softly, her voice shaking with confusion and sorrow. "But... why would he do such a terrible thing?"

Ashen’s eyes narrowed painfully, his voice tight with anger, still simmering after all these years. "Because that man sought to kill Rhea and destroy the Church itself. His hatred burned so deeply, he was willing to sacrifice anyone—innocent lives, his own followers—simply to reach her."

He paused, clenching his scaled fists tightly. Clainsiia watched as his claws dug painfully into his palms, the faint trickle of blood glistening darkly in the dim chamber. Yet he continued, voice bitter yet filled with resolve.

"I wouldn't allow it. I couldn't. Not while I drew breath. We fought fiercely. I faced their leader directly, wielding the sword my mother gave me—the same blade she'd once used to defend Fódlan. Our duel was intense. His skill matched mine stroke for stroke, but I fought with everything I had. Eventually, I shattered his mask with a powerful blow, leaving behind a deep, jagged wound across his face."

Ashen’s voice faltered momentarily, haunted by memory. Clainsiia leaned forward, sensing the critical revelation nearing.

"And that was when I saw him," Ashen whispered bitterly, voice trembling with grief and fury. "I recognized him immediately—the same man who had once tricked me, years before, deceiving me into believing I could save my parents. His name was—"

"Kenric," Clainsiia interjected suddenly, voice quiet yet sure.

Ashen's eyes widened slightly, genuinely surprised by her interruption. He tilted his head curiously, voice carefully measured. "Yes… his name was Kenric. But how could you possibly know that name?"

Clainsiia smiled softly, pulling Kazamir’s worn journal gently from her bag, holding it protectively. "You wrote about him in here. I remember seeing that name. You said he tricked you, betrayed you."

Ashen stared at her, momentarily speechless, an unexpected admiration sparking gently within him. His lips twitched into a faint, genuine smile, his voice softer, almost amused despite the gravity of the moment. "Impressive for a child your age. Very few adults are as observant."

Clainsiia’s grin widened gently, a spark of playful pride dancing softly within her emerald eyes. She offered an innocent yet confident reply, "My birthday is during the Harpstring Moon. Maybe by next year, I'll be even smarter!"

Ashen chuckled quietly, surprised yet undeniably touched by her innocence and optimism. He nodded softly, a momentary warmth replacing his earlier darkness. Yet the tenderness faded quickly, returning swiftly to the haunting past.

"When I recognized Kenric, anger consumed me entirely. The betrayal, the lies—it all rushed back, flooding my heart with hatred. Without hesitation, I severed his hand in a single, merciless strike. But his sister, furious and desperate, lunged at me. She gave me no choice. I had to end her life quickly."

Clainsiia listened quietly, her gentle features filled with sorrow and understanding, but also patience, sensing the weight still unspoken. "Then what happened?" she asked quietly, voice trembling with urgency, gentle encouragement warming her tone.

Ashen fell silent. Painful silence filled the tomb. His scaled fists clenched tighter still, blood dripping slowly between his claws. Suddenly, startling Clainsiia, a single tear slid slowly down his cheek, glistening softly in the dim light. His voice shook with profound, barely restrained grief as he continued quietly.

"In the aftermath, I saw something that shattered me—my old village. It lay just beyond, visible in the distance. The memories came flooding back painfully—of being called a failure, a monster, a killer. Villagers hurling stones, spitting hateful words, driving me away from the only home I'd ever known."

His voice broke painfully, barely audible as he whispered hoarsely, "The trauma consumed me. Fear of failing again, of never escaping their judgment, drove me mad. Rage blinded me entirely. That day… I didn't only seek revenge against Kenric. In my fury, my grief, I slaughtered them—all of them, innocent and guilty alike. Men, women, children. Every soul in my old village fell by my blade."

Ashen’s voice dropped to a fragile whisper, weighted heavily with guilt and self-loathing, "That was the day I truly became —the god of revenge." 

Clainsiia approached him cautiously, deeply moved by his raw, vulnerable admission. Her small hand reached out hesitantly, gently clasping his bleeding fist in a tender embrace, unafraid of the monstrous scales and claws. Her voice trembled softly, but she urged him gently yet firmly, "Please, Kazamir, continue. Tell me the rest."

Ashen took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath the weight of memories so dark, so painful, they threatened to crush him entirely. Yet something in the warmth of Clainsiia’s gentle touch gave him strength—just enough—to continue.

"When I returned to Garreg Mach after slaughtering my village," he began quietly, voice thick with sorrow, "everything had changed. People looked at me differently. The knights whispered, the students avoided my gaze… even Rhea herself seemed uncertain around me. I saw the fear and confusion in their eyes. I had become something else to them—a monster, a threat."

He closed his eyes briefly, the pain etched deeply into his features. When he opened them again, they were dimmer, more subdued.

"After several days of enduring their silent judgment, I couldn't bear it any longer. I descended into this very tomb, hoping… hoping that perhaps Sothis herself might grant me forgiveness." Ashen paused, visibly struggling with his emotions, memories flooding back vividly. "But when I stood here, beneath the gaze of the goddess’s throne, Sothis appeared to me."

Clainsiia listened intently, her emerald eyes fixed on him in quiet anticipation.

Ashen exhaled shakily, reliving that painful encounter. "She gazed deep into my heart, and she saw everything, my pain, my fury, the darkness that had begun consuming me. She told me that she couldn't walk the path I'd chosen, that my path led only to ruin and sorrow. Sothis warned me plainly, if she joined me...I would be doomed to fail." 

His voice faltered at the memory, his gaze unfocused, lost deeply in the pain of that encounter. "When she spoke that word—'fail'—something inside me broke. It brought back every horrible memory, every moment I'd ever felt worthless, helpless, and unwanted."

Ashen's hands trembled, claws twitching anxiously, his breathing shallow and quickened as if the very memories suffocated him. Clainsiia squeezed his hand gently, silently urging him to continue. "Emotions overwhelmed me—pain, fear, fury, and I lost control. I charged at Sothis blindly, driven by grief and desperation. She had no choice but to defend herself. She struck me with her divine power, unleashing a force so immense it shattered my very being."

He raised his free hand, gesturing slowly to his monstrous form, his eyes heavy with anguish. "My skin turned to black scales, my nails hardened into claws, my eyes… became what you see now—black and molten orange. I collapsed right here, dying slowly from the pain of transformation. My own body turned against me, rejecting the divine power I'd sought."

Ashen moved his trembling claw to the prominent, jagged scar upon his chest, a wound that still pulsed softly with lingering pain. "My mother, Rhea, witnessed it all. After I died... she took a blade and carved the Crest of Flames from my chest—the very crest you now bear. But that act alone wasn't enough to save me."

Clainsiia gasped softly, eyes wide with sorrow, grief shimmering gently in their emerald depths. Yet she remained quiet, holding his hand tightly.

Ashen shook his head slowly, eyes haunted. "But death wasn't the end for me. A twisted miracle brought me back, binding my existence forever to my cursed form. And with my return, one single word echoed endlessly in my mind, driving me slowly toward madness... 'failed.' To me, it meant everything I'd feared had come true—I had failed completely, irrevocably."

He took another slow, trembling breath, struggling visibly with the overwhelming weight of his guilt and shame. His voice softened painfully, barely a whisper. "From that day forward, I saw betrayal everywhere. Fear ruled my every decision. I believed everyone around me sought to tear me down, to ensure I would fail again and again. Even those I loved—I became convinced they'd betray me eventually. In my paranoia, I destroyed every bond I ever had. My humanity crumbled beneath the fear of failure."

Clainsiia gazed up at him, sorrow etched deeply into her youthful features, tears shimmering gently in her eyes. "Kazamir… I'm so sorry," she whispered softly, voice filled with deep empathy and compassion.

Ashen exhaled slowly, regaining composure, though his voice remained quiet, burdened with regret. "Then your grandparents intervened. They froze me in time, sealing me away for more than thirty long years. They did it to protect Fódlan, to save the world from my madness."

He lowered his gaze, vulnerability leaking through the cracks in his usually impenetrable facade. "When I woke again, the world had changed dramatically. I learned of your father—Byleth, the man who now possessed everything I'd longed for... acceptance, love, power, and respect. Truthfully… it drove me to jealousy. I saw in Byleth everything I could have become if only I'd controlled my fear. If I'd resisted the darkness, perhaps I'd be standing where he is now, still respected and beloved. Instead, I let my fears control me, destroying everything I once cherished."

The heavy silence stretched between them. Clainsiia gently squeezed his hand again, her touch warm and comforting. Her voice, gentle yet firm, broke softly through his anguish. "Kazamir, I know what you've done is terrible. But deep down, I know you're not truly evil. You've suffered greatly, and you've allowed that pain to consume you. But I believe there's still good in you, and I'm not going to give up on you. You're not a failure, and you never were."

Ashen gazed deeply at Clainsiia, his molten eyes shimmering with a complex mixture of sadness, confusion, and deep gratitude. Her words pierced his hardened heart, reaching the broken fragments of humanity he'd believed forever lost. Yet his voice trembled softly with doubt. "But what can I do? How can I possibly make up for everything I've done?"

Clainsiia took a deep breath, determination radiating gently from her young yet brave spirit. Her voice was steady, strong with conviction and empathy. "You can start by letting go of your anger and hatred. You may not be able to change the past, but you can change who you are now. Begin by forgiving yourself. It won't be easy, but it's necessary. Focus on the future and strive to become a better person. You can't undo the wrongs, but you can work toward redemption… and you can stop this war you've started."

Ashen fell silent, his gaze shifting away from her, staring quietly into the shadowed depths of the tomb. Turmoil filled him uncertainty, regret, the fragile hope she'd planted in his heart. His mind spun chaotically, battling between self-hatred and the faint possibility of redemption... but one thing really hit his mind. Something he... would have no choice. 

Clainsiia watched him carefully, worry creeping steadily into her eyes, sensing the depth of his internal struggle. Her voice, soft yet concerned, gently broke the heavy silence. "Is everything okay?"

Ashen drew in a shaky breath, voice quiet yet distant, clearly overwhelmed. "I need to be alone."

Respecting his wish, though deeply concerned, Clainsiia slowly released his hand. Her expression reflected quiet understanding, empathy, and worry for his emotional well-being. Without another word, she carefully ascended the stone steps, leaving him alone in the silent tomb.

Left alone in the darkness, Ashen stood motionless, his molten eyes fixed painfully on his trembling hands. They were stained with the blood of countless lives—especially those who didn't deserve to die. Each memory, each face haunted him relentlessly. Pain, regret, and sorrow weighed unbearably on his heart, crushing him beneath their suffocating weight.

Another thought gripped him tightly—a realization that felt chilling, inevitable, and final. The words escaped his lips softly, despairingly, echoing quietly in the oppressive stillness, "It's too late… far too late."

Chapter Text

The Adrestian Empire was still marching. The air was thick with the sounds of shifting armor, creaking wagon wheels, and the measured rhythm of countless footsteps pounding steadily against the dirt road. Morning sunlight bathed the field in a warm gold, stretching long shadows across the path ahead as the banners of the Black Eagle flapped proudly in the wind.

Byleth, Shez, and Edelgard were at the front lines, leading their troops through the expansive terrain that lay between them and Garreg Mach. The mood was tense, each step bringing them closer to a confrontation they all dreaded yet were compelled to face. Amid the clanking of armor and the distant calls of orders, Shez seemed lost in thought, her gaze distant, her mind clearly elsewhere.

Byleth, ever observant, noticed Shez's preoccupation. The battlefield was not a place for distractions, and yet he understood the weight of the decisions resting on each of their shoulders. He leaned slightly towards her, his voice low so as not to disturb the other commanders. "Shez, you seem deep in thought. What's on your mind?"

Shez looked at Byleth, her expression solemn. There was a pause, a moment where the noise of the march seemed to fade into the background, and she took a deep breath before speaking. "Do you remember when you asked me what I planned to do after the war?"

Byleth nodded, his gaze steady. He remembered the conversation well; it had been a rare moment of peace amidst chaos, a time when the future seemed both uncertain and full of potential.

Shez continued, her voice tinged with a seriousness that matched the gravity of their march. "I’ve thought about it a lot... And I think I've made my decision, but it’s not an easy one."

Edelgard, who had been listening in while keeping an eye on the formation of their troops, turned her attention fully towards Shez. The offer she had made was significant, not just for Clainsiia but for the future of the Empire. She encouraged her, "It’s alright, Shez. You can tell us."

Taking another deep breath, Shez looked between Byleth and Edelgard, her resolve firming. "Edelgard, you offered me the position of being Clainsiia's personal trainer... I am deeply honored by your trust. But," she paused, choosing her next words carefully, "after all this, Clainsiia should just be a kid for a while."

Edelgard and Byleth blinked in unison, taken aback by her response. It was a perspective they had considered but had not fully embraced, caught up as they were in preparations for the future.

Shez elaborated, "I understand the importance of making her strong, of preparing her for what lies ahead as the ruler of the Adrestian Empire. But she also deserves a chance to live without the weight of the crown, even if just for a little while."

Edelgard listened, her expression thoughtful. The silence that followed was reflective, with each contemplating the implications of what Shez proposed. After a moment, the empress nodded slowly. "I see your point, Shez. It’s important for Clainsiia to have a childhood. However, we must also prepare her for the responsibilities that come with her position."

The discussion was quiet but intense, underlined by the constant march of their army around them. The rhythmic sound of metal boots against the earth, the creak of wagon wheels, and the murmured commands of officers painted a backdrop of urgency and momentum. Yet, within the steady motion of the Adrestian Empire’s march toward Garreg Mach, time seemed to slow around the three who led them.

Edelgard continued, her voice low but firm, tinged with both resolve and reluctant concession. "Perhaps there’s a balance we can strike. While she enjoys her childhood, we can introduce her gradually to her future responsibilities."

Shez nodded, the motion subtle but filled with meaning. Her eyes, sharp yet sincere, met Edelgard's gaze with quiet understanding. "I understand your concerns," she said softly, her voice steady but layered with emotion. "And I want to help in the best way I can. I know how important Clainsiia’s future is to you both… to the Empire. But I also think it’s just as important that she finds balance. Between duty and joy. Between responsibility and simply... being a child."

Edelgard’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, thoughtful, but Shez wasn’t finished. "She’s seven years old," Shez said, her tone soft but firm. “Still so young. A child. And from what I’ve seen or heard of her—she’s curious, bright, a little stubborn, and a whole lot of heart. She’s got the makings of a strong leader someday. But let her grow into it. Let her learn to laugh freely, to fall, to cry, to explore. Let her be.”

Byleth, walking slightly behind them, glanced toward Shez, quietly absorbing her words. His expression was unreadable at first, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of agreement.

"And… truthfully?" Shez continued, her voice lowering as her eyes turned distant, as if she were pulling a piece of herself from the past. "I never really had a childhood either. Not after… well, not after I became who I am now. My only moments of peace, the only real memories that felt like being a kid, were with Berling. Just tiny fragments in between running, fighting, surviving."

Shez looked up at Edelgard again, meeting her eyes unflinchingly. "I don’t want that for Clainsiia. Or for Jeralt. I’ll train her—when she’s older. Fourteen, maybe. When she’s ready to understand what that training means. If you want me to train your son too someday, then it’ll be the same. No sooner."

Edelgard thought about her words. She and Byleth did want their daughter to be strong, yes, but Shez made a compelling point. Edelgard herself never truly had a childhood, instead she was subjected to experiments while her siblings succumbed to similar fates. Byleth's life had been shaped by the demands of being a mercenary—though he embraced his path, there were times he pondered what might have been had his childhood been different. It wasn't just their daughter, but their son should also enjoy a childhood, especially after everything was settled.

Edelgard nodded thoughtfully, the weight of her crown and responsibilities momentarily taking a back seat to her role as a mother. "I understand your point, Shez. I want my children to be prepared for the future, but I don't want to sacrifice their childhoods for it. And I agree, Jeralt should also have a childhood. We'll wait until they're both a bit older before we consider any intensive training."

Byleth, who had been listening intently, added his thoughts, his voice firm yet wrapped in the warmth of a father's love. "They will have time to be children. They deserve that much—a chance to live without the burden of their heritage looming over every moment. We’ll ensure it."

Shez's expression softened, a smile gracing her features, reflecting her relief and gratitude. "Thank you," she said sincerely. "I appreciate your understanding. And I promise, when the time comes, I will do my best to train Clainsiia. Until then, I don't mind serving as a general in your army. After all, being a mercenary is all I've known, and it's where I can contribute most effectively right now."

The wind stirred softly across the open plain as their conversation settled into a thoughtful silence. Byleth nodded with quiet approval, and Edelgard gave Shez a rare, warm smile—one that spoke not only of agreement, but of trust, and something deeper… familial respect.

Overhead, unseen by mortal eyes, and hovering gently in the sky above the marching army. Arval stood slightly behind Sothis. His eyes watched Shez with an expression both protective and proud, while Sothis, arms folded, gazed downward at Byleth and Edelgard with an expression that blended wistful sadness and profound admiration.

After a quiet moment, Arval turned slightly toward her. "You're thinking about something," he said softly. "I can tell. What is it?"

Sothis didn’t respond immediately. Her emerald eyes lingered on Byleth, watching him speak quietly with Edelgard. Then she looked to Shez, the purple-haired mercenary whose very existence defied the rules of fate. Finally, in a soft voice laden with vulnerability, she spoke. “Seeing Byleth… what he’s become… how he’s grown and how he’s loved—it’s something I never truly expected. From the moment I first awoke within him, I saw only potential, but… I never imagined the depth of what he would be blessed with. A family. A future. A daughter who…” She hesitated, her voice trembling faintly, “a daughter who wants only to help someone lost in the darkness find their way again.”

Her gaze grew distant. “Mortals are… truly something. So fragile. So fleeting. Yet their hearts—gods, their hearts are fierce beyond reason. And their bonds? Stronger than any divine power I could ever bestow.”

Arval was quiet for a moment, watching her with calm reverence. Then he gave a faint smile, rare and genuine. “It’s funny,” he said gently, “I’ve had similar thoughts lately.” He reflected on his journey with Shez, a ride that had started back to help her ancestor. Although her ancestor died by Arval's father, he found solace and purpose in watching over the bloodline. “Being by Shez's side, calling her my best friend—it’s more than I could have ever expected from my existence. I'm grateful, truly.”

Sothis smiled at his words, turning her gaze back towards Edelgard, Byleth, and Shez. "The bond of mortals, no matter what challenges they face, can be remarkably enduring," she remarked, her voice filled with a blend of wonder and respect.

As the army moved forward, the day eventually gave way to evening, and the troops made camp. Around a fire, the group gathered, each lost in their own thoughts about the future. The silence around the fire was heavy, filled with the weight of unspoken plans and dreams for life after the war.

Shez broke the silence. “So, what are you guys planning on doing once the war is over?” Her voice was casual, but the question hung heavily in the air, settling like a mist over the quiet circle of friends and comrades. The fire crackled softly between them, its flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows on tired faces and weathered armor. For a while, no one answered. The question wasn’t simple. Not now. Not after everything they had been through. Not when they didn’t even know who would still be standing when it was all over.

Silence lingered, thick with the weight of hopes too fragile to voice and futures too uncertain to dream. It was Shamir who finally broke it. “I have a lot of things to do after this,” she said, her voice low but steady, gaze fixed somewhere in the distance beyond the fire. “Not just mercenary work… but just a bit of redeeming myself.”

Leonie looked over at her, nodding in quiet understanding before speaking up herself. “I’ll still be running Captain Jeralt’s mercenary group,” she said, her voice tinged with both pride and melancholy. “But… I’m thinking of hiring a new member.” She cast a glance at Byleth, who tilted his head slightly with a faint smile.

“Oh?” Byleth asked, his tone light despite the weariness in his eyes. “Who are you thinking of?”

There was a pause. Then someone cleared their throat and everyone turned as Yuri, sitting quietly near the edge of the firelight, gave a small smirk. “That’d be me,” he said, brushing his silvery bangs from his eyes. “I’ll be joining for a bit.”

Bernadetta blinked in surprise. “But… what about the Ashen Wolves? Aren’t you their leader?”

Yuri nodded, his expression softening. “They’ll be fine. I made sure to keep them out of this war. They don’t need to be dragged into all this bloodshed. For their safety, of course.”

“I see,” Linhardt murmured, glancing into the flames. “As for me... well, I plan to keep studying. Magic, history, maybe even politics.” He smirked slightly. “But mostly, I’ll keep teaching students. They should rise on their own merit—not by bloodlines or crests. I want to make sure that world exists.”

Petra, who had been quietly holding Caspar’s hand, gave a gentle smile. “Caspar and I will be returning to Brigid,” she said softly.

Caspar gave a sheepish grin, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, and I’m thinking… I might hold off on fighting for a while.”

Everyone around the campfire turned their heads toward him, shocked into silence. The night breeze seemed to still in response. Even the flickering flames of the campfire crackled a little softer, as though absorbing the weight of his words.

Linhardt looked up abruptly, his normally drowsy expression sharpened by concern. “Caspar… are you alright?”

Caspar let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, Linhardt. I’m more than alright.” His eyes turned toward Petra, who smiled softly, squeezing his hand. He looked back at the group, his voice more serious now—thoughtful in a way rarely seen from the bold brawler. “I’ve done a lot of thinking during this war. Fought too many battles. Seen too much death. And… I don’t want my kid to grow up only hearing stories about their father the fighter. I want them to know me. To have me there.”

Edelgard, gently cradling her sleeping son, looked over at him with raised brows. “That… doesn’t sound like the Caspar I know.”

Caspar gave her a lopsided grin, eyes flicking toward Petra for a moment. “Well, I guess I’ve changed. Because I’m gonna be a father.”

A collective breath seemed to pass through the fire circle—quiet gasps, stunned glances, and then an outpouring of warmth. Petra leaned her head on Caspar’s shoulder, her eyes glowing with quiet pride.

Caspar continued, his voice steadier than ever. “I want to raise my kid the way my old man raised me. Teach them to be strong, kind, and brave. And yeah… when they’re older, I’ll train them. I won’t throw them into the world unprepared. But I want them to have more than just combat. I want them to have a life.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Byleth, ever the calm center, looked toward another pair seated nearby. His gaze settled on Ferdinand and Marianne, who sat side by side, their shoulders brushing gently in the firelight. “Ferdinand. Marianne,” Byleth asked, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “what are you two going to do after all this?”

Ferdinand straightened up, his chest puffing with typical dramatic flair. “We intend to get married.”

Marianne blushed furiously, hiding half her face behind her sleeve. “F-Ferdinand!”

Ferdinand smiled, unwavering. “It’s true. I’ve already received the blessing of her adoptive father, and I will not wait another moment longer than I must. Once peace is restored, I shall devote my days to keep on helping House Edmund, and perhaps House Aegir as well. And in recognition of her wisdom and grace, I am considering commissioning a statue of her—bronze, of course! Nothing but the finest—”

“No!” Marianne nearly wailed, burying her face in her hands. “Please, Ferdinand, no statues!”

Laughter rippled through the group, warm and light, momentarily easing the burden on their hearts.

Ashe’s smile was soft and fond as he looked over at the couple. “I’ll be staying by Ingrid’s side,” he said, his voice quieter, but full of heartfelt sincerity. “House Galatea is in need of stability, and I want to help her however I can. She’s given so much to Fódlan… It’s time she had someone by her side who can help carry the weight.”

Ingrid, seated beside him, nodded with regal poise. “It won’t be easy.  But… I look forward to the challenge of ruling. And with Ashe beside me, I think I can make it work.”

Then, Lysithea spoke, her voice clear and determined as always. “I’ll continue my work instituting classes, and reshaping how the people understand power. Crests should no longer define a person’s worth. Titles shouldn’t, either. I’ve been called The Wisdom of the Empire—and if that’s true, then I plan to use that title to ensure independence and education flourish.”

She turned her gaze toward Edelgard, a hint of warmth in her scholarly demeanor. “When Jeralt and Clainsiia are older… I’d like to take them as my personal students.”

Edelgard, still gently rocking Jeralt, looked up at Lysithea, thoughtful. The idea tugged at her—education instead of drills. Knowledge instead of endless orders. Her gaze softened.

“I wouldn’t mind that at all, Lysithea,” Edelgard said with a rare, gentle smile. “Not one bit.”

Bernadetta, peeking out from behind Linhardt, offered a shy smile. “I think… I’ll be sticking with Linhardt. Maybe help out at the Officers Academy whenever I can. Y’know… in the back. Away from the front lines. But… I want to help shape the next generation, too. Quietly. From the shadows.” That drew chuckles, and even Linhardt gave her a fond look, lightly nudging her shoulder.

Then Shez turned her gaze toward Claude, narrowing her eyes just slightly, though the edge in her voice had softened. “What about you, Claude? What are you going to do?”

Claude leaned forward slightly from where he sat near the fire, his expression shadowed by the flickering orange light. The usual glimmer of mischief in his golden eyes was dimmed, replaced by a quiet sobriety that caught Shez off guard. He looked at her for a moment, as though weighing his words. Then he gave a small, tired smile—soft, not smug. The kind that carried weight. “With Nader gone... Almyra will need a leader.”

Shez’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. She hadn’t expected that answer. She’d half-expected Claude to mention teaching, traveling, scheming his way into some strange new project—but this? This was something else. “You’re... going back?” she asked softly, tilting her head, her violet gaze searching his.

Claude nodded, a seriousness in his demeanor that was rarely seen. “I can’t stay here and let my people back home be leaderless. Thanks to us, Almyra has finally made peace with Fódlan.”

Edelgard cleared her throat, adding her perspective. “And by ‘us,’ you mean Byleth and me as well. It was our joint effort that helped forge this peace. We believed they should be peaceful and respectful neighbors.”

“That’s true,” Claude admitted, his eyes flickering briefly with his usual spark of mischief. “But who was the one who really talked to the people and gained their trust?” He shot a pointed look at Byleth and Edelgard, who exchanged a knowing glance. Claude had them there.

Byleth conceded with a slight nod and a soft chuckle. “Alright, you got us there.”

Claude then turned his attention to Shez. “And what about you, Shez? What are your plans?”

Shez shrugged slightly, a thoughtful frown crossing her features. “I’ll stick around the Empire for a while. When the princess is older, I’ll train her in combat. That’s the plan, at least.”

As the night drew on, everyone eventually retired to their tents, seeking rest after a day filled with heavy contemplation and plans for the future. Inside their tent, Byleth and Edelgard sat quietly, their son Jeralt nestled comfortably between them. The conversation about their plans after the war had shifted into a more contemplative, even somber mood.

Edelgard looked particularly troubled, her eyes distant as she held Jeralt close. Byleth, ever attuned to her moods, reached out, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. “What’s on your mind, El?” he asked softly.

Edelgard’s gaze remained fixed on the small form of their son as she spoke. “Everyone knows what they’re going to do after all of this. But I can’t help but wonder about those we’ve lost. Dorothea, Hubert, Lorenz, Ignatz, Felix, and Jeritza… What would they have done next?”

Byleth’s hand tightened slightly on her shoulder, offering a silent strength. “Dorothea, with her passion for the arts, may have continued to inspire through her performances and advocate for social causes. Hubert, with his unwavering loyalty, might have found new ways to serve the Empire, ensuring our children’s future was secure. Lorenz would have dedicated himself to his duties as the leader of House Gloucester, bringing prosperity to his people.”

His voice softened as he continued, painting a picture of a future that could have been. “Ignatz, with his artistic talent and love for nature, might have become an influential artist or worked towards preserving the beauty of the world. Felix, driven by his pursuit of strength, would have likely continued to hone his skills, perhaps even teaching others. And Jeritza… he might have sought redemption, striving to atone for his past actions and finding a new purpose in life.”

Byleth looked deeply into Edelgard’s eyes, his voice filled with empathy and reassurance. “While we can only speculate, I believe their spirits will live on in the hearts and minds of those who fought alongside them. We will carry their memories with us and continue the fight for the world we want our children to inherit.”

Edelgard’s gaze lingered on his face, her eyes reflecting the faint glow of the oil lamp burning beside them. Silence fell between them for a moment, broken only by the soft, steady breathing of their infant son nestled peacefully in her arms. She gently stroked Jeralt’s cheek with her thumb, her hand trembling ever so slightly as she did. The soft skin beneath her touch grounded her—but her thoughts were already far away.

Her voice came quietly at first, but grew stronger with every word. “You’re right… they fought alongside us. Not just as soldiers, but as believers. They gave themselves completely to what we were trying to build—to a future they knew they might never see.” She paused, emotion thickening her throat. “Dorothea, Hubert, Felix… Ignatz… they didn’t hesitate, not for a moment. They gave everything.”

She exhaled slowly, her grip on Jeralt tightening just enough to make her arms tremble. "Their memories... they’ll never leave me. We will carry each of them with us. And I will make sure their sacrifices were not in vain.”

Her eyes turned downward, focused now on the little soul in her arms, his soft white hair already beginning to curl slightly, like hers. “They did all of this… not only to get our kids back... but that Jeralt and Clainsiia could inherit a better world. And I will not fail them.” Her voice grew stronger, firmer, laced with steel beneath the pain. “No matter what it takes, I’ll build that world. For him. For her.”

The firelight in their tent danced gently across Edelgard’s pale features, catching in her eyes as she stared at her son—eyes that shimmered not only with love, but with a brewing storm of thoughts too heavy to keep in silence. She held Jeralt a little tighter, then looked up slowly, her expression shifting—less certainty now, more doubt, more wonder, and something else. Something far more complicated. “…Byleth,” she began softly, her tone distant, her words hesitant as if stepping onto thin ice. “What about Ashen?”

Byleth pondered the question, the implications heavy in his mind. Clainsiia's determination to see the good in Ashen, her belief in his potential for change, it was all so reminiscent of the hopes one places in a star fading in the dawn—fleeting and distant. "I don't know," he admitted honestly, his voice a low murmur lost among the soft rustling of the tent fabric. "If Clainsiia is still alive, then maybe… just maybe, she can help Ashen see that remaining shard of good within him."

Edelgard paused, absorbing his words, her gaze drifting away to an unseen point as she remembered her own interactions with Ashen. How her daughter’s innocent questions seemed to momentarily unravel the hard edges of the world-weary tyrant. She recalled telling Ashen that Clainsiia sees the good in him, that despite everything, their daughter believed in his humanity. “Byleth,” she said, her voice stronger now, pulling from the depths of her resolve. “If Ashen truly has regrets, what then? What do we do if the god we’ve battled turns out to have humanity in him?”

Byleth didn’t respond immediately. The question hung in the tent like smoke—thick, hard to ignore, and heavier than either of them wanted to admit. He looked at her for a long moment, studying her expression: the way the firelight carved shadows along her cheekbones, the soft flicker of vulnerability behind her crimson eyes, the quiet strength in her grip around Jeralt’s small form. "If he feels true remorse," Byleth said at last, his voice calm and steady, "then I see no reason to chastise someone who already carries the weight of his guilt." His hand gently reached over, brushing a strand of her white hair behind her ear.

Edelgard paused, deep in thought. She looked at their son, cradled so gently in her arms, and contemplated the complexities of Ashen's actions and the possibility of his redemption. She gathered her thoughts, still holding Jeralt close, then turned to Byleth with a mix of concern and contemplation. "Yet... Ashen has caused immense pain and suffering. He has taken lives, many of whom were our friends, and his involvement in this war cannot be ignored. But..." She paused, searching for the right words. "I can't help but feel a sense of complexity when it comes to Ashen. Our daughter may have seen glimpses of good, but if there is even a sliver of a chance that he can find his way back to the light, should we not consider it?"

She tightened her grip on their son, her voice filled with a mix of hope and uncertainty. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Not everyone will like this. Many will want Ashen imprisoned, or worse, executed for his crimes." Edelgard shifted her gaze back to Byleth, her expression resolute yet weary from the burden of leadership. "All of Fódlan will look to us, to you, to decide his fate. Even if it means... not hearing our daughter out." The weight of her words hung heavy between them, a testament to the difficult decisions that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Ashen wandered beyond the walls of Garreg Mach Monastery, still deep in reflection about the conversation he'd shared with Clainsiia the previous day. The heavy truth of his past lingered painfully in his thoughts, each step forward feeling burdened by the weight of memories, regrets, and the fragile hope she had planted within him.

His molten-orange eyes drifted thoughtfully over the landscape, the gentle morning sunlight softly illuminating the distant hills, painting them in gold and amber hues. It seemed so peaceful—so serene. Yet, Ashen knew beneath the tranquility lay scars he himself had inflicted upon this land. Lost in thought, his gaze drifted downward, noticing something peculiar upon the ground near his path—smithing stones scattered haphazardly amidst the grass.

Curiosity stirred within him, momentarily distracting him from his turmoil. Reaching down, Ashen picked up one of the smithing stones, examining it carefully within his scaly palm. The stone felt oddly comforting in its simplicity and practicality, evoking memories of a time when such tools symbolized creation and growth rather than destruction.

His gaze shifted slowly toward the ring adorning his scaled finger. Summoning his sword with practiced ease, Ashen stared thoughtfully at the blade shimmering faintly in the morning sun. A thought struck him gently—perhaps it was time he crafted something new, but not for himself.

Yet his contemplation was interrupted by the distant creaking of a wagon, followed closely by a woman's voice echoing clearly through the quiet morning air. Her tone was unmistakably frustrated, carrying traces of irritation mixed with a hint of weariness. Driven by curiosity, Ashen quietly moved toward the source of the noise, stepping silently into the cover of nearby bushes.

Peering carefully through the leaves, he spotted the woman clearly—a merchant by appearance, her fiery red hair tied back neatly in a stylish ponytail. She paced irritably beside her wagon, muttering complaints loudly to herself. “If this stupid war didn't happen, my finest wares would've already sold, and I'd be rich!” she grumbled bitterly. “I bet that so-called 'god' causing all this trouble isn’t even tough—probably just a showboat looking for attention!”

She abruptly halted her wagon, pausing to gather her composure, clearly attempting a pep talk. “Alright, Anna the traveling merchant,” she muttered determinedly. “You've got this. You've done this countless times before—even your sisters manage it effortlessly. Just keep moving.”

Ashen, intrigued yet amused by her fiery demeanor, stepped quietly from the bushes, his massive form towering ominously behind her as his deep voice echoed with mild curiosity. “Am I really just a showboat?”

Anna spun around sharply, her eyes widening instantly in terror upon seeing Ashen’s imposing figure looming before her. Her gaze traveled quickly across his monstrous form—the obsidian scales glistening darkly, his sharp claws, his molten eyes burning softly, and fiery crimson hair cascading gently down his shoulders.

A fearful cry escaped her lips, heart racing violently within her chest as panic surged quickly through her. “Ahh! Oh, goddess—I-I mean… yes! Yes, you are!” she stammered nervously, quickly correcting herself in desperation. “No, wait—I didn't mean it like that, I'm so sorry!”

Anna squeezed her eyes shut tightly, trembling in fear, her mind already resigned to her imminent death. “J-just make it quick,” she whispered softly, bracing for the fatal blow.

Yet the anticipated attack never came. Instead, she heard footsteps softly walking away from her. Hesitantly, she cracked her eyes open, stunned to see Ashen calmly examining her wagon with genuine curiosity rather than hostility.

“What do you sell?” he asked casually, voice filled with genuine interest rather than menace.

Anna stared at him, mouth agape with confusion, her heart still pounding anxiously yet now for a different reason. Scrambling to find coherent words, she finally replied hesitantly, “I… uh… I sell only the finest wares!”

Ashen tilted his head thoughtfully, considering her response carefully. "I'm looking for armor."

Anna blinked in surprise, quickly regaining her composure, admitting somewhat sheepishly, “I don't usually sell armor, but let me see what I have.”

She hurriedly climbed into the wagon, rummaging hastily through crates and barrels, her curiosity overriding her initial fear. Attempting casual conversation, she called cautiously, "So… are you from Nohr or Hoshido? I have sisters who do business there—we all look practically identical. Well, except the youngest; she's still just a kid."

Ashen stared blankly, his expression puzzled, unfamiliar with the places mentioned. "I've never heard of those lands," he admitted, voice thoughtful yet dismissive. "I just need something suitable."

Anna realized her assumption had been incorrect, and she quickly resumed her search. Eventually, she produced a small armor cuff, beautifully crafted and bearing the emblem of the Adrestian Empire. Holding it out for Ashen’s inspection, she offered tentatively, "Well, I don't have any full armor, but I do have this armor cuff. It might not provide full protection, but it's stylish at least."

Ashen examined the cuff thoughtfully, considering its potential. Deciding swiftly, he knelt upon the ground, placing the smithing stones before him. He raised his hands, and the stones immediately floated, arranging themselves neatly. Breathing a soft stream of flame mixed with a burst of electricity, Ashen fused the stones effortlessly into a single blade, forming a sword that gleamed gently in the soft morning sunlight.

Anna stared in utter astonishment, barely able to process the spectacle before her eyes. "What in the world…" she murmured softly, completely awed by his power.

Ashen continued his careful work, a gentle misty green energy emanating softly from him, swirling elegantly around the newly formed blade. The armor cuff floated gently into the air, Ashen skillfully guiding it with threads of electricity, merging it smoothly with the blade.

Yet suddenly, the sword disappeared entirely, leaving only the cuff behind. Without hesitation, Ashen used his own claws to cut a small wound into his scaled palm. As his scales rapidly healed, a single drop of blood fell onto the cuff, instantly causing the emblem to glow brightly.

Anna watched breathlessly as the emblem shifted dramatically—its colors transforming from Adrestian red and gold into a pure, radiant white paired with vibrant, shimmering green. The imperial eagle was replaced swiftly with the unmistakable shape of the Crest of Flames.

Satisfied, Ashen gently caught the cuff, turning calmly toward Anna, voice quiet yet firm, "How much?"

Anna stared silently, stunned by everything she'd witnessed, before quickly regaining her merchant-like composure. Smiling nervously yet warmly, she replied gently, "For you, my scaly friend, a special discount—five hundred gold."

Ashen nodded quietly, reaching calmly into his bag to retrieve the payment, handing it gently to Anna. His voice softened thoughtfully, hinting subtly at dreams he still carried. "If I live through this war, perhaps I'll visit those lands you mentioned someday."

Without another word, Ashen stretched his massive wings, launching gracefully into the morning sky, flying swiftly back toward Garreg Mach Monastery. Anna remained behind, gazing upward in stunned wonder, heart still racing yet curiosity and awe quickly overwhelming her fear.

"Who... who is he?" she murmured softly, excitement gradually replacing her anxiety. "I've got to tell my sisters this story—they'll never believe it."
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Back at the monastery, Ashen stood at the northern side of the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the cathedral building, lost in thought. A palpable sadness weighed on his heart, yet he couldn't bring himself to speak of it, much like a child who keeps their troubles hidden.

Meanwhile, Clainsiia, who had been summoned by Ashen, noticed his unusual silence after their previous conversation. Concerned, she approached him slowly, her footsteps soft against the stone path. Her voice was gentle, laced with a genuine concern that could only come from someone who truly cared. "Kazamir... are you okay?"

Ashen slowly turned his head, the molten glow in his eyes dimmer than usual, shadowed by something heavy and deeply buried. He met her emerald eyes, reflecting their innocent warmth and genuine worry. After a quiet pause, he nodded slightly, his expression carefully masking the storm within. "Yes... I'm fine."

Yet even as he said it, Clainsiia could sense it wasn't true. Before she could press further, however, Ashen’s voice quietly continued, carrying a softer tone now, gently beckoning her forward. "I have a gift for you. Please extend your right arm."

Perplexed yet obedient, Clainsiia stepped closer, extending her small, delicate arm. Ashen knelt quietly before her, his large, clawed hand gently handing her an armor cuff. At first glance, the cuff was far too large, designed clearly for someone far older and stronger. "Kazamir," she murmured softly, confusion gently filling her voice, "it's too big for me."

Ashen's expression remained calm, his voice soothing and patient. "Be patient. Watch."

Clainsiia’s emerald eyes widened in amazement as the cuff, glowing faintly with an ethereal green light, began adjusting itself seamlessly around her arm. The metal tightened gently, forming perfectly to fit her arm without discomfort or heaviness. Her gaze was quickly drawn toward the emblem now proudly displayed upon it—a familiar symbol. The Crest of Flames.

"Kazamir..." she breathed softly, recognition brightening her eyes. "You... you crafted this for me?"

Ashen nodded quietly, a faint warmth softening his usually impassive features. "Yes, child. Now, I want you to imagine holding a sword."

Intrigued yet uncertain, Clainsiia obediently closed her eyes, focusing intently. Immediately, she felt something solid materialize within her grip, startling her with its sudden weight. She opened her eyes quickly, but the blade was too heavy for her young strength, instantly dropping to the ground with a sharp clang. Yet the sword itself was breathtaking—a beautiful white blade marked clearly by the Crest of Flames. Its hilt wrapped in soft, vibrant green leather, the design unmistakably resembling her father's Sword of the Creator.

Before she could voice her awe, the sword was enveloped by a gentle green glow, bathing the courtyard in soft emerald light. Clainsiia stared, completely amazed, barely able to find words. "Kazamir... how did you make this?"

Ashen regarded the sword thoughtfully, voice gentle yet tinged with a subtle sadness. "I crafted it from smithing stones... and from the goodness that remains within me. Only you and I can wield this sword, Clainsiia."

Curiosity bubbled immediately within her, eyes sparkling brightly with intrigue. "How can only we wield it?"

Ashen’s voice softened further, growing reflective and sorrowful. "Inside this sword resides what little remains of my humanity. My own blood mix with Sothis' resides within it, and because you now carry the Crest of Flames—"

"Like father and Sothis," Clainsiia interjected excitedly, eyes shining with youthful wonder and comprehension.

Ashen shook his head slowly, a soft, gentle sadness lingering in his molten-orange eyes. His voice held quiet regret, tempered by sincerity. "Not exactly, child. But similar. I crafted this sword not only from the smithing stones and my blood but also as an apology—an apology for what I've done... for accidentally killing you."

Clainsiia’s expression softened, the innocent excitement quickly fading into thoughtful contemplation as she quietly absorbed his words. Her emerald eyes shimmered gently with understanding, recognizing the weight of Ashen’s sincere remorse. "Kazamir," she murmured softly, compassion filling her voice, "you didn't mean for that to happen."

Ashen nodded slowly, still burdened heavily by his guilt. His gaze drifted toward the sun rising steadily over the monastery, bathing its ancient stones in a warm, golden glow. The gentle morning sunlight illuminated his features, highlighting the quiet sorrow etched deeply into his scales. "Regardless, Clainsiia, it was my responsibility. I cannot change the past, but I crafted this sword so that you can defend yourself. As you grow older, you'll wield it with greater proficiency, and hopefully, it will remind you to always choose a better path than I did."

He turned his gaze back toward her, sensing a lingering unease within himself, something still troubling his thoughts deeply. Quietly, Ashen’s voice softened further, warm yet somber. "Come, walk with me."

Clainsiia nodded gently, sensing the seriousness within his voice, and silently fell into step beside him. They strolled slowly through the monastery grounds, passing quiet courtyards, ancient stone arches, and gently swaying trees whose leaves whispered softly in the breeze. As they walked in silence, Ashen decided it was time—time to impart a valuable lesson, one that could shape her future and perhaps spare her from repeating his mistakes.

Gently breaking the quiet, Ashen’s deep, resonant voice softly commanded her attention. "Clainsiia, today I am going to teach you an important lesson—perhaps one of the most important you will ever learn."

Her emerald eyes sparkled with curiosity and anticipation, immediately intrigued by his sudden resolve to teach. She eagerly nodded in agreement, always hungry for wisdom. "I'd like that very much, Kazamir."

Yet before diving fully into the lesson, Ashen paused thoughtfully, needing to understand her perspective. His gaze softened with quiet contemplation as he turned toward her, gently yet firmly asking, "Tell me, child, when you chose to stay behind and remain at my side, did you consider the consequences?"

Clainsiia hesitated briefly, her youthful features reflecting quiet thoughtfulness and sincerity. She met his gaze directly, her voice gentle yet firm, tinged softly with the understanding of someone wise beyond her years. "I did think it through. I knew my life could be at risk—but I believed it was the right thing to do. I wanted to understand you better, Kazamir, and help you find your way back to who you truly are."

Ashen slowly nodded, unsurprised by her honest response, admiration quietly flickering within his molten gaze. A faint, gentle smile formed on his lips—warm and filled with pride at her bravery and maturity. "I'm not surprised by your answer. But allow me to share something with you—something I learned when I was young."

Clainsiia watched attentively, her emerald eyes wide and focused, eager to hear his story. Ashen’s voice softened with distant memory, carrying traces of nostalgia, warmth, and gentle respect. "Long ago, I had a good friend named Seteth. He taught me about paths—about how each choice we make in life can lead us toward blessings or severe consequences."

He paused momentarily, ensuring the weight of those words settled deeply into the young princess’s heart. Clainsiia’s expression turned serious, thoughtful, carefully absorbing his wisdom.

Quietly continuing, Ashen’s voice deepened with gentle intensity and sincerity. "Life is filled with countless choices—some seemingly insignificant at the time, yet with far-reaching effects. It's crucial, Clainsiia, to consider the consequences of your actions—not just how they affect yourself, but how they impact those around you."

He gently gestured toward the sprawling lands beyond the monastery walls, his molten gaze softening with deep concern. "As you grow older, you'll face many decisions—some with significant implications for the people you care about and this land we call home—a land you may someday rule. It's essential to think beyond the present moment, to reflect on the long-term effects of your choices."

His voice trembled softly, vulnerability coloring his words as he gently confessed, "It's something I didn't do, Clainsiia—and I'm sharing this because I never want you to become like me."

Clainsiia listened carefully, absorbing his heartfelt wisdom deeply into her heart. She gazed up at him thoughtfully, voice gentle yet uncertain. "But how do I know which choices lead to blessings and which bring consequences?"

Ashen carefully considered her question, gazing thoughtfully into the peaceful ambiance of the courtyard, the gentle sunlight warming their surroundings. Quietly, with a tone tempered by experience and genuine care, he responded, "Life is unpredictable, child. No one can ever predict the exact outcome of their decisions. Yet you can carefully consider potential consequences before acting."

He paused momentarily, taking another slow, deep breath before continuing gently. "As you grow older, you'll encounter choices that shape your future and the lives of others—decisions about alliances, conflicts, personal matters. The key, Clainsiia, is to reflect deeply on how each choice aligns with your values and consider carefully its impact on those you care about."

He knelt slowly before her, placing a gentle yet firm hand upon her small shoulder. His voice trembled softly, filled with genuine emotion and heartfelt sincerity. "Promise me, Clainsiia—promise you'll strive to be better than I was. Don’t let pride, fear, anger, or delusion blind you, or you'll risk losing who you truly are."

Clainsiia hesitated briefly, her emerald eyes shimmering with conflicting emotions—uncertainty, compassion, determination. Yet, ultimately, resolve shone clearly in her gaze. Quietly, with sincere earnestness, she softly whispered, "I... I promise, Kazamir."

Satisfied deeply with her heartfelt commitment, Ashen rose slowly to his feet, giving her a faint, genuine smile. "Good. Now, let's continue our walk."

Together, they resumed their slow stroll, silence falling comfortably between them. Clainsiia’s thoughtful reflection deepened as she carefully considered his wisdom. Yet, after a few moments, she suddenly realized she’d walked ahead slightly alone. Turning quickly, she saw Ashen standing still, his molten gaze fixed gently upon two gravestones nestled quietly beneath the shadow of a large oak tree.

Quietly intrigued yet respectful, Clainsiia walked carefully back toward him, noticing the names etched gently into the stones—Sitri and Jeralt. She silently watched Ashen’s gentle contemplation, sensing the profound emotion stirring deeply within him.

His deep voice broke softly through the quiet stillness, tender with nostalgia and gentle sadness. "It’s... it’s truly been so long, hasn’t it? To think we met again like this, though."

He crossed his arms gently, chuckling softly—a quiet sound filled with bittersweet memories. His voice softened further, emotion thickening gently in his words. "You know... I still remember your wedding day as if it were yesterday."

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Flashback 

Two years before Garreg Mach would be under attack by bandits Jeralt and Sitri had just exchanged their vows, and now the joyful atmosphere of the wedding spilled throughout the officers academy bustling mess hall. The air was vibrant, filled with the laughter of joyous guests, the rhythmic melodies of musicians playing beautiful tunes, and the lively energy of couples dancing gracefully across the floor. Soft golden lights hung warmly from the ceiling, casting a comforting glow upon the smiling faces, elegant gowns, and freshly polished armor, creating a magical atmosphere filled with celebration and camaraderie.

Yet, away from the cheerful chaos and tucked into the far corner of the room stood Kazamir. He leaned quietly against the wall, an untouched cup of tea in his hand. His emerald eyes quietly watched the revelry, an unreadable expression set carefully upon his face. Beside him stood Rhea, her graceful presence calm and serene as always, yet her eyes held a motherly warmth as she observed her son carefully.

After a moment of watching him quietly, Rhea gently placed her hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention softly toward her. Her voice was tender, filled with quiet curiosity and a gentle concern. "Kazamir, why aren't you dancing? Surely, someone as strong as you can handle a simple waltz?"

Kazamir’s gaze flickered briefly toward his mother, a faint, gentle smile forming softly upon his lips, though his eyes remained thoughtful, quietly distant. "I'm not in the mood, Mother," he replied quietly, his voice calm yet tinged with gentle fatigue. "It's all a bit overwhelming for me. Perhaps I'll step out for some fresh air."

Rhea nodded softly, her expression understanding, though a gentle sadness lingered quietly within her eyes. "Very well, my dear. Take the time you need son."

Kazamir gave her an appreciative nod before quietly stepping away, weaving gracefully through the dancing guests and bustling laughter, slipping unnoticed through the doors leading outside. The cool evening breeze greeted him gently, immediately soothing his restless thoughts, his eyes drifting upward toward the star-speckled sky. Inhaling deeply, he allowed himself a brief moment of peace, savoring the gentle quietness surrounding him.

Yet before long, a familiar, cheerful voice broke softly through his solitude. "Hey—why are you leaving so early?"

Kazamir turned swiftly, recognizing immediately the voice of his longtime friend. Jeralt approached with Sitri at his side, both radiating joy and warmth, their smiles bright enough to rival the stars above. Jeralt, clad neatly in formal attire rather than his usual armor, looked unusually relaxed and happy, while Sitri, dressed elegantly in a flowing white gown, seemed to glow softly beneath the gentle moonlight. Jeralt’s eyes sparkled with humor as he gently teased, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "Not even gonna congratulate us?"

Kazamir chuckled softly, his expression softening warmly into a genuine smile. "Congratulations, Jeralt, Sitri. Truly. You both deserve all the happiness this world can offer."

Jeralt smiled broadly, placing an affectionate hand around Sitri’s waist, nodding gratefully. "Thanks, Kazamir. Means a lot coming from you." Sitri tilted her head gently, a mischievous twinkle brightening her gaze as she teased softly, voice bubbling gently with playful curiosity. "Kazamir, will you even dance with a woman someday, or perhaps that's just not your type?"

Kazamir sighed softly, his cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment, but he maintained his calm composure, voice dry yet good-natured. "I assure you, Sitri, women are indeed my preference. But, well... romance simply isn't part of my plan for the future."

Jeralt raised a curious brow, a playful smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, genuinely intrigued. "And why's that, Kazamir? Too shy to talk to a woman, perhaps?"

Kazamir smirked, rolling his emerald eyes exaggeratedly, sarcasm dripping from every word as he countered Jeralt's playful jab. "Oh yes, Jeralt—me, shy? I suppose next you’ll suggest I faint at the mere sight of a lady's smile," he drawled, shaking his head with mock disbelief. Yet beneath the teasing tone, his voice held a subtle, sincere seriousness. His expression softened, becoming quietly thoughtful as he explained gently, "It’s not a matter of shyness, my friend. It's that my sights are set on a different path. There’s so much left to do, so many challenges still to face to ensure Fódlan has a bright future. Unfortunately, that leaves little room for personal relationships."

Sitri, standing close by Jeralt’s side, listened thoughtfully, her eyes warm and reflective. She tilted her head gently, the soft, silken strands of her hair shifting slightly as she met Kazamir’s gaze. Her voice was gentle, laced with sincere encouragement and a quiet hope. "Kazamir, it’s never too late to change your mind, you know."

Kazamir chuckled softly, though his voice was tinged with gentle resignation. He shook his head slowly, eyes filled with quiet certainty, yet warm sincerity glowed gently within them. "I doubt that's going to happen, Sitri. But I'm genuinely happy for you two," he added warmly, his smile broadening affectionately. "To think—I’ve known you both for years, and now here you are, standing side-by-side as husband and wife."

Sitri smiled gently, her expression radiating happiness and serene confidence as she leaned affectionately against Jeralt’s strong shoulder. Her voice was light and warm with dreams yet to unfold. "I just know it'll be wonderful for the both of us. And who knows—maybe children in a few years down the road."

Kazamir’s eyes widened dramatically, sheer astonishment written vividly across his face, utterly taken aback by her words. He sputtered briefly, voice incredulous yet tinged with genuine surprise, "Don’t you think it's too early to think about that? I mean, you two just got married!"

Jeralt laughed heartily, his voice rich and warm, amusement sparkling vividly within his eyes. He gave Sitri an affectionate squeeze, his own surprise from earlier now replaced with calm, confident acceptance. "Believe it or not, Kazamir, I said the exact same thing—even a week before the wedding! But," he glanced warmly toward his bride, eyes softening tenderly, "Sitri convinced me. Maybe in a few years we'll consider it, but for now, we plan to enjoy ourselves first."

Kazamir’s expression softened thoughtfully, the shock giving way to understanding, gentle acceptance settling quietly into his emerald eyes. Knowing these two as well as he did, he realized the likelihood of them starting a family was practically inevitable. Yet he respected their decision deeply, gently voicing his approval. "It’s entirely your choice, and knowing you both… well, let's just say I'll be expecting the announcement someday."

Sitri’s eyes sparkled suddenly, a new and unexpected excitement lighting her gaze as she turned curiously toward Kazamir. Her voice brimmed gently with genuine interest as she spoke softly, yet eagerly. "Kazamir—what about a name suggestion? If we ever have a child, what would you suggest we call them?"

Kazamir blinked rapidly, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected request. He hesitated, confusion mingled with amusement reflecting gently within his eyes. "Why me? Surely that's something you two should decide, isn't it?" he asked incredulously, a soft laugh escaping him. "And again—isn't it too early for all of this?"

Sitri smiled warmly, undeterred, genuine curiosity and faith in Kazamir’s judgment shimmering gently within her gaze. Her voice softened tenderly, sincere yet insistent, gently encouraging him, "You always had a unique perspective on things, Kazamir. Your words and thoughts have often inspired us both, and I'd genuinely love to hear your idea."

Kazamir crossed his arms gently, a thoughtful expression settling quietly upon his features. A name for their child wasn't something he'd expected to contemplate, yet a warmth settled gently in his chest as he reflected carefully, sincerity softly mingling within his gaze. After a quiet moment, voice thoughtful yet decisive, he finally responded gently, "How about… Byleth? It can go either way—perfectly suited whether you have a boy or a girl."

Sitri’s eyes instantly sparkled brighter, genuine delight radiating gently from her features, clearly captivated by Kazamir’s thoughtful suggestion. She nodded eagerly, her voice warmly appreciative as she replied sincerely, "Byleth… I quite like it. Thank you for the suggestion, Kazamir."

Kazamir glanced quietly toward Jeralt, a gentle, teasing smile curving his lips softly, voice warm yet sincere as he remarked playfully, "You're a lucky man, Jeralt."

Jeralt chuckled warmly, his eyes filled with quiet pride and happiness as he gently squeezed Sitri’s hand, voice richly affectionate as he agreed sincerely, "Very lucky."

Kazamir smiled gently, nodding softly to both of them, yet still offered a quiet reminder, gently cautioning, "Just remember, it’s your decision—and there's plenty of time ahead for choices like this. And who knows… if you two ever have a kid, perhaps someday I'll give the kid a sparring match."

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Present Time

Ashen stood silently, gazing gently at the gravestones bearing Jeralt and Sitri's names. A quiet sadness settled deeply within his molten-orange eyes, nostalgia mingling softly with regret. Quietly, voice tender yet filled with genuine curiosity, he softly murmured, almost to himself, "Why did you two choose that name for your son? Was it because of the friendship we shared, much like what I had with Fylan, Seteth, and my mother?"

His gaze shifted downward slowly, lingering upon his scaled, clawed hands—hands now monstrous, stained heavily with choices made in anger and fear. Sorrow filled his eyes deeply, voice quiet, trembling softly with genuine grief as he confessed softly, "I miss things… how they used to be."

Unexpectedly, softly yet resolutely, Clainsiia approached quietly, carrying a handful of delicate pink flowers. Kneeling gently beside the graves, she carefully placed one flower tenderly before each stone, paying quiet respects to family she'd never personally met yet felt connected to deeply. She looked softly up at Ashen, her emerald eyes shimmering gently with innocent curiosity and genuine compassion, voice tender as she softly asked, "Kazamir, what were they like? I read a little in your journal, and Father told me stories about Grandfather… but what were they truly like?"

Ashen’s gaze softened warmly, gentle memories filling his molten eyes, sadness mingling softly with fondness. Quietly, he smiled gently, voice filled deeply with sincerity and warmth as he spoke quietly, "They were good people… truly the best friends anyone could ask for."

A faint, quiet chuckle escaped him softly, gently surprising Clainsiia with its warmth. Curiosity instantly sparked vividly within her eyes as she tilted her head gently, voice softly inquisitive, "What's funny, Kazamir?"

Ashen's gentle smile widened affectionately, a warmth glowing softly within his eyes as he gazed down tenderly toward the young princess. Voice genuinely reflective, warmly sincere, he quietly admitted, "You remind me of Sitri, especially with your willingness to take risks and your desire to help me see clearly again, to remember who I once was."

He sighed gently, thoughtful and deeply reflective, continuing softly, voice warm yet tinged with gentle regret, "There was a time when Sitri reached out to help a man deeply lost in his own darkness. At the time, I couldn't understand why she'd bother with me—but it was simply because she was kind-hearted and wanted to understand why people became who they were. You've inherited that trait beautifully, Clainsiia."

Clainsiia listened carefully, her young eyes filled deeply with eager fascination, gently urging him forward. Her voice brimmed warmly with innocent enthusiasm, "Tell me more about them, please."

Ashen quietly pondered, voice gentle yet deeply reflective as he described softly, "Sitri was… the embodiment of grace and wisdom. Her gentle voice could soothe any troubled soul, and her smile could light even the darkest room. She believed deeply in compassion, understanding, and kindness, always seeing the good in others—even when it was difficult. Sitri had a remarkable way of bringing out the best in people."

His gaze shifted gently to Jeralt's grave, expression quietly proud and fondly reminiscent. Voice warm, tender yet strong, he quietly continued, "Jeralt was a man of strength and loyalty. He appeared rough on the surface, but beneath was a heart of gold. Fiercely protective of those he cared for, he'd do anything to keep them safe. He taught me determination, perseverance, and swordsmanship. But most importantly," Ashen softly admitted, emotion gently thickening his voice, "he showed me what it truly meant to be a friend."

Yet Clainsiia sensed something hidden, quietly probing gently, her emerald eyes filled deeply with genuine concern. Voice softly insistent yet warmly empathetic, she gently urged, "Kazamir… you're hiding something, aren't you?"

Ashen hesitated, the weight of his truth pressing heavily upon his heart. His molten gaze met hers, a tumult of emotions swirling within him. Before he could speak, however, the sharp sound of urgent footsteps disrupted the solemn atmosphere. Warg rushed to their side. His voice, gruff and urgent, carried clear across the quiet courtyard. "My lord, we've spotted the Adrestian Empire's forces approaching quickly."

Ashen's expression darkened, his internal turmoil intensifying at the news. Clenching his fists, he turned sharply to Warg, his voice tense with urgency. "How far?"

Warg's eyes flickered with calculated thought. "If I had to guess, they'll be upon us very soon. What should we do!?" 

Ashen's face tensed with urgency, the molten light in his eyes hardening with sudden intensity. The wind around the monastery stirred, as though even the air could sense the shifting tides of fate. His voice, when it came, was low but filled with the weight of a man who knew there was no turning back. "Set up the defense," he ordered, his words edged with steel. "Get the elite troopers ready. We make our stand here."

Warg bowed immediately and turned on his heel, his heavy footsteps echoing as he sprinted to relay the command. The silence that followed was deafening. Ashen stood still, his broad shoulders rising and falling slowly as he stared toward the horizon. The ground beneath his feet felt colder somehow, heavier—like the world itself was bracing for something irreversible.

Clainsiia couldn't accept the reality unfolding before her. Her small frame trembled as the weight of it all pressed down on her chest like stone. He was still willing to fight—willing to fight her parents. Willing to go to war against the people who loved her most. Her emerald eyes shimmered with disbelief and desperation as she turned toward him, pleading, her voice cracking with raw, unfiltered emotion.

“Kazamir… please,” she whispered first, stepping forward, clutching her cuff tightly to her chest. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve seen what you’ve done—you know what you’ve become. But you also know it’s not too late. You can still change. You can leave this war. You can fly away… start again!" 

Her voice broke, and tears began to stream freely down her cheeks, falling like soft raindrops onto the stone path between them. “You have showed me you regretting so many things. You said you missed the way things used to be. Then why… why can’t you stop? Why does it have to be like this!?”

Ashen’s shoulders tensed, his head lowering slowly as if her words struck with more weight than any blade ever could. Silence stretched long and painful between them. When he finally turned to face her, the expression in his molten-orange eyes was something she’d never seen from him before—regret so deep it could drown, sorrow carved into every line of his monstrous face. “I’m sorry, Clainsiia,” he said softly, his voice quiet as wind through dead leaves. “I truly am.”

Despite the immense turmoil within, Ashen's decision held firm, a harsh resolve tightening around his heart. His massive wings unfurled from his back with a rustle that seemed to stir the very air of conflict around them. "I wish... I wish there were another way," he continued, his voice breaking under the weight of his impending choices.

Looking at Clainsiia, he murmured an apology that seemed to strip him of his remaining defenses. "You must stay out of this, child. For your safety." With a snap of his fingers, his command echoed subtly but powerfully, signaling his elite guards stationed out of sight.

Instantly, two burly guards approached, their armor clinking softly with each disciplined step. As they reached Clainsiia, her initial shock turned into fierce resistance. She struggled against their grasp, her small frame surprisingly forceful against their unyielding hands. As one guard secured her, her hand broke free, reaching out towards Ashen. Tears streamed down her face, her voice piercing the somber air, "Kazamir!" Her desperate cry echoed through the corridor, reverberating off the stone walls as the doors closed, separating them.

A single tear ran down Ashen's cheek, glistening like a jewel in the dim light. He turned away, his gaze falling on the graves of Sitri and Jeralt. Thoughts of paths chosen—and those forsaken—whirled in his mind like a storm. His reflection in a broken shard of glass caught his eye, the monstrous visage, the scales that spelled his curse, the blood red hair, and those deep orange eyes. This was the path he had chosen, a path paved with power, anger, fear and now... regret. “The paths we choose…either can lead to blessings…or serious consequences. For this is part of…being human.” His voice was a mere whisper, a confession to the silent stones that bore witness to his turmoil.

With a heavy heart, Ashen looked up at the sky, the clouds above Garreg Mach swirling ominously as if in anticipation of the looming battle. He let his gaze drift across the familiar grounds of the monastery, each stone and spire holding memories of a life that once promised so much more. Maybe, he pondered with a sorrowful resignation, this place, where he had truly begun another life, where he had known friendship, love, and betrayal, might also be where his story would end.

His wings, powerful and awe-inspiring, lifted him from the ground. As he rose above the monastery, the wind caught his hair, and for a moment, he was just a shadow against the vastness of the sky—a tragic figure marked by history and his own decisions. But before he disappeared into the cloud-covered horizon, he cast one last look at Garreg Mach, the place that had been his home, his battleground, and perhaps, in the end, his final resting place.

Chapter Text

On a hill overlooking Garreg Mach, Shez, Byleth, and Edelgard stood quietly, the sun dipping gently behind the distant mountains, bathing the monastery below in a soft, golden light. The air was heavy with the silent acknowledgment of their long journey, filled with battles, loss, hope, and determination. They knew in their hearts that tomorrow marked the climax of everything they had endured.

Edelgard’s eyes gazed thoughtfully toward the towering spires of Garreg Mach, her voice steady but gently weary, yet brimming with quiet resolve. "We rest tonight," she murmured softly, the weight of a mother’s heart evident in her voice. "Tomorrow, this war ends."

Byleth nodded gently, his teal eyes reflecting deep contemplation, relief mingled with cautious hope. His hand subtly reached for Edelgard's, intertwining their fingers gently, an unspoken affirmation of their bond, their love, and their shared determination. "I’m glad our journey is almost over," he admitted quietly, the gentle warmth in his voice carrying profound sincerity.

His gaze shifted thoughtfully toward Shez, the mercenary who had unexpectedly become an irreplaceable friend, ally, and confidante. He felt a deep sense of gratitude and respect, quietly reflecting on their journey—from an unlikely encounter in a moment of desperation, when a mercenary stepped forward to help him get to Edelgard during the most crucial hours on Jeralt’s birth, to now standing side by side, fighting to protect their family and the future they hoped for.

Shez caught Byleth’s thoughtful gaze, and a warm, genuine smile curved her lips softly, illuminating her eyes with gentle sincerity and quiet pride. The bonds she had formed—friendships forged in fire, trust built through shared struggles—had become the foundation upon which she now stood. "It's hard to believe," she began gently, her voice soft but filled deeply with reflective wonder, "that my journey started with a simple run into the woods. Being a part of history with both of you has been fascinating."

Her expression softened further, emotion gently thickening her voice as she continued warmly, eyes shimmering softly beneath the gentle fading sunlight. "Even after all we've been through, there's still more ahead. And I'll stay by your sides, whatever tomorrow brings. One thing is certain."

Edelgard tilted her head gently, crimson eyes softly curious as she gazed warmly at Shez, quietly prompted her friend with genuine interest. "What is that, Shez?"

Shez’s smile widened softly, quietly profound sincerity radiating gently from her violet eyes. Her voice trembled softly with emotion, quiet gratitude mingled warmly with conviction. "This path I chose has been a blessing. This—right here—is now where I live and breathe."

Byleth and Edelgard both nodded quietly, gentle smiles softly illuminating their features, gratitude and warmth shimmering deeply within their gazes. The three of them stood quietly for another moment, absorbing the peaceful beauty of Garreg Mach beneath the twilight sky before turning slowly, making their way calmly back to their army, hearts unified in purpose and filled gently with hope.

Overlooking them, floating silently above the hill unseen by mortal eyes, Sothis and Arval quietly observed the monastery, both lost in their own contemplations. Yet after a quiet moment, Sothis gently turned her attention toward Arval, her emerald eyes quietly thoughtful, filled deeply with sincere warmth and newfound admiration.

"You know, Arval," she began softly, her voice gentle and reflective, brimming warmly with genuine sincerity, "despite how we met, I must admit—you are truly something."

Arval blinked rapidly, momentarily taken aback by her unexpected praise, confusion mingling softly with cautious curiosity within his violet eyes. Gently yet uncertainly, he softly asked, "What do you mean by that?"

Sothis smiled warmly, her emerald gaze gentle yet clear, filled with sincere admiration and quiet respect as she softly explained, "The power you bestowed upon Shez, your unwavering dedication to stay by her side, and your distinct personality, so very different from your father’s… it’s truly remarkable."

Her expression softened further, voice warmly reflective, quietly grateful as she admitted gently, "Though we've only recently met, I'm genuinely glad to have an ally like you by my side."

Arval was momentarily speechless, quietly stunned yet deeply moved by her heartfelt acknowledgment. For years, fear had haunted him—fear that Sothis would view him as no different from his father, would despise or reject him upon their meeting. But here she stood, openly praising him, acknowledging his individuality, his sincere intentions, and his heart.

Finally, Arval’s expression softened into a gentle, heartfelt smile, quiet gratitude and warmth shimmering softly within his eyes as he replied warmly, deeply touched, "Thank you, Sothis. You have no idea what your words mean to me."
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Hours had passed, and later that night Edelgard and Byleth were in their tent, spending quiet moments with their sleeping infant son, Jeralt. The soft glow from the lantern cast gentle shadows, warming the interior of their tent. Outside, the camp had settled into a rare, fragile peace, but inside, Edelgard and Byleth were anything but restful. Thoughts of their daughter, Clainsiia, consumed their minds—the closeness of her return both exhilarating and painfully uncertain.

Edelgard gently ran her fingers through Jeralt’s soft hair, her eyes thoughtful yet hopeful. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, carrying the tender weight of a mother's love. "We're so close now, Byleth. I can feel it. Our daughter… she'll soon be with us again."

Byleth watched her quietly, his teal eyes deepening with contemplation, sharing Edelgard's sentiment but also burdened by something heavier. The quiet certainty in her voice warmed him, yet he couldn't help but feel a pang of apprehension—a worry he kept buried beneath his calm exterior.

"I know," he murmured softly, gently taking Edelgard's hand in his, intertwining their fingers lovingly. "And soon, our family will be whole again."

Yet, despite his comforting words, something else weighed deeply on his heart. His thoughts drifted inevitably toward Ashen. Ever since the march began, Byleth's mind had been occupied by a question that lingered persistently in the recesses of his mind: What punishment should Ashen face? Would Clainsiia’s kindness, her relentless belief in redemption, change Ashen's heart? And if it had… then what would that mean for the man who had caused so much suffering?

Edelgard noticed the slight furrow of Byleth's brow, the distant glaze in his eyes, and knew immediately that his mind was elsewhere. Gently, she squeezed his hand, her gaze softening. "Byleth… you're thinking of something. What is it?"

Byleth hesitated briefly, inhaling deeply, his chest rising gently as he prepared to speak. But before he could utter even a single word, a sudden, piercing sound shattered the tranquility—a loud, unmistakable emergency horn, signaling an enemy presence in the camp.

Edelgard and Byleth sprang to their feet instantly, their calm shattered as urgency surged through them. Shez rushed into their tent, breathless and wide-eyed, her hair disheveled from her hasty sprint. Her voice was urgent, nearly disbelieving. "You're not gonna believe who's here!"

Without hesitation, Edelgard carefully placed their son in the crib, swiftly summoning four loyal knights who rushed immediately to their side. "Guard him with your lives," she commanded, voice firm with maternal resolve, her eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness.

Quickly, the three rushed toward the commotion at the center of the camp. Tensions were high; soldiers surrounded someone, weapons drawn, faces etched with both anger and fear. And there, at the center of it all, stood Ashen—imposing and motionless, his presence alone enough to ripple a quiet dread through everyone present.

Claude's voice rang clearly above the tension, a warning to everyone. "Keep your weapons trained on Ashen! Don't let him out of your sight, whatever you do!"

Ingrid stood near Claude, her spear pointed aggressively at Ashen, her voice harsh, demanding answers. "Why are you here, Ashen?"

Yet Ashen remained utterly silent, his molten-orange gaze fixed unwaveringly on Byleth, completely indifferent to the angry cries and threats around him.

Ingrid’s fury rose at his silence. "Are you deaf? Say something, you dastard!" Her voice cracked with anger, eyes blazing fiercely as she leveled her spear unwaveringly toward Ashen.

Yet Ashen remained silent, his orange gaze unwaveringly fixed on Byleth, occasionally flickering briefly toward the faces around him—faces twisted with anger, fear, and bitter mistrust. The tension in the air was suffocating, a thick mist of unspoken grief and simmering rage. Finally, Ashen’s deep, resonant voice broke through, calm yet firm. “I am here to speak with Byleth—and Byleth alone.”

A ripple of disbelief passed through the group. Yuri stepped forward from the shadows, his eyes narrowed sharply, suspicious and defiant. "You really expect us to believe that?" Yuri spat, disdain curling around every syllable. "After everything you've done, you honestly think we’ll just hand him over to you? Not a chance."

Caspar’s voice joined next, a harsh edge of pain and anger vibrating within his words. His fists shook at his sides, eyes gleaming wetly with tears of fury. "You killed our friends—Dorothea, Hubert, Felix, Ignatz and so many others! You’re just a monstrous god who craves nothing but blood! Why should we trust you now?"

Ferdinand stepped forward protectively, placing himself boldly between Ashen and his former professor, his chest puffed proudly with defiance. His voice was steady, fiercely determined. "We won’t allow you to take Professor Byleth away from us. Not now. Not ever again."

Yet amidst their heated voices and raised weapons, Byleth moved slowly forward. Without speaking a word, he calmly raised one hand, signaling quietly yet powerfully for the group to lower their weapons. A shocked silence fell over the crowd; confusion and disbelief etched across their faces. Shez stared in stunned surprise, Ingrid visibly hesitated, and Edelgard’s eyes softened slightly in quiet curiosity. Yet they complied, trusting their leader’s judgment.

Slowly, Byleth stepped closer toward Ashen, his gaze calm yet questioning, his voice low yet unwaveringly firm. "What is it you wish to speak about?"

Ashen met his gaze steadily, his molten eyes flickering briefly with quiet relief, yet his voice remained quietly resolute. "Not here," he murmured softly, his voice surprisingly gentle, absent the arrogance of a god or the menace of a tyrant. "Let us find somewhere more private, where we can talk as men."

Byleth was genuinely taken aback, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. A subtle shift had clearly occurred within Ashen, and Byleth felt curiosity stir quietly within him at Ashen’s choice of words. Ashen wanted a conversation not as a deity, but as a human—as equals. A hint of hope flickered quietly within Byleth’s chest. Slowly, thoughtfully, Byleth nodded in agreement. "Very well. Lead the way."

Together, the two departed silently from the camp, leaving stunned, murmuring soldiers behind. They walked in heavy, contemplative silence toward a nearby lake, its waters reflecting the moonlight softly, shimmering gently beneath the quiet night sky. As they reached the shore, Ashen quietly placed a clawed hand upon the scales around his neck. Closing his eyes briefly, he exhaled deeply, a slow breath filled with quiet vulnerability.

In that moment, the monstrous visage vanished, and Byleth’s breath caught slightly at what he now saw. Ashen’s features shifted swiftly yet seamlessly, revealing a man beneath—a face free of dragon scales, green hair cascading softly down his shoulders, and bright, striking green eyes. Human eyes. Kazamir’s eyes.

Ashen spoke softly, his voice thick with quiet regret and gentle humility. "You were right, Byleth."

Byleth’s brows knitted slightly, confusion softly tinging his voice. "Right about what?"

Ahsen turned slowly, meeting Byleth’s gaze with sincerity and quiet, profound remorse. "When we first fought, you told me to change the path I was on—to not let jealousy and anger consume me. You saw clearly what I could not: I was never truly a god, only a broken man."

Byleth listened quietly, his thoughts immediately recalling the conversation he'd once shared with Edelgard about Ashen’s true nature. They’d pondered if beneath the godly exterior lay a man driven by brokenness and sorrow rather than pure malevolence. Now, it seemed, Kazamir himself understood who he truly was.

Byleth opened his mouth gently to speak, but Kazamir swiftly interrupted him, his voice firm yet gentle. "Please, don't call me Ashen. That was never my name."

Byleth’s heart tightened softly with empathy, nodding slowly in understanding, his voice gentle yet affirming, "Kazamir… it's not too late."

Yet Ashen shook his head slowly, eyes quietly resigned yet softly sorrowful. "We both know that's a lie, Byleth. This path I've chosen has led me here—to this moment. To you." A gentle, wistful smile tugged softly at Ashen’s lips, eyes distant with quiet memories. "To think the very child whose name I suggested to your parents so long ago would speak such a lie to comfort me."

Byleth's eyes widened slightly in genuine surprise, taken aback deeply by this revelation. "You… came up with my name?"

Ashen's would chuckle quietly and it was softly tinged with gentle amusement and fond nostalgia. "I’m surprised Jeralt never mentioned it. Yes, it was I who suggested 'Byleth.' But let’s not stray from the matter at hand." Ashen sighed softly, gaze growing distant yet warmly reflective. "Your daughter—Clainsiia—she reminded me of who I once was, a man with promise and good within him." His voice trembled softly, genuine remorse thickening his words. "I am truly sorry, Byleth, for everything—for the lives I've taken, the pain I've caused."

Relief and sorrow filled Byleth’s heart equally. Seeing Kazamir's newfound humanity filled him with hope, but justice still needed to be served. He spoke gently yet firmly, voice sincere yet heavy with the burden of responsibility. "Kazamir, I understand. But you must face punishment for your actions—"

"No," Ashen softly interjected, his voice quiet but resolute, sadness lingering deeply within his eyes. "You have to kill me."

Shock jolted through Byleth, eyes widening sharply in disbelief. Before he could respond, Sothis appeared suddenly beside him, her emerald eyes filled deeply with concern and sadness. Her voice was tender yet questioning, "Why must Byleth kill you?"

Ashen quietly removed his hand from his neck, reverting swiftly to his cursed form, scales spreading gently across his skin, molten-orange eyes glowing softly. His voice trembled softly with genuine sorrow. "If I live, my army will continue roaming these lands, slaughtering innocents. They can only be stopped if I am slain. And only a Hero’s Relic or one with godlike power can end my life."

A heavy silence settled deeply between them, Kazamir’s words lingering heavily in the cool night air. Footsteps approached swiftly from behind, and Byleth turned to see Edelgard and Shez drawing near, eyes quietly sorrowful yet understanding. Shez’s voice was gentle, tinged softly with genuine respect. "We heard everything. I suppose there truly is some humanity left within you after all."

Edelgard stepped forward softly, voice quietly hopeful yet deeply troubled. "Is there truly no other way?"

Ashen slowly shook his head, his voice tender yet resigned. "No. There is no other way."

Frustration welled painfully within Byleth, fists clenching tightly, feeling deeply conflicted. He saw clearly Ashen's genuine remorse, yet the gravity of his crimes could not be ignored. He exhaled shakily, heart torn, yet despite everything Ashen had done, Byleth quietly murmured, firm yet gentle with resolution, "I won’t do it."

Ashen's eyes widened in genuine surprise, disbelief etched clearly upon his scaled face. For a moment, silence stretched painfully between them, heavy with confusion and unspoken emotion. Finally, Ashen found his voice again, a deep rumble resonating softly through the quiet night air. "Why? After everything I have done… why won't you end this here and now? Do not pity me, Byleth. Don't pretend that the atrocities I've committed are meaningless."

Byleth's expression softened gently, compassion mingling quietly with determination. His teal eyes shone softly in the moonlight, reflecting sincerity and sorrow. "I'm not pretending, Kazamir," he said gently, deliberately using Ashen’s true name, acknowledging the humanity buried beneath the monstrous exterior. "I know what you've done, and I understand the weight of your guilt. But precisely because you've shown genuine remorse, I can't see a reason to chastise you. We can find another way."

Ashen's lips curled bitterly, eyes narrowing softly in quiet frustration and stubborn resignation. "You are foolish, Byleth," he murmured softly, the harshness tempered slightly by a quiet sorrow in his voice. "There is no other way. If I continue to live, my army will rampage across Fódlan. They are bound to my very existence. The only way this ends—truly ends—is if you kill me."

His gaze shifted slowly toward Shez, a glimmer of quiet hope briefly flickering within his molten eyes. "Perhaps then," he said gently, "you, woman, might find the resolve to do what must be done."

Shez shook her head quietly yet firmly, her violet eyes filled deeply with gentle compassion and determination. "I won't," she whispered softly yet with unwavering conviction. "I understand why you're asking, but this isn't how it should end."

Edelgard stepped forward softly, placing herself beside Shez, voice steady yet softly compassionate. "I agree with Shez," she murmured quietly, crimson eyes filled deeply with quiet resolve. "We won't kill you here. Not like this."

Suddenly, beside Shez, Arval's presence flickered softly into view, their eyes filled deeply with concern and sincere hope as they gently spoke, voice trembling slightly with genuine emotion. "Kazamir… surely there is another way. Please, consider this."

Ashen's eyes softened momentarily, genuine gratitude shimmering gently within them for the compassion they showed. Yet the sorrowful resolve hardened swiftly once more. Quietly shaking his head, voice gentle yet burdened heavily by certainty, he replied softly, "There is no other way. You all refuse to see the truth clearly—but if you won't do it now, then understand this... tomorrow will be our final fight."

Byleth stared at him, silent, his eyes reflecting the moonlight, filled deeply with a quiet storm of emotion and contemplation. The weight of Ashen’s request pressed heavily upon his shoulders, and yet his heart refused to accept it as the only path.

Ashen's expression softened briefly again, sensing the turmoil raging within Byleth's heart. He took a slow, steady breath, his voice breaking slightly under the profound weight of his decision. "Byleth… If you end it tonight, your daughter, Clainsiia, will be by your side again. This nightmare will be over. The suffering will cease. My sins will finally find their end."

His voice trembled with quiet desperation, eyes pleading gently beneath the hardened exterior. "I offer you this chance one last time—end my life now, and save us all from tomorrow’s pain."

A long silence settled heavily between them, thick with tension, sorrow, and quiet understanding. Edelgard and Shez watched closely, their breaths held softly, eyes glistening faintly with tears unshed, hearts heavy with the weight of the moment. Yet Byleth stood steadfast, his expression shifting from troubled contemplation to unyielding determination. His voice was steady and unwavering when he finally spoke, resonating softly through the quiet night. "No."

Ashen was rendered speechless by the simple, decisive power in that single word. His molten-orange eyes widened slightly, searching Byleth’s features, looking deeply into the man before him. There, in the quiet strength of Byleth's eyes, he saw an unmistakable reflection—a familiar resolve, reminiscent of Jeralt, that strength, compassion, and determination were mirrored vividly in Byleth's gaze, showing him the man Jeralt had raised.

Ashen exhaled softly, understanding clearly that Byleth would remain firm in his conviction. His voice, when it returned, was quiet yet carried the heaviness of destiny. "So be it," he murmured softly, accepting Byleth's decision with quiet resignation. "Tomorrow, our blades will determine the fate of Fódlan. Should you triumph, you must end my life. Should I emerge victorious, I swear upon my very soul, no harm will ever come to your children."

Slowly, Ashen turned away from Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez, his wings rustling softly as he prepared to depart. Yet before leaving, he paused, his gaze subtly shifting to meet Sothis’s emerald eyes, speaking quietly, telepathically, his thoughts gently reaching toward her heart.

"There is one last thing, Sothis," he murmured softly within his mind, eyes closing briefly in vulnerability.

Sothis’s gaze softened with genuine curiosity and compassion, gently replying through their mental connection, "And what might that be, Kazamir?"

Ashen’s voice trembled gently, filled deeply with raw vulnerability and quiet humility. "Sothis, I am sorry for all the sins I've committed—from the past, to the present, and for the very soul that will perish tomorrow. Please... forgive me."

Sothis felt a quiet ache settle deeply within her chest, memories flooding gently back to their first encounter all the way to this moment. She saw clearly the entire journey that had brought them to this moment—the pain, the loss, the hope, and the despair. Her emerald eyes softened deeply with compassion and sorrow for the man Kazamir had become.

Quietly, gently, Sothis placed her small hand tenderly upon Ashen’s massive, scaled shoulder. She spoke softly, her voice tender yet resolute, carrying the depth of compassion she had found within herself. "I forgive you, child."

Ashen’s eyes widened in quiet shock, breath catching softly in his throat, emotion welling deeply within his chest. Those simple words—words he'd longed desperately to hear for so many years—pierced gently through the layers of armor he'd built around his heart. Tears shimmered faintly within his molten gaze, genuine gratitude and deep sorrow mingling quietly within his expression. At long last, he had received what he'd sought so desperately: forgiveness from Sothis. Turning slowly away from them all, he began walking calmly toward the horizon. His deep voice echoed gently through the quiet night, carrying clearly across the distance, firm yet respectful. "Byleth Eisner, ruler of Fódlan, don’t hold back… And remember, I will go all out."

With a final powerful beat of his massive wings, Ashen ascended swiftly into the darkened sky, vanishing quietly into the distance, leaving only the echo of his parting words behind.

Byleth watched him disappear, heart heavy yet resolute. Quietly, he reached out through his mind, speaking gently to Sothis, voice calm yet carrying the quiet weight of a worried father. "Sothis, please check on Clainsiia."

Sothis nodded softly, understanding the gravity of his request, swiftly using her powers to warp away from the lakeside.

Left behind, standing quietly beneath the serene glow of the moon, were Byleth, Edelgard, Shez, and Arval. Edelgard’s voice quietly broke the gentle silence, thoughtful and solemn, deeply reflective of the situation’s gravity. "This war has now pitted good people against a broken man who finally sees clearly," she murmured softly. "We must be prepared for tomorrow."

Byleth quietly nodded, sharing her sentiment, and together, they slowly turned away, walking gently back toward their army’s camp. Shez and Arval remained behind momentarily, gazing quietly into the distance where Ashen had vanished.

Arval’s gentle voice broke the contemplative silence, their expression filled deeply with sincere concern for Shez, their trusted partner in destiny. "Are you okay, Shez?"

Shez remained quiet for a long moment, her violet eyes thoughtful, shimmering gently beneath the moonlight. Finally, voice softly reflective yet deeply burdened by the weight of their decisions, she replied quietly, "We did the right thing… yet there truly is no other way."

Arval nodded gently, their expression softening thoughtfully, quietly understanding the difficult position they found themselves in. "Sometimes," Arval gently murmured, voice filled deeply with quiet wisdom and empathetic resignation, "even wanting to do the right thing isn’t always enough. It’s a difficult situation we find ourselves in."

Shez sighed softly, nodding in quiet agreement, her heart heavy yet quietly determined for the battles yet to come. Together, standing quietly side by side beneath the quiet night sky, they knew clearly the challenges awaiting them—challenges that would test not only their strength but also the depth of their compassion, the limits of forgiveness, and the very core of their humanity.

Chapter Text

Underground of Garreg Mach, in the Abyss, Clainsiia sat quietly in a dimly lit cell, her back pressed against the cold, damp stone wall. She hugged her knees close to her chest, head buried in her arms, hiding her tear-streaked face from the silent emptiness around her. Every passing moment stretched painfully, amplifying the heavy silence broken only by the distant, unsettling sounds of rats scurrying across the damp floor.

She couldn't comprehend why Ashen would still insist on continuing this senseless conflict despite clearly regretting his actions. After all their conversations, after he had opened his heart, even crafted a gift for her, he was still willing to risk everything. Confusion, frustration, and despair churned inside her heart, weighing heavily upon her fragile frame.

Suddenly, a gentle, ethereal glow softly illuminated the shadows of the cell. Clainsiia slowly lifted her head, her emerald eyes glistening wetly with fresh tears, blinking in quiet surprise as she recognized Sothis standing before her. The goddess’s presence was soothing, yet it did little to dispel the storm of emotions raging within the young princess.

Sothis's gaze softened instantly upon seeing Clainsiia's tear-streaked face, her emerald eyes radiating quiet empathy and gentle concern. She stepped closer, her soft footsteps echoing softly in the stillness, and knelt gracefully beside the small, fragile figure hunched on the floor. Her voice, quiet and tender, filled the cell with comforting warmth as she gently asked, "Clainsiia... Are you alright, dear?"

Clainsiia looked slowly up at Sothis, eyes shimmering gently with unshed tears, her voice trembling softly, raw and confused. "I don’t understand, Sothis," she whispered brokenly, her voice barely above a quivering breath. "I thought... I thought I helped Kazamir remember who he was. He even showed me kindness—he cared. But if he truly remembered himself, why is he still going to war?"

Frustration surged suddenly through her, mingling harshly with her sadness. Clainsiia snatched a small pebble from the ground, throwing it sharply at the opposite wall. The stone struck loudly, echoing harshly in the stillness, causing a pair of rats to squeak in startled fear, scurrying away quickly into the darkness.

Sothis felt a pang of sorrow deep within her chest, understanding fully the frustration gripping the young princess. She knew there was more far more that Ashen had not revealed, and the burden of revealing it now fell upon her. With a quiet sigh, she gently placed her hand upon Clainsiia's shoulder, her touch tender and comforting, seeking to provide what solace she could.

"Clainsiia," she began softly, her voice filled with gentle empathy, carefully choosing each word, "I understand your frustration. Kazamir has indeed begun to remember who he once was. His humanity has returned, but there is something he hasn’t told you—something deeply painful that he has chosen to bear silently."

Clainsiia slowly turned her head, eyes widening slightly, curiosity and fear mingling deeply within her expression. She hesitated briefly, voice barely audible yet pleading softly, "What is it, Sothis? Please tell me."

Sothis sighed softly once more, her emerald eyes filled deeply with sadness, the gentle glow around her dimming slightly, mirroring the gravity of her words. "Kazamir cannot surrender. His army—those corrupted, twisted souls loyal only to his existence—will continue to fight, causing more pain and suffering. They are bound irrevocably to his life. Kazamir knows this. The only way he sees to prevent more bloodshed is for him to die."

Clainsiia's breath hitched sharply, eyes widening further as shock, horror, and disbelief surged simultaneously through her chest, sinking heavily like a stone deep within her heart. She shook her head frantically, voice breaking painfully, fresh tears welling rapidly in her eyes, streaming freely down her cheeks. "No... no, this can't be true! He regained himself—he saw clearly again! Why can't he just stop fighting and leave? Why does he have to die?"

Sothis tightened her grip slightly upon the child's trembling shoulder, her voice gentle yet sorrowfully resolute, bearing the harsh truth Clainsiia desperately wished to deny. "Your father believes Kazamir shouldn’t die, and yet Kazamir insists it is the only way. It's an unbearable choice for anyone, Clainsiia, but Kazamir himself has decided. He wants it this way—he sees no other solution."

Clainsiia's heart wrenched painfully within her chest, anguish and anger flaring sharply within her, colliding chaotically. She looked pleadingly into Sothis's eyes, desperate for an alternative, a faint glimmer of hope—anything to prevent such tragedy. Her voice, filled deeply with desperation and fierce determination, trembled as she cried out, "But... it's not fair! There has to be another way!"

Sothis's expression softened further, genuine sorrow shimmering gently within her eyes, her voice quiet yet steady with gentle finality. "Sometimes, Clainsiia, no matter how much we want there to be another way, there simply isn't. It’s a truth—painful, harsh, and difficult to accept—but it is the truth nonetheless."

Clainsiia vehemently shook her head, fiercely defiant, refusing stubbornly to accept this cruel reality. Her emerald eyes shimmered deeply with heartache, tears tracing softly down her cheeks as she grasped Sothis's small hands desperately, begging softly yet passionately, her voice breaking with raw emotion. "Please, Sothis. Help me find another way. I can't let him die—not now, not after he realized everything he’s done wrong. Not after he remembered who he truly was!"

Sothis gazed deeply into the young princess’s pleading, tear-filled eyes, her heart aching with profound empathy. She admired greatly the depth of Clainsiia’s compassion, her fierce determination to save Kazamir, yet she knew clearly the heavy burden of truth lay in the inevitable outcome. With tender care, gently squeezing Clainsiia's trembling hands, she softly replied, her voice laced with gentle understanding, sorrow, and quiet strength.

"Clainsiia," she whispered softly yet firmly, her emerald gaze unwavering yet filled deeply with quiet sorrow, "I understand your feelings deeply, and I admire your compassion immensely. But sometimes, even when we don't want to, we must face the harsh reality before us. Sometimes, the cruelest truths are the ones we must bravely accept."

"No!" Clainsiia's voice broke painfully, her small fists clenching in frustrated defiance. She shook her head vehemently, emerald eyes blazing with raw emotion as fresh tears traced glistening paths down her cheeks. Her voice cracked with desperation and disbelief. "There has to be another way! I refuse to believe this is the only path Kazamir can take—after everything he's learned, after everything he's realized! I can't let him die, Sothis, not like this!"

Sothis felt her own heart twist painfully at the young girl's anguished cries. She wished, desperately wished, she had a different answer—an alternative path to offer. But the harsh truth remained firm and unyielding. With a heavy sigh, filled deeply with sorrow and quiet understanding, she softly repeated, "I wish there were another way, Clainsiia. I truly do. But Kazamir himself believes this is the only solution. The situation is complicated, unbearably so. Your parents have tried desperately to find another way, but Kazamir has now forced their hand. They must fight."

"No! I refuse to accept this!" Clainsiia’s voice rose sharply, echoing painfully in the emptiness of the cell, her fragile frame trembling violently with grief and frustration. Her emerald eyes blazed fiercely, defiantly meeting Sothis's saddened gaze. "He doesn't deserve this fate! He deserves redemption a chance to live and fix the wrongs he has done! He's remembered who he truly is—there must be something I can do!"

Sothis’s heart ached deeply with empathy, yet gently, she tightened her embrace around the trembling child. Carefully, she placed a hand softly upon Clainsiia's tear-streaked cheek, her emerald gaze deeply compassionate, filled gently with profound understanding and quiet, sorrowful resignation. "I know, Clainsiia. It's an incredibly challenging situation, and there are no easy answers. Your compassion and desire for a different outcome are admirable, truly they are. But sometimes, the choices before us are limited. You have brought out the goodness in him, and that will always remain with him, regardless of what happens."

Still, Clainsiia continued to sob softly, her resistance finally faltering beneath the overwhelming weight of despair. She buried her face deeply into Sothis’s shoulder, clinging desperately to the goddess as though she alone held the power to change this fate. Her voice, weakened yet painfully earnest, murmured brokenly into the comforting warmth of Sothis's embrace, "It's... it's not fair, Sothis. It's not right. Kazamir deserves to live—he deserves peace. He has suffered enough... Please... please, isn't there anything we can do?"

Sothis’s own eyes shimmered gently with unshed tears, heart breaking quietly at Clainsiia’s anguish. She wished deeply she had another answer—a gentle path away from sorrow and pain—but truth, as harsh and unyielding as stone, remained steadfast. Her voice, barely a whisper yet filled profoundly with tender compassion and quiet sorrow, softly admitted, "My dear princess, believe me—I wish there were something else we could do. Kazamir has chosen this path himself. It breaks my heart to say it, but there is no other way."

For a long while, Sothis held Clainsiia gently, allowing the young princess to cry freely, soothing her quietly as the child’s sobs gradually softened into quiet, exhausted breaths. Eventually, sleep claimed the emotionally drained girl, her small, fragile form slumped gently against the goddess’s shoulder.

With great tenderness and care, Sothis gently lifted Clainsiia’s sleeping form, carefully laying her down onto the wooden bed provided in the damp cell. For a quiet moment, she gazed gently upon the sleeping princess, a poignant mix of sadness and joy softly stirring within her heart.

Seeing Clainsiia’s vibrant emerald eyes and hair—features reminiscent of Nabatean bloodlines—brought forth a profound, bittersweet emotion within Sothis. Sadness filled her heart for what had happened to this innocent child, transformed into a vessel of conflict, yet joy bloomed softly, knowing she could now speak with and protect her, reminding her gently of her own children from long ago.

Yet as Sothis’s gaze drifted slowly downward, curiosity quickly stirred gently within her as she noticed the armor cuff Clainsiia wore—the symbol of the Crest of Flames glowing softly in an ethereal, vibrant green. Intrigued yet puzzled, Sothis softly reached out, gently placing her hand atop Clainsiia’s head, allowing her powers to show her the recent past.

In quiet astonishment, she watched the memory unfold clearly—Ashen carefully crafting the armor cuff, fusing his own blood and the essence of his humanity into its creation. She heard Ashen softly explain that only he and Clainsiia could wield the blade formed from it, yet Sothis sensed deeply there was more to this creation than even Ashen himself understood.

Time pressed urgently upon her, and with gentle reluctance, she knew she must leave. Quietly, with profound sincerity and tenderness, she softly whispered a heartfelt promise, voice gently resolute yet filled deeply with compassionate warmth, "Don’t worry, princess… when this is all over, I promise to stay by your side… I swear."

In an instant, Sothis’s presence vanished gently, leaving Clainsiia sleeping peacefully yet completely alone within the dark, silent confines of her cell.

As minutes passed, Clainsiia began to shift restlessly upon the wooden bed, murmuring softly as her subconscious became overwhelmed by vivid, haunting visions. Voices—familiar yet distant—echoed softly through her mind, blurring gently between past and future, memories she had experienced and visions yet to come.

She heard Sothis’s voice clearly, resonating softly yet powerfully within her dreams, "Both sides of time are revealed to you."

Ashen’s deep, reflective tone gently filled her thoughts, sorrowful and wise, "The paths we choose can lead to blessings or serious consequences."

Byleth's voice followed softly, carrying profound gravity yet gentle tenderness, "One day, there will be another war. When Clainsiia rules, it might happen during her reign. I have to prepare her. I must do what I can as her father—even if it means pushing her into a world I wish she never had to face."

Edelgard’s soft, motherly whisper drifted warmly through the haze of her dreams, filled deeply with loving hope and gentle encouragement, "My precious little daughter, one day you will be the new light Fódlan will need."

Rapidly, visions flashed vividly before her eyes—Sothis merging gently with Byleth, Ashen speaking quietly to himself in moments of vulnerability, Edelgard lovingly holding her as an infant. Yet abruptly, the imagery shifted swiftly, becoming darker, more urgent, unsettling.

She saw clearly an underwater chamber, eerie lines glowing faintly upon the floor. Bubbles rose swiftly, distorted by glass—a figure desperately pounding against the transparent barrier, hands starkly white. A shadow swiftly approached, reaching urgently, desperately trying to break through and free the imprisoned being.

Suddenly, the imagery changed dramatically—her homeland, Enbarr, engulfed violently in flames. Her father and Shez fiercely battled an unknown enemy cloaked ominously in shadow, yet this foe radiated sinister power. Then clearly appeared a young woman strikingly similar to Clainsiia herself—same emerald eyes, same vibrant hair—wielding valiantly the very sword Ashen had crafted.

A chilling, unfamiliar voice resonated hauntingly through her dreams, coldly declaring, "So ends Fódlan's light."

Clainsiia gasped in terror, heart racing violently as she watched the young woman desperately losing a fierce battle against an entity of pure white, crimson spiked wings glowing vividly, a crown radiating malicious red power. Her father—Byleth—cried desperately, reaching helplessly toward the young woman as she fell, desperately using the Sword of the Creator to try catching her, only to fall painfully short. His anguished cry echoed vividly through her dreams, filled deeply with unbearable grief, "Cllllaaaaaaiiiinnnnsssssiiiiiiaaaaaa!"

Suddenly, Clainsiia awoke abruptly, heart pounding violently within her chest, sweat dampening her skin as breath came sharply, raggedly. Her emerald eyes darted wildly around the silent cell, her trembling frame struggling to regain composure. She whispered shakily, desperately hoping to calm the panic rising swiftly within her chest, "It was just… a nightmare."

Yet even as she spoke those words aloud, a chilling certainty settled deeply within her heart. This was no mere nightmare—what she'd seen felt painfully, unmistakably real, a haunting vision of a future she desperately feared could come to pass.
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Ashen and Warg watched silently from atop the balcony overlooking the vast courtyard of Garreg Mach Monastery, their eyes scanning meticulously over the preparations unfolding below. Elite troops, handpicked warriors chosen for their fierce loyalty and prowess, gathered in disciplined formations, receiving weapons forged specifically to withstand the devastating might of the Hero's Relics. The blacksmiths, dedicated and tireless, moved swiftly among the ranks, distributing swords shimmering softly with dark magic, spears crackling subtly with charged energy, and shields radiating a faint, protective aura. These weapons were not ordinary—they bore the weight of Ashen's desperate resolve, crafted meticulously to match the strength of the legendary artifacts wielded by his enemies.

Yet, amidst the controlled chaos of preparations, Ashen stood quietly, his molten-orange eyes focused on the horizon with a faraway intensity. Warg, sensing his lord’s distraction, cast a sideways glance filled with quiet curiosity yet respectful silence. He knew Ashen awaited something more—something crucial, something that could ensure tomorrow's confrontation ended decisively. Both of them understood the delicate balance of this conflict, the complexity of emotions at stake, and the painful inevitability of the final outcome.

As if on cue, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor behind them, drawing both Ashen and Warg's immediate attention. A large, imposing beast soldier emerged swiftly from the shadows, his heavy breaths steaming faintly in the cool night air, clearly exhausted from a strenuous journey. The soldier, covered in dark fur and wearing armor marked distinctly with Ashen's emblem, approached quickly, carrying carefully in one clawed hand a vial glowing faintly with an eerie crimson luminescence.

Without uttering a word, the beast soldier knelt respectfully before Ashen, carefully offering the potion upward with silent reverence. Ashen gently yet firmly took the vial, nodding softly to the soldier in acknowledgment, allowing him to rise and swiftly depart, no doubt to continue preparations for the looming battle.

For a moment, silence lingered heavily between Ashen and Warg. Ashen's gaze settled quietly upon the mysterious potion, its red glow casting an unsettling, ominous reflection against his dark scales. He stood contemplatively, silently weighing the gravity of what lay in his palm—understanding fully the profound implications of the choice before him.

Finally, Warg broke the silence, his voice low yet carrying profound caution, clearly tinged with deep unease. "My lord... Once you drink that potion, it will change you. Permanently."

Ashen slowly turned his head, meeting Warg’s steady gaze. The quiet sincerity in his companion's voice gave him pause, yet Ashen’s expression remained steadfastly resolute. Softly, with quiet conviction, he responded, "I know the risks, Warg, but it must be done."

Warg stepped slightly closer, his expression deepening in concern, loyalty clearly etched into every line of his grizzled face. He spoke again, this time more urgently, his tone carrying a gentle, cautionary warning. "My lord, understand clearly what I say. Once you consume this potion, you will never be as you are now. Your human form—your true self—will be lost forever. There will be no turning back."

Surprise flickered briefly within Ashen’s molten-orange eyes, genuine astonishment at Warg’s words—astonishment that Warg knew about his human form at all. For a moment, curiosity outweighed caution, prompting him gently to ask, his voice quiet yet firm, carrying subtle appreciation for his trusted ally's unwavering loyalty. "When did you learn of my human form?"

Warg’s expression softened slightly, voice filled deeply with respectful honesty and quiet admiration. "I discovered it when you visited the young girl before her resurrection. Despite learning of your humanity, my loyalty remains firmly with you, my lord. No matter what form you take, I will stand by your side until the very end."

A profound silence filled the space between them, Ashen absorbing Warg’s words with quiet appreciation and genuine gratitude. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the depth of his companion's loyalty, voice soft yet commanding. "Thank you, Warg. Now, please go. Ensure preparations continue smoothly."

Without hesitation, Warg bowed respectfully, a silent pledge of loyalty and understanding passing gently between them. He turned swiftly, footsteps echoing quietly as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Ashen standing solemnly alone, staring thoughtfully at the potion held gently in his palm.

Slowly, Ashen turned, gazing toward the large mirror positioned quietly in the corner of the balcony—a relic of simpler times, a reminder of the humanity he now willingly chose to sacrifice. With quiet deliberation, he stepped slowly toward it, his reflection growing clearer, the monstrous visage gazing steadily back at him. Quietly, almost reverently, he raised his clawed hand to the scales on his neck, channeling his power softly, allowing his human form to emerge briefly once more.

Instantly, scales receded gently, molten-orange eyes shifting softly into the vibrant green, and fiery crimson hair fading gradually into cascading emerald strands. Kazamir gazed deeply into his reflection, seeing clearly the man he once was—the hopeful young prince filled with dreams and aspirations, unburdened by the darkness that now clouded his soul. Quietly, with deep, heartfelt remorse and gentle sorrow, he softly whispered, voice trembling gently with emotion, "I'm sorry, child… but if your father, mother, and that mercenary won’t kill me willingly, then I must force their hand."

Determination hardened swiftly in his gaze, quiet resolve firmly settling upon his features. Without further hesitation, Ashen raised the glowing crimson potion to his lips, tilting it slowly, allowing the thick, bitter liquid to pour down his throat. The effect was immediate—an agonizing wave of searing pain erupted violently within him, coursing rapidly through his veins like molten fire. He staggered instantly to his knees, a pained cry tearing sharply from his throat, echoing piercingly through the silent night.

His body twisted violently, muscles contorting and bulging painfully, bones shifting and snapping audibly as the potion’s dark magic took merciless hold. Ashen clutched desperately at his side, then his head, breath coming raggedly between clenched teeth, his tortured cries of anguish echoing hauntingly across the monastery grounds.

"No," he growled defiantly through the torment, voice trembling harshly yet resolutely firm, filled deeply with grim determination, "this pain… it's nothing compared to the sins I've committed—the suffering I've caused!"

The metamorphosis intensified swiftly, scales erupting violently across his skin, growing thicker, harder, more imposing than ever before. His form expanded dramatically, immense wings bursting forcefully from his back, spreading powerfully, casting monstrous shadows over terrified soldiers who watched helplessly, frozen in fearful awe.

The ground beneath him trembled fiercely with unleashed power, cracks splitting sharply through stone and earth, throwing soldiers violently backward. Ashen roared furiously, an earth-shattering cry filled deeply with primal rage and unyielding determination, his transformation reaching its horrifying apex. The air around him burned ominously, a sinister aura permeating thickly, radiating intense malevolence. Brilliant blue flames erupted forcefully from his maw, illuminating vividly the darkened skies above, casting harsh, haunting shadows across the monastery's ancient walls.

With a final, thunderous slam of his massive clawed fist against the ground, he raised his monstrous visage defiantly toward the heavens, eyes glowing fiercely with savage resolve. His powerful, resonant voice echoed mightily through the night, carrying clearly across the trembling grounds, filled profoundly with unwavering determination and a desperate plea for finality.

"I await you, Byleth Eisner!" he bellowed defiantly into the darkness, his voice reverberating powerfully with undeniable resolve, a tortured yet resolute soul determined to meet his fate. "Let our battle decide the future of Fódlan—so that our home may finally find the peace it deserves!"

In that decisive moment, beneath the cold, unfeeling gaze of the stars above, Ashen's monstrous form stood starkly silhouetted against the darkness—an ominous harbinger of the final, tragic confrontation awaiting dawn’s first light. The stage was now set, the fate of all Fódlan hung precariously in the balance, awaiting the bitter yet inevitable clash that would determine the course of history.

Chapter Text

The next day, the time for the second battle of Garreg Mach had finally arrived, and everyone knew precisely where Clainsiia was. Byleth, Shez, and Edelgard stood at the very center of their camp, gazing thoughtfully at their assembled army-each soldier's face reflecting a powerful mix of courage, hope, and quiet determination. The gentle morning sun rose steadily above the horizon, casting a soft golden glow upon the landscape, painting everything with warmth despite the tension in the air.

Byleth turned gently toward Edelgard, his teal eyes meeting hers with quiet sincerity and profound affection. He softly asked, his voice tender yet quietly resolute, "El, would you speak to them? Your words have always inspired our soldiers, your voice always guided them forward."

Edelgard smiled softly, her eyes shimmering warmly as she regarded her husband-this quiet, strong man whom she loved beyond measure. Gently, she reached out, taking his hand into hers, intertwining their fingers tenderly. Her voice, quiet and thoughtful, resonated deeply with warmth and unwavering trust. "My dear By, this moment doesn't belong to me-it belongs to you. They need to hear your voice, to see your determination. Let them hear your heart, and they will follow you into any battle."

Byleth hesitated momentarily, uncertainty flickering gently across his features. Speechmaking had never come naturally to him. He was a warrior, a teacher, a leader-but words spoken before an audience had always been Edelgard's domain. Yet, seeing the gentle confidence in her eyes, feeling the reassuring squeeze of her hand, he knew she was right. He must do this. He took a slow, deep breath, steadying himself quietly before stepping forward, gaze encompassing the vast, expectant army before him.

Shez, standing closely beside Edelgard, leaned quietly toward the empress, curiosity brightening her eyes. She softly whispered, her voice filled with genuine intrigue and a touch of amusement, "Has he ever given a speech before?"

Edelgard shook her head gently, a faint smile forming softly upon her lips, eyes warmly confident as she murmured quietly back, "No. But they need to hear him now."

(https://youtu.be/5yDvdhmZmlE?si=N0ayQHwF-XLZLV8T song suggestion.)

The soldiers, sensing the gravity of this moment, gradually ceased their quiet conversations, eyes turning respectfully toward Byleth, the revered leader who had guided them this far. Byleth took another steadying breath, allowing his gaze to slowly drift across his gathered comrades. His teal eyes lingered gently upon familiar faces-friends who had joined him, warriors who had fought bravely at his side, and the empty spaces where the fallen once stood. Painful memories surged gently yet vividly within him-the smiles, laughter, strength, and sacrifice of Dorothea, Hubert, Felix, Ignatz, and so many others. Their faces, etched eternally into his heart, reminded him profoundly of their shared cause.

His gaze shifted briefly toward the mage gently cradling his infant son, Jeralt, who would soon be safely escorted back to Enbarr alongside Arthur. Determination surged strongly through Byleth’s heart-their safety, their future, depended heavily on this moment. Finally, his eyes softly met Sothis’s emerald gaze, the goddess smiled reassuringly, gently nodding her encouragement. Quiet strength settled firmly within him.

With profound sincerity, his deep, steady voice resonated powerfully across the silent ranks, carrying clearly and distinctly across the hushed encampment. "My friends, my comrades, my fellow warriors-today, we stand on the precipice of history. Our journey has been long and arduous, filled with trials and tribulations that have tested our resolve. But through it all, we have remained steadfast in our mission: to save our loved ones, to bring peace to Fódlan, and to forge a brighter future."

His words hung deeply in the air, sinking powerfully into each soldier's heart, igniting a quiet, steady resolve that spread swiftly through the ranks. "Today," Byleth continued firmly, voice gentle yet profoundly powerful, "we face a formidable foe-a man who has lost his way, who became a god, consumed by his own darkness. But let it be known that we do not fight out of vengeance or hatred. We fight to protect the people we love, to ensure a world where children can thrive."

He paused momentarily, gaze drifting meaningfully across the army, eyes reflecting quiet pride and deep appreciation. "Each and every one of you has fought valiantly, with unwavering courage and dedication. You have endured hardships, sacrificed greatly, and stood together as a unified force. Today, we fight not only for our own futures but for the futures of all who call Fodlan home."

Byleth's voice resonated clearly, passionately, imbued deeply with conviction and solemn respect. "In this final battle, let us remember the fallen-those who have fought bravely alongside us but are no longer here. They gave their lives for this cause, and it is our duty to honor their memory. Let their sacrifice fuel our determination, our strength, and our unwavering resolve."

His words sparked a powerful surge of energy through the army, soldiers gripping weapons tighter, their hearts burning brightly with renewed purpose and fierce determination. "Together," Byleth continued steadily, voice rising with passionate resolve, "we have formed an unbreakable bond, forged through countless battles and shared experiences. We have come to rely on each other, to trust in one another’s strength. And today, we fight not as individuals-but as one cohesive force!"

A powerful roar rose swiftly from the ranks, a united cry resonating deeply, echoing fiercely across the battlefield, signifying their unwavering readiness.

Shez and Edelgard stepped forward, standing closely beside Byleth. Edelgard, with solemn resolve, raised Aymr proudly above her head, symbolizing her determination and leadership. Simultaneously, Shez called upon her power-vividly transforming before their eyes. Soldiers stared in awe as her form blazed powerfully with a fiery orange hue. Brilliant white marks adorned her face like sacred war paint, her hair shimmering vividly in sunset colors, ending with vibrant purple. Behind her neck hovered a fierce crescent moon halo, flames crackling defiantly, and bracelets shaped like living fire encircled her wrists, radiating palpable energy.

Petra gazed openly astonished, quietly murmuring with amazement, "Is Shez truly like Byleth?"

Leonie smiled knowingly, voice filled with gentle pride and satisfaction, "I always knew she was more than just a mercenary."

Claude chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling warmly with genuine admiration and amusement. "Shez is always full of surprises."

Byleth, deeply inspired by the unity and determination surrounding him, raised the sword of the creator high-the unmistakable symbol of his authority and resolve. His voice, filled powerfully with unwavering confidence and compassionate purpose, echoed clearly across the army, resonating deeply in every soldier’s heart. "Soldiers of the  Adrestian Empire, soldiers of Fódlan, let this battle be a testament to our unyielding spirit, our indomitable will! Fight with all your might-but never forget our shared purpose... to bring about a better world, a world where peace and prosperity reign!"

A united roar erupted powerfully from the army, their voices merging fiercely into a single cry of determination and resolve. With quiet certainty, Byleth channeled deeply the power of the goddess within him. His eyes shifted gently into a radiant emerald, his hair softly cascading into vivid green-a clear sign of his readiness and unyielding commitment.

As the powerful echoes of their united cries gradually faded gently into silence, the army stood firmly poised, ready to face whatever challenges awaited them. In that quiet, profound moment beneath the warm, morning sun, the soldiers of the Adrestian Empire prepared to fight-not just for victory, but for a future filled with hope, unity, and lasting peace.

And so, beneath the steadily rising sun, their hearts united by unbreakable bonds, Byleth, Edelgard, Shez, and every soldier present marched forward resolutely, determination burning fiercely in their eyes, ready to face their final, destiny-defining battle.

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At Garreg Mach Monastery, Warg walked briskly toward Ashen, urgency evident in his heavy steps. The corridors felt colder than usual, almost lifeless, a shadowy chill clinging stubbornly to every corner. Each step Warg took echoed forebodingly against the stone walls, resonating like an unsettling drumbeat heralding an approaching storm.

When Warg reached Ashen, he paused, breath momentarily trapped in his chest as a chill surged violently down his spine. Ashen stood silently near the balcony, gazing thoughtfully over the expansive courtyard below. His transformation had completed, leaving behind a being that could only be described as more monstrous. Ashen eyes, now blazing with intense, unnatural fire, turned slowly over his shoulder to fix upon Warg, their piercing glow filled with eerie confidence and chilling resolve.

Warg swallowed hard, quickly regaining composure despite the unease churning within him. He stood firmly, respectful yet cautious. "My lord," he spoke steadily, voice clear despite the weight of apprehension pressing heavily upon him, "the Empire is on their way."

Ashen's voice, now deeper and resonant, carrying the weight of his altered being, echoed powerfully across the balcony. "Are the elite troops ready?"

Warg nodded firmly, his voice unwavering despite the tension tightening painfully in his chest. "They are, my lord."

Ashen's scaled lips curled subtly, satisfaction faintly evident in his fiery gaze. "Good. Now, go."

Warg swiftly bowed his head in acknowledgment, snatching his massive axe from beside him. Without hesitation, he ran urgently toward the preparations unfolding below, leaving Ashen alone to face the impending storm.

As Warg vanished from sight, Ashen gazed solemnly toward the distant horizon, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he murmured quietly, a whisper carried gently on the restless wind, filled deeply with profound resignation and unyielding determination. "Remember, Byleth—there is no choice."

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( https://youtu.be/3eq-qUy-a-A?si=R-Sh7slDWNZbPc3a Song suggestion.)

In the distance, the banners of the Adrestian Empire emerged upon the crest of the hills, fluttering proudly in the cool morning breeze. Beneath them marched soldiers clad in polished armor, weapons gleaming in the soft sunlight, their steps disciplined and confident. Leading them stood Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez-each bearing expressions of quiet resolve, their eyes fixed steadily upon the imposing walls of Garreg Mach.

Byleth lifted the Sword of the Creator skyward, the weapon humming with ancient power. Behind him, mages awaited his command, their fingers tingling with anticipation, spells prepared and primed. With a determined sweep of his sword toward the monastery's towering walls, he signaled the assault to begin. The mages, in unison, chanted fiercely, their voices resonating with power as fiery meteors descended, crashing thunderously into the ancient stone defenses. Dust and debris erupted explosively into the sky, shaking the ground with the force of their impact. The walls, once symbols of strength and sanctuary, crumbled dramatically beneath the relentless onslaught.

"Forward!" Byleth commanded powerfully, his voice echoing resolutely across the battlefield. The army surged bravely through the newly forged openings, their battle cries mingling fiercely with the clash of steel and the roaring of Ashen's beast soldiers. Above and below, both armies collided violently, turning Garreg Mach into a chaotic symphony of weapons, magic, and raw courage.

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Leonie and Shamir stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes sharp and focused, bows expertly drawn and releasing arrows swiftly toward the snarling beast soldiers soaring through the skies. Leonie’s arrow struck true, sending one beast spiraling downward with a final, anguished cry. Shamir, with her characteristic calm, released another shot, cleanly piercing another airborne foe.

"Nice shot," Leonie called appreciatively, quickly nocking another arrow and taking aim once more.

Shamir allowed a small, amused smile, responding evenly, "You're not a bad shot yourself."

Suddenly, a beast soldier swooped downward aggressively, swinging a massive axe dangerously close to them. They dodged skillfully, evading narrowly the deadly strike. Before the beast could turn again, it staggered forward, clutching weakly at its throat as a sword pierced cleanly through from behind. It fell lifelessly forward, revealing Yuri standing confidently behind it, blade dripping with dark blood.

"I hope when I join you two, I don’t hear too many compliments," Yuri teased dryly, wiping his sword clean and stepping gracefully toward them.

Leonie flashed a spirited grin, playfully responding, "No promises!"

Shamir nodded sharply, suggesting curtly yet efficiently, "We should focus elsewhere now-let’s help the others."

Meanwhile, further into the battlefield, Caspar stood protectively beside Bernadetta, his axe a blur of motion, fiercely deflecting any beast soldier foolish enough to approach. Bernadetta shakily steadied her bow, releasing arrows that found their marks, despite her trembling nerves. Amidst the chaos, she shyly asked Caspar, "Hey, Caspar... when you and Petra go back to Brigid, can I visit for a while?"

Caspar, without hesitation, hurled his axe violently toward her direction. Bernadetta flinched, startled, but swiftly realized the blade had struck down a beast lunging from behind her. Caspar laughed heartily, quickly retrieving his weapon. "Sure! You'll love the palm trees and warm weather—it's way better than hiding indoors all day!"

Bernadetta, face flushed in embarrassment yet gratitude, muttered sheepishly, "Thanks... and thanks for saving me."

Elsewhere, Linhardt gracefully weaved spells, his magic flowing effortlessly from his fingertips, knocking enemies backward with practiced ease. Nearby, Petra moved fluidly, her spear twirling expertly, blocking attacks and striking enemies with calculated precision, even as her body bore the gentle burden of her unborn child. Linhardt couldn't help but remark thoughtfully, "Even with Caspar’s child, your spear technique hasn't dulled in the slightest."

Petra smiled warmly, deflecting another blow effortlessly. "Your guidance and wisdom have shaped me into the warrior I am today, Linhardt. Without you, my spear would not dance this way."

Linhardt chuckled softly, sincerity brightening his usually lazy expression. "Your determination and discipline did the work, Petra. I merely helped you unlock what was already within."

Byleth, Shez, and Edelgard were pushing toward the monastery, accompanied by their finest soldiers, each step bringing them closer to the heart of Garreg Mach. Waves of Ashen’s beast soldiers crashed against their formation, ferocious and determined, yet no matter how desperately they tried to block the trio, Byleth would extend the Sword of the Creator to swiftly dispatch them, clearing the path forward with unwavering precision.

Shez transformed gracefully into a fiery orb, streaking through ranks of the monstrous soldiers, bypassing entire battalions with ease. She re-materialized in front of the heavily fortified gate, her blades swiftly cutting through the throats of the beast soldiers guarding it. Arval’s voice gently echoed in her mind, filled with cautious amusement and slight concern. "Wasn't that a little overkill, Shez?"

Shez shook her head, resolutely wiping her blades clean, her violet eyes fierce with determination as she reminded him, voice firm yet warm. "This is the final battle, Arval. I have to give it my all."

Arval sighed softly in acknowledgment, conceding gently, "Fair enough."

Just then, Byleth and Edelgard arrived swiftly at Shez's side, pausing briefly to assess the situation. The guards lay defeated, but the heavy gate remained firmly closed. Edelgard, glancing toward her husband, calmly suggested, "Byleth, mind getting to the other side?"

Byleth nodded decisively, quickly extending the Sword of the Creator, its whip-like blade latching onto the top of the wall. In an instant, he propelled himself upward, landing swiftly atop the wall, and without hesitation, jumped to the other side. Beast soldiers rushed aggressively toward him, but he swiftly cut them down, movements precise and controlled. Turning swiftly to the gate, Byleth raised the heavy mechanism, chains rattling and creaking loudly as the massive doors slowly rose.

"Come on!" Byleth urged firmly, and Edelgard and Shez quickly joined him, the trio continuing their determined advance deeper into the monastery. They fought fiercely, pressing forward through winding corridors and open courtyards until they reached a metal gate-an entrance leading deep beneath Garreg Mach, down into the Abyss.

"You knights stay here!" Edelgard commanded firmly to their soldiers, who quickly took defensive positions around the gate. Without hesitation, Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez descended rapidly into the shadowy depths beneath the monastery, the cool, damp air of the underground city enveloping them immediately.

Upon entering the Abyss, they immediately understood the scale of their task-its labyrinthine layout sprawling, dark tunnels and hidden alcoves stretching endlessly. Edelgard took command decisively, her crimson eyes filled with determination. "We split up, and meet back here soon."

Byleth and Shez nodded, swiftly moving off in separate directions. Byleth charged quickly toward the western side of the Abyss, his heart pounding with urgency. As he ran, he noticed a heavily guarded building standing out clearly amidst the darkness. Suddenly, Sothis appeared softly beside him, her gentle, ethereal presence reassuring yet intense.

"She is there," Sothis confirmed, emerald eyes solemn yet determined. "I can sense her."

Byleth felt his heart leap powerfully within his chest. He tightened his grip upon the Sword of the Creator, his voice quietly fierce with renewed determination. "Then it's time to get her back."

Without hesitation, he sprinted forward, cutting down beast soldiers swiftly, each powerful strike driven by the singular thought of seeing his daughter again. Once inside the building, Byleth moved carefully yet urgently, calling out desperately through the empty hallways. "Clainsiia! Clainsiia!"

In a cell, Clainsiia lay quietly upon her wooden bed, barely stirring at first as distant echoes of her name reached her ears. She shifted softly, eyes slowly opening, initially believing she was still dreaming. But the voice called again, clearer, unmistakably familiar. Heart racing, she sat up sharply, confusion mingling swiftly with hope. "Father...?"

Byleth charged through the shadowy hallways of the Abyss, his teal eyes narrowed with fierce determination. Every corner he rounded brought more beast soldiers surging toward him, their guttural growls echoing off the walls, but none could slow him down. Each swing of the Sword of the Creator was precise, fueled by an urgent, unyielding desire to find his daughter.

He stopped briefly, breathing deeply, trying to pinpoint the source of the echoing voice. His heart pounded violently in his chest as he called again, his voice resonating desperately through the corridors. "Clainsiia!"

Once more, the faint but unmistakable voice responded, clearer than before, echoing softly through the tunnels. "Father!"

Byleth felt his heart surge. He knew that voice—it was undoubtedly hers. Without another thought, he sprinted forward, adrenaline coursing powerfully through his veins. His boots echoed loudly against the damp stone floors, matching the rhythm of his rapidly beating heart. Each step brought him closer, amplifying his desperation to reach her.

"Father!" Clainsiia's voice now rang out louder, filled deeply with anxious hope, sensing his approach.

"Clainsiia!" he shouted again, urgency and emotion thickening his voice, drawing strength from their shared hope.

As he rounded one final corner, Byleth saw clearly the heavy metal door of her cell. His heart leaped within his chest, relief washing over him in waves. "Clainsiia, stand away from the cell door!" he commanded swiftly, voice firm yet gentle, determined to keep her safe.

Clainsiia immediately scrambled to the left side of the cell, her emerald eyes wide and shimmering softly with tears of relief. Without hesitation, Byleth raised the Sword of the Creator, extending its whip-like blade to latch onto the sturdy metal door. With a fierce, determined pull, the ancient sword tore the door from its hinges, sending it clattering loudly against the stone floor.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still as father and daughter gazed at each other across the threshold. Slowly, Clainsiia stepped hesitantly from the shadows, eyes filled deeply with emotion, disbelief, and overwhelming joy.

Byleth dropped his sword to the ground, the metallic clang echoing softly around them. He fell gently onto both knees, his arms opening wide, his teal eyes shimmering with tears as emotion overwhelmed him completely. "Clainsiia…" he whispered softly, voice trembling with profound relief and immeasurable love.

In an instant, Clainsiia broke into a run, her small feet quickly bridging the distance between them. She launched herself into her father's embrace, arms wrapping tightly around his neck. They held each other tightly, tears streaming freely down their faces-tears of joy, relief, and the profound, unspoken love they shared.

Byleth, for only the second time in his life, allowed himself to cry openly, feeling deeply the warmth and fragility of the child he'd longed to hold again. His voice broke softly, murmuring gently into her hair, "My little princess... I missed you so much."

Clainsiia pulled back slightly, her emerald eyes glistening wetly with tears yet filled warmly with happiness. She reached gently to touch his tear-streaked face, voice tender yet filled deeply with understanding. "Father... I missed you too."

His gaze then shifted quietly, noticing for the first time the subtle yet unmistakable change in her appearance. Her vibrant emerald eyes now mirrored his own in his god form, her hair gently shimmering in the same radiant green hue. He chuckled softly, brushing his fingers tenderly through her silky hair. "To think you now have this new look…"

Clainsiia hesitated slightly, voice soft yet uncertain, filled gently with quiet insecurity. "Father... do I look... bad?"

Byleth quickly shook his head, his teal eyes filled deeply with affection and quiet amusement. "Quite the opposite," he murmured warmly, smiling tenderly. "You look wonderful."

He then reached gently for the Sword of the Creator, rising slowly to his feet while lifting her carefully with one arm. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, leaning softly against his shoulder as they moved toward the exit. Sothis appeared quietly beside them, her presence soft and reassuring yet gently concerned. Her emerald eyes noticed immediately Clainsiia’s tired expression. "Child, have you gotten any sleep?"

Clainsiia shifted softly, voice quiet yet burdened with lingering unease. "I had a nightmare… it kept me awake."

Sothis’s eyes softened gently, her voice warm and tenderly sympathetic, "Then rest now, little one. You're safe."

As they continued walking, Edelgard and Shez quickly appeared ahead, relief clearly evident upon their faces. Edelgard immediately rushed forward, arms outstretched, tears brimming softly within her crimson eyes. "Clainsiia!" she cried, voice trembling with profound emotion and maternal relief.

Byleth gently lowered Clainsiia to the ground, stepping back quietly as Edelgard swiftly embraced their daughter. Edelgard held her tightly, tears streaming openly down her cheeks, her voice thick with raw, genuine emotion. "My daughter... my precious little girl, I missed you so much!"

Clainsiia clung tightly to her mother, heart swelling warmly with the overwhelming love between them. "I missed you too, Mother."

Edelgard slowly drew back, carefully observing her daughter's new emerald-colored hair and eyes. She smiled gently, voice filled deeply with quiet pride and tender amusement. "I see you have your favorite color now. Do you like it?"

The little princess nodded eagerly, smiling softly. "Yes, Mother, I do."

Shez stepped forward slowly, violet eyes filled deeply with surprise yet gentle warmth. Despite the months they'd spent apart, Clainsiia immediately recognized her, smiling softly and calling warmly, "Shez!"

Shez blinked in genuine astonishment, pleasantly surprised the young princess still remembered her name. "You still remember me?"

"Of course," Clainsiia replied gently, smiling warmly, her eyes sparkling with quiet sincerity.

Yet, abruptly, Clainsiia’s expression shifted swiftly, sorrow and anxiety overtaking her features as thoughts of Kazamir rushed clearly back into her mind. Her emerald gaze pleaded urgently toward Byleth, eyes shimmering wetly with desperate hope. "Father... please don't kill Kazamir."

Byleth regarded her solemnly, deeply moved by her heartfelt plea. His voice was gentle yet firm, sincere and compassionate. "Clainsiia, I don't want to kill him. What you've done to make someone like Kazamir remember who he once was... it's truly incredible, especially for someone your age. I hope we find another choice."

Yet before he could continue, a powerful, unsettling roar echoed loudly from above, unmistakably Ashen’s, filled ominously with primal rage. Instantly, Clainsiia bolted toward the surface, ignoring Edelgard's frantic call. "Clainsiia, come back-it's not safe!"

(https://youtu.be/bMfvZmhqW0A?si=iurBTL4zQrXg2PK- song suggestion)

Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez swiftly chased after her, reaching the surface just in time to witness a horrifying scene unfolding. A knight, struggling desperately in a massive clawed hand, gasped painfully before his neck was snapped mercilessly. His lifeless body was flung violently against a wall, joining other fallen knights scattered across the courtyard.

Standing amidst the carnage was an immense, terrifying beast, towering at seven feet five inches. Four glowing eyes-two on each side-blazed ominously. Its wings, though ragged with tears, stretched menacingly. The creature's claws, each six inches long and stained vividly with green blood, glistened dangerously in the sunlight. Its tail, grotesquely spiked by exposed bones, lashed threateningly. Horns curved sharply toward its jaw, and its obsidian scales shimmered darkly beneath its fiery crimson hair.

Clainsiia’s emerald eyes widened sharply in stunned horror and disbelief. She recognized clearly those scales, hair, and molten-orange eyes. Her voice shook violently with fear and confusion, crying desperately, "K-K-Kazamir!? What did you do to yourself!?"

Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez quickly arrived, their eyes widening in stunned shock. Ashen, his monstrous gaze fixed menacingly upon Byleth, stepped forward ominously, voice resonating powerfully with dark resolve. "I gave you a chance yesterday... and what did you do?"

Summoning his sword, he advanced aggressively. Edelgard quickly grabbed Clainsiia, pulling her protectively behind. Ashen’s voice echoed ominously, filled with cold, unforgiving resolve. "You chose to let me live... now suffer the consequences!"

With a deafening roar, he launched fiercely toward them. Byleth shoved Edelgard aside desperately, only to find himself snatched violently by Ashen’s massive claw. Shez swiftly moved to help, but Ashen's spiked tail swiftly curled around her neck, dragging both heroes helplessly upward.

Ashen soared rapidly toward the cathedral building, throwing them forcefully through a stained glass window. Glass shattered dramatically as Byleth and Shez rolled painfully onto the floor, struggling quickly to their feet.

Ashen landed atop the cathedral roof, raising his monstrous visage toward the heavens. With a thunderous, primal roar echoing fiercely across Garreg Mach, he declared his final, decisive challenge.

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All across the battlefield, soldiers on both sides paused, stunned by the sheer ferocity of the sound. Beast soldiers and humans alike froze momentarily, their gazes drawn involuntarily toward the source of the unearthly roar.

Near the central courtyard, Ashe was engaged in a fierce battle with a group of beast soldiers, his bowstring snapping repeatedly as he loosed arrow after arrow into their ranks. He staggered slightly as the ground trembled underfoot, an uneasy feeling crawling down his spine. He quickly shouted over the din of battle, "That can't be good!"

Claude, nearby, adjusted his grip on his bow, smirking faintly despite the tension. "Just be ready for-"

Before he could finish, the ground beneath him erupted violently. A massive clawed hand, shimmering with silver dragon scales, burst forth from the earth. In one terrifying instant, Claude was grabbed roughly by the leg and hauled upside down into the air.

Claude barely had time to react as he was swung violently by the monstrous beast, towering eighteen feet and five inches tall, its grotesque silver scales glinting menacingly in the sunlight. The creature snarled, lifting an enormous battle axe high above its head, ready to cleave Claude in two.

A sharp, whistling sound cut through the air. Ingrid, with deadly precision, hurled Luin-her sacred spear-straight into the beast's snarling face. The spear pierced deep into the monster’s skull with a sickening crunch. With a deafening roar of agony, the beast staggered backward, releasing its grip on Claude, who tumbled to the ground with a grunt of pain but rolled swiftly to his feet.

"Thanks, Ingrid!" Claude called breathlessly, but there was no time for celebration.

All around them, chaos exploded. Ashen’s elite beast soldiers surged from underground tunnels and shadowed alleyways, grabbing imperial soldiers one by one. Some were stabbed viciously, their screams piercing the air before they could even cry for help. Others-horrifyingly-were dragged backward, kicking and struggling, only to be eaten alive before their comrades' horrified eyes.

Lysithea, hurling a devastating series of spells into the monstrous tide, gritted her teeth fiercely and cried out, "Things just got a whole lot harder!"

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Back at the cathedral building, Byleth slowly pushed himself up from the shattered floor, the pain throbbing sharply through his ribs, but he ignored it. His teal eyes darted across the wreckage until he spotted Shez lying a few feet away, coughing amidst the swirling dust. Heart pounding with urgency, he rushed to her side, extending a hand toward her. Shez, gritting her teeth against the pain radiating through her bruised body, gripped his hand tightly, a fierce reassurance passing between them without a single word.

"I'm fine," Shez rasped out, managing a small but determined smile as Byleth pulled her up to her feet.

Before they could even catch their breath, a loud crack sounded above them-a portion of the cathedral’s roof, weakened by Ashen's brutal attack, suddenly gave way. With a rumbling groan, stone and wood plummeted downwards, sending a cloud of debris and dust billowing through the air. Acting purely on instinct, the two darted aside, moving swiftly to avoid being crushed beneath the falling rubble, every sense on high alert.

As the dust cleared and visibility returned, Ashen emerged like a nightmare, charging at them with a deafening roar, his massive frame moving with terrifying speed. In his hands gleamed his double-bladed sword. Byleth and Shez wasted no time, charging back at him with blades ready, hearts steeled for the fight of their lives.

Their swords collided with a clash that shook the ground beneath them. Sparks exploded violently from the force of the impact. Shez, moving with sharp precision, turned herself into a blazing orange orb of energy, zipping behind Ashen in an attempt to strike a critical blow. Her sword aimed for the vulnerable spot between his wings-but Ashen, anticipating her move, blocked her attack from behind with the backward sweep of his blade.

At the same time, Byleth pressed from the front, bringing the Sword of the Creator down in a powerful arc. Ashen split his double-bladed weapon expertly into two separate swords, catching Byleth's attack and locking him in place.

"Remember..." Ashen's voice, distorted and guttural, rumbled like thunder. His molten gaze bore into Byleth’s. "Whoever dies on this field is on your hands!"

Without any warning, Ashen lashed out with his powerful leg, delivering a brutal kick to Shez. She was flung across the cathedral like a ragdoll, slamming hard against a cracked marble wall, a cry of pain escaping her lips as she crumpled to the floor.

Ashen wasted no time. With disturbing skill, he balanced his double swords with only three clawed fingers, spinning them like lethal discs toward Byleth. The weapons cut through the air with deadly speed. Byleth barely managed to react in time, extending the Sword of the Creator in its whip-like form, coiling it outward and using it as a shield. The swords embedded themselves into the walls behind him, quivering violently from the force.

Before Byleth could counterattack, Ashen effortlessly warped the swords back into his hands, the connection between weapon and master seamless, rejoining them into the double-blade once again.

Shez, undeterred despite the aching pain radiating through her ribs, rose shakily to her feet. Rage and determination burned in her violet eyes as she charged once again. Yet Ashen, anticipating her, unfurled his torn wings and launched himself upward into the rafters with a powerful leap.

High above them, Ashen summoned the ancient spell Dark Spikes T. The cathedral trembled as ominous dark magic gathered around him. In a horrifying instant, massive black spikes rained down from the heavens, filling the air with death.

Byleth darted behind a crumbling pillar, shielding himself as the spikes shattered the stone around him. Shez, nimble and determined, dodged and weaved through the deadly onslaught, heading straight toward Ashen with relentless focus.

Gathering all her strength, Shez hurled her sword straight at Ashen. The weapon spun like a meteor, slamming into his chest with a sickening crack. Ashen staggered, looking down at the deep wound that now marred his scaled flesh. His molten-orange eyes widened slightly-the realization struck him immediately. His body, after the irreversible transformation, could no longer regenerate.

Ashen roared furiously, his entire form convulsing with rage. He prepared to unleash a torrent of searing blue fire from his jaws-but Byleth seized the moment. Extending the Sword of the Creator once more, he wrapped it tightly around Ashen's thick neck.

With a mighty heave, Byleth yanked Ashen downward. Ashen's massive body smashed violently against the floor. But Byleth wasn’t finished. Using the momentum, he spun Ashen’s body around, swinging him like a battering ram into the massive pillars lining the cathedral. Pillar after pillar cracked and shattered under the onslaught, chunks of stone raining down from the ceiling.

Finally, Byleth released his grip, and Ashen’s body hurtled like a meteor out through the front doors of the cathedral, crashing into the courtyard beyond with a thunderous boom. Dust and debris exploded outward from the impact, sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield.

Finally, Byleth released his grip, and Ashen’s body hurtled like a meteor out through the front doors of the cathedral, crashing into the courtyard beyond with a thunderous boom. Dust and debris exploded outward from the impact, sending shockwaves rippling across the battlefield. Ashen dug his claws desperately into the stone, furrowing long trenches into the courtyard as he slowed his descent, growling lowly and eyes blazing furiously.

Shez and Byleth, wasting no time, charged after him through the ruined doorway, weapons drawn, hearts pounding with relentless determination. As they closed in, Ashen rose swiftly, splitting his double-bladed sword into two separate weapons. A dangerous glow ignited around him as he pointed the swords forward, a massive beam of pure destructive energy coalescing instantly between them, surging directly toward Shez and Byleth like a roaring river of death.

Just as the beam was about to engulf them, two brilliant flashes appeared before them-Sothis and Arval materialized in an instant, standing protectively in front of Shez and Byleth. With hands outstretched, they summoned an ethereal shield, a radiant barrier shimmering brightly under the force of Ashen’s brutal assault.

The beam slammed into the shield with catastrophic impact, causing the ground to quake violently. Cracks webbed rapidly across the barrier's surface, sparks and shards of magic splintering outward. Both Sothis and Arval gritted their teeth, straining every fiber of their existence to hold it back. The raw, unrelenting power pressing against them was like standing before a raging star. Yet they did not falter.

Ashen, unfazed by their resilience, snarled viciously and hurled both his swords with brutal force toward Shez and Byleth. The swords sliced through the air, a deadly blur of silver and red. Shez and Byleth barely dodged aside, the blades carving deep gashes into the stone ground where they had stood a mere heartbeat earlier. But Ashen’s mastery over his weapons was relentless-the swords, spinning violently, reversed direction mid-air, homing back toward their targets.

Shez and Byleth turned swiftly, intercepting the returning swords with fierce precision. Shez ground her teeth in frustration, her sword clashing violently against Ashen’s incoming blades. Sparks flew as metal grinded against metal.

"He really is giving his all!" Shez hissed through clenched teeth, sweat dripping from her brow.

Byleth, sensing the next danger before it came, abruptly broke the clash and turned his head sharply. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ashen sprinting toward them with terrifying speed, claws outstretched and eyes burning with unrelenting fury.

Without thinking, Byleth dived in front of Shez, raising his blade defensively just as Ashen’s massive claws descended. Both of Ashen’s swords vanished mid-stride, absorbed back into his monstrous form, freeing his claws to attack with pure, feral savagery.

Byleth grunted under the force of Ashen's assault but stood firm, shielding Shez with his body. Together, they rolled away, barely evading a crushing blow that shattered the ground where they had stood moments before. Rising swiftly to their feet, they barely had a moment to recover before Ashen was upon them again.

His claws slashed furiously, each strike carrying lethal force. Byleth parried with the Sword of the Creator, sparks igniting with every clash. Shez countered from the side, managing to sever two of Ashen’s monstrous claws with a precise, spinning slash. Ashen roared in agony, his molten eyes flaring even brighter with pain and rage.

Undeterred by his injuries, Ashen swung his massive tail toward Shez in a vicious arc. Shez, agile as ever, ducked beneath the attack, rolling fluidly across the ground and coming up behind him.

Byleth moved in at the same moment, swinging his sword downward-but Ashen, even wounded, was not so easily overcome. In a flash, one of his summoned swords materialized back into his clawed hand, intercepting Byleth’s blow with a resounding clang.

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Meanwhile, Edelgard, clutching Clainsiia tightly, dashed through the battered corridors of the monastery, her heart pounding fiercely against her ribs. The sounds of battle and the thunderous crashes from the cathedral echoed behind them, but ahead was quieter for now. Her instincts screamed for her to find shelter for her daughter. Every beat of her heart screamed of urgency. The steps of approaching beast soldiers grew louder, closing the distance with terrifying speed. She knew there wasn’t much time left.

As they turned a corner, Edelgard spotted the familiar, partially ruined doors of the Officers Academy classrooms. Memories flickered swiftly in her mind, this was where the Blue Lion House once held their lessons, where young dreams and rivalries once blossomed. Now, it would serve as her daughter's hiding place.

She skidded to a halt in front of the door and knelt quickly, her eyes locking fiercely onto Clainsiia’s wide, terrified emerald ones. Edelgard’s voice was low but filled with iron determination. "Clainsiia, listen to me carefully. Stay in here. Hide. No matter what you hear-no matter what happens-do not come out unless I come for you. Understand?"

Clainsiia, trembling but trusting, nodded quickly, the deep love and trust she had for her mother pushing aside her fear. She slipped into the darkened classroom, glancing back only once, seeing her mother’s strong silhouette framed by the broken doorway. Edelgard gave her a final, reassuring nod, then closed the heavy door gently behind her, trapping Clainsiia in safety... for now.

Turning back toward the hallway, Edelgard’s face hardened. She gripped Aymr tightly in both hands, the legendary relic humming softly with lethal promise. She wouldn't let them take her daughter. She would die before allowing that.

Just as she planted Aymr firmly into the cracked stone floor, the reverberating sound like a battle drum in the silent corridor, a figure stepped forward from the shadows. Warg. The beast soldier’s eyes gleamed wickedly beneath the torchlight, his monstrous mouth curling into a cruel grin. His deep, guttural voice oozed malice as he taunted, "I suppose you won’t hand over the child?"

Edelgard lifted her chin, her glare cutting sharper than any blade. "You're not taking her from me," she stated, every word delivered with the weight of an unbreakable oath.

Warg’s grin widened darkly, and with a flick of his clawed hand, he signaled to his soldiers. Beast soldiers snarled and charged down the corridor, claws and fangs glinting savagely.

Edelgard braced herself, her grip tightening on Aymr. As the first beast lunged, she swung her weapon with a fierce cry, cleaving cleanly through his thick neck. Blood spurted against the cracked stone walls, staining them a vivid crimson.

Without wasting a heartbeat, the others attacked. Three came from the left, two from the right, claws flashing hungrily toward her. Edelgard moved like fire itself-fast, fierce, and consuming. She pivoted gracefully, Aymr swinging with devastating arcs, each strike accompanied by the crunch of bone and the wet splatter of blood. One beast was hurled bodily into another, their screams cut short as they slammed into the crumbling walls with sickening force.

Warg’s confident grin faltered slightly as he witnessed Edelgard tear through his soldiers like a vengeful spirit. Yet he clenched his fists tighter, his monstrous muscles flexing with rage. He roared mightily, charging at her himself.

Edelgard met him head-on, Aymr clashing against Warg’s massive claws. The sheer force of their collision sent a shockwave down the corridor, dust and debris raining from the cracked ceiling. Sparks flew where claw met steel, illuminating the desperate battle between mother and monster.

But Warg, stronger than any of his fallen brethren, was relentless. He slashed with blinding speed, each attack aimed to break Edelgard’s defenses, to tear through her armor and get to what he wanted most.

Their fight was brutal, a symphony of fury and desperation. Edelgard’s arms trembled with the strain, but she refused to back down. She thought only of Clainsiia her precious daughter and the life they had fought so long and so hard to build.

Yet Warg, sensing an opening, roared and drove his claws forward. One claw pierced through Edelgard’s left shoulder, the sickening sound of flesh tearing filling the corridor. Edelgard gasped sharply, pain flaring vividly through her body. Blood welled up, staining her pristine armor a deep crimson.

At that moment, through the crack of the classroom door, Clainsiia peered out-and their eyes met.

"Mother!" Clainsiia cried out, her small voice broken with fear, a single tear escaping down her cheek. The sight of her daughter, so small, so fragile, witnessing her struggle-it ignited something deep and ancient within Edelgard. Her pain was washed away by a tidal wave of fierce maternal love and unbreakable resolve.

With a battle cry that shook the very walls, Edelgard pushed back fiercely against Warg. Ignoring the burning pain in her shoulder, she drove Aymr forward with devastating force. Warg stumbled back, momentarily caught off balance. Seizing the chance, Edelgard spun low, channeling all her strength into a mighty upward swing.

Aymr cleaved through Warg’s armor, tearing deep into his side. The beast roared in agony, staggering. Edelgard pressed the advantage. With a final, mighty swing, she struck Warg across the jaw, sending him crashing violently into the far wall.

The impact was thunderous-cracks spiderwebbed across the stone as Warg slumped, broken and defeated, to the floor. He struggled weakly, blood pouring from his wounds, his monstrous form trembling.

Edelgard approached slowly, each step heavy with exhaustion and fierce triumph. She raised Aymr high, prepared to deliver the final blow-but she hesitated. Instead, she lowered the weapon slightly, her crimson eyes burning with unyielding fire "You underestimated the strength of a mother's love," she said, her voice low but powerful, filled with both exhaustion and fierce pride. "No one will ever take my daughter from me again."

Leaving Warg battered and defeated, Edelgard turned quickly and rushed back toward the classroom. She threw the door open, her eyes immediately finding Clainsiia. The little girl threw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing with relief and gratitude.

Edelgard held her tightly, resting her forehead against Clainsiia’s soft hair. "We're safe now, my dear," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly with emotion.

But before they could savor the safety of the moment, a new, chilling sound ripped through the air. Ashen's roar. The monstrous cry tore across the monastery grounds, vibrating through the stone itself. Edelgard's arms tightened instinctively around Clainsiia, her heart sinking heavily.

She pulled back slowly, looking into Clainsiia's tear-streaked face. "I guess you’re going to have to stay here a little while longer," she said gently.

"But, Mother-" Clainsiia began, her voice trembling with worry.

"No," Edelgard said firmly, though her own heart ached to leave her again. "Stay here. Promise me."

Clainsiia nodded weakly, reluctantly trusting her mother's judgment. Edelgard kissed her forehead once, quickly but fiercely, then rose and dashed toward the roar.

As she disappeared into the distance, Clainsiia stood in the darkened classroom, her small fists clenching tightly. Her heart twisted painfully. She couldn't bear the thought of her parents, or Shez, or Ashen getting hurt. Her compassion, fierce and unyielding, wouldn't allow her to sit idly by.

Tears spilling down her cheeks, Clainsiia steeled herself. "I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered brokenly, "but I have to help." With trembling hands, she pushed open the classroom door and slipped out quietly into the chaos beyond, her heart pounding with fear and determination. She ran, her small feet silent against the broken stone floors, determined to find her mother and father-and somehow, somehow, find a way to save them all.

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On the bridge between the cathedral building and the reception hall, Byleth and Shez stood back-to-back, their defenses raised, breaths shallow, weapons ready. The air between them was thick with tension and the scent of fire and blood. Ashen, monstrous and merciless, approached slowly, his double-bladed sword gripped tightly in his clawed hands, the weight of finality heavy upon his shoulders.

Ashen's eyes burned with a mixture of rage and sorrow, his monstrous form towering, wings casting a grim shadow across the shattered courtyard. Without hesitation, Ashen charged forward, his speed terrifying despite his size, swinging his blade with a precision and ferocity that forced Byleth and Shez to act purely on instinct.

Their blades clashed violently against Ashen’s powerful strikes. The sound of metal meeting metal echoed through the broken air, each collision a desperate battle of willpower and strength. Shez’s violet eyes burned fiercely as she maneuvered around Ashen, blocking and countering with as much force as she could muster, while Byleth moved like water, fluid and steadfast, meeting every blow with calm defiance.

But Ashen was not fighting with mere skill-he fought with everything he was, every ounce of rage, regret, and despair fueling his monstrous strength. His tail, long and spiked, lashed suddenly and caught Shez off guard, whipping her across her side. She cried out as the tail wrapped around her, constricting tightly.

With gritted teeth and desperate strength, Shez lifted her sword and slashed through the scaled flesh binding her. Ashen roared in pain as his severed tail writhed on the ground. His molten gaze snapped to her, filled with fury. Without hesitation, he inhaled sharply, fire gathering in his maw. A scorching torrent of blue flames erupted toward her, but Shez, thinking quickly, transformed into a brilliant orb of fire, zipping behind Ashen, reappearing with a strike aimed at his back.

But Ashen was ready. He grabbed her by the neck mid-air, squeezing hard enough to make her choke. His other clawed hand slammed brutally into her gut. A sharp crack echoed as Shez’s ribs gave way under the immense pressure. She screamed in agony before Ashen, without mercy, kicked her hard. Her body sailed helplessly through the air, crashing with a sickening thud onto the small staircase leading up to the cathedral.

Arval materialized beside her instantly, panic filling their usually calm features. "Shez, your ribs!" Arval cried, their voice quivering with fear.

Shez clutched her side, grinding her teeth to suppress another scream. Blood dripped from her lips as she forced herself upright. "I’ll be fine!" she rasped hoarsely, determination burning through the pain. But Ashen wasn’t finished. He stormed toward her, raising his massive sword high, preparing to bring it down and end her there and then.

At the last second, Byleth threw himself between them, the Sword of the Creator raised high, catching Ashen’s descending blow. The force of it drove Byleth to one knee, his arms trembling with the effort of holding the monstrous strength at bay. 

The two looked at each other, grinding their teeth as they struggled against one another, neither willing to yield. Yet, amidst the furious clash of strength and will, Ashen saw something unexpected, something that made his molten-orange eyes narrow sharply in confusion. This wasn't true determination to kill.

There was hesitation flickering deep within Byleth’s teal gaze, a sorrowful reluctance that pierced through the storm of battle. Ashen, breathing heavily, barked angrily through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse and accusing. "You're holding back, Byleth! Why? After everything I've done, why won’t you fight me seriously?"

With a sudden surge of strength, Byleth broke the clash, pushing Ashen’s sword aside and stepping back, his chest heaving, his grip tightening upon the Sword of the Creator. His voice, when he spoke, was strained yet filled with raw, aching sincerity. "Because you're not a monster, Kazamir. You're not a god who needs to be slain... you're just a broken man. A man who lost himself in his grief, his anger, his pain, and his fear. You caused suffering... yes, terrible suffering... but you found yourself again. I see it. I see you."

Ashen’s breath caught, a flicker of something vulnerable flashing in his burning gaze. Byleth continued, voice cracking with emotion, "You remembered who you were. You're Kazamir. And I want to help you... without killing you."

Ashen snarled low in his throat, frustration boiling over inside him, his wings flaring wide with violent energy. He retorted sharply, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and despair. "For someone who used to be a professor, you're a fool!" he bellowed, his words cutting deep. "Do you not see what’s at stake?!"

His voice echoed bitterly, a desperate, thunderous sound. "I'm pushing you to kill me! I'm allowing your soldiers to face my army-my monstrosities! They won't last forever! Time is running out, Byleth! And you still... hesitate?!"

Byleth stepped forward, sword lowered but his eyes ablaze with unwavering resolve. He opened his mouth to respond, but Ashen snapped, cutting him off with a roar. "Enough! Stop holding back!"

Without further warning, Ashen raised his double-bladed sword high overhead, preparing to bring it down in a devastating blow. Before he could, however, Shez leapt onto his broad shoulder from behind, her blade piercing into the thick flesh near his collarbone. Ashen snarled in pain and fury, grabbing her arm roughly and hurling her with monstrous force against a stone wall.

A sickening crack rang out as Shez’s body slammed into the wall, her sword slipping from her grasp and clattering against the broken ground. Before she could react, Ashen, roaring in feral rage, hurled one of his swords toward her. The blade struck true, impaling her shoulder. Shez screamed in agony, her blood splattering across the stones as she writhed against the weapon lodged deeply within her.

Byleth cried out in horror, lunging forward, but Ashen, sensing his opening, unleashed a searing bolt of electricity straight into Byleth’s chest. The shockwave lifted Byleth off his feet and slammed him brutally against the cracked floor. His body convulsed in pain, the sword slipping from his grasp.

Ashen, breathing heavily, raised his remaining sword high, preparing to end it once and for all. Yet, just as he brought it down, a mighty force slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards.

Edelgard stood where Ashen once loomed, Aymr still glowing from the devastating impact. Her eyes blazed with righteous fury, her armor stained with blood, but her stance was steady, unbreakable.

Shez, trembling, gritted her teeth and with sheer force of will, yanked the sword free from her shoulder, blood pouring from the wound. She seized her own weapon once more, determination hardening her gaze.

Byleth pushed himself up, gasping for air, his body battered but his spirit unbroken. He grasped the Sword of the Creator tightly, feeling its ancient power thrum once more in his veins.

Ashen roared furiously, clambering up from the rubble, blood seeping from the deep gashes marring his monstrous form. He summoned his swords back into his hands, reconnecting them with a grim clang. As he inhaled, his chest expanded massively-and with a deafening roar, he unleashed a torrent of searing blue fire.

Byleth, Edelgard, and Shez dodged swiftly, the inferno scorching the ground where they had stood moments before. Shez reformed into her fiery orb, darting at breakneck speed toward Ashen and slamming a powerful kick into his snarling face.

Edelgard followed closely, swinging Aymr in a mighty arc aimed at Ashen’s midsection, but Ashen managed to block the strike at the last moment. Shez reappeared to flank him, aiming a brutal slash at his side, but Ashen twisted away, her blade barely grazing his thick scales.

Byleth, with a sharp, focused breath, extended the Sword of the Creator, its whip-like blade wrapping around Ashen’s ankle. With a mighty pull, he yanked Ashen off balance, sending him tumbling backward into the ruins of the cathedral. The monstrous form rolled and crashed into the rubble he himself had caused earlier.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OwOF03cEfyg song suggestion.)

Ashen groaned lowly, green blood staining the broken stones beneath him. Slowly, painfully, he rose, glaring murderously at the three advancing warriors. He split his sword into two once more, slamming them into the ground with a roar. Flames erupted, creating a ring of fire around all four combatants, isolating them from the rest of the world.

As Ashen reconnected his swords into a double-blade once more, Byleth stepped forward, voice low but unwavering. "Kazamir... please, let me help you."

Ashen’s eyes flashed with agony and fury. "There is no choice," he growled through clenched teeth. Edelgard and Shez readied their weapons, their bodies tense and prepared for another attack. Byleth, however, looked at them looked at their fierce determination and then down at his own hands, gripping tightly the hilt of the Sword of the Creator.

He turned his gaze to Sothis, who had appeared at his side, her emerald eyes filled with sadness and understanding. She nodded silently, telling him without words what he already knew.

There was no other way. Byleth’s heart broke quietly inside him, but he steeled himself, lifting the sword with both hands. He faced Ashen with a heavy, sorrowful heart, and spoke with the solemn finality of one who bore the burden of leadership. "Then the time has come."

Immediately, Edelgard surged to the right, her footsteps echoing fiercely against the cracked stone beneath them, her eyes alight with determination and grief. Shez darted to the left, a blazing streak of resolve, her fiery eyes blazing with the courage that had carried her through countless battles.

For just one fleeting moment, Byleth stood still. Time seemed to slow, sound fading into a distant echo as he reflected upon every moment of agony, every loss, every victory he'd endured throughout this war. Images flashed through his mind, the desperate pleas of fallen soldiers, the burning cities, the cries of so many people echoing in his ears. Each memory, each scar, strengthened his resolve, reminding him painfully why he carried the weight of the Sword of the Creator, and what he fought so fiercely to protect.

He tightened his grip, shifting his other hand to firmly grasp the hilt, knuckles whitening under the pressure. In a voice steady yet thickened by profound sorrow and unwavering determination, he proclaimed, “As Fodlan’s light, I'm putting an end to this nightmare!”

Ashen roared loudly, the guttural, monstrous sound reverberating through the cathedral like thunder, drowning out even the chaos of battle raging beyond its broken walls. With savage ferocity, Ashen threw Edelgard and Shez aside, knocking them forcefully into the debris-strewn ground, their cries muffled by pain and rubble. He charged toward Byleth, his monstrous visage contorted with fury and desperate resolve.

Byleth met him halfway, each step propelled by the heavy burden of responsibility. The air between them crackled with palpable energy, the culmination of destiny itself. Ashen’s swords rose swiftly, poised to strike a lethal blow—but at the last possible second, Byleth spun sharply, dodging beneath the incoming blades with impeccable precision.

In a surge of strength fueled by grief and memory, Byleth delivered a devastating strike, the Sword of the Creator slicing through the air with a sound like shattering glass. With a resounding crack, Ashen’s sword shattered, fragments scattering around them in a shower of metallic sparks.

Ashen staggered backward, shock and disbelief etched clearly upon his face. His  eyes slowly rose to meet Byleth’s, realization dawning upon him, the cruel irony that fate had chosen this very moment to mirror the one years ago, when he himself had shattered Jeralt’s weapon.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lEZSercvqZU song suggestion.)

With resignation heavy in his voice, Ashen whispered, barely audible yet carrying profound weight, "Go on, Byleth... If I'm to die, let it be by your hands."

Byleth hesitated, his heart constricting painfully in his chest. Every instinct within him rebelled against this act, yet he slowly stepped closer, raising the Sword of the Creator with trembling hands. His teal eyes shimmered with unshed tears, grief thickening his throat.

But just as he prepared to deliver the final, merciful blow, hurried footsteps echoed rapidly through the cathedral, a desperate cry piercing the tense silence. Before he could react, Clainsiia ran forward, throwing herself defiantly between Ashen and her father, arms outstretched protectively.

"Father, please don't!" she begged desperately, her voice quivering violently with raw emotion and unfiltered anguish.

Byleth froze mid-motion, the Sword of the Creator trembling slightly in his grip. His eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, turned slowly toward his daughter, heartbreak clearly etched across his weary features. The desperate pain in her voice tore at him, an agonizing reminder of the innocence she still carried—an innocence he was about to shatter.

"I have no choice, Clainsiia," he whispered softly, his voice barely audible yet thick with sorrowful resolve. "Kazamir himself has said-"

"No!" Clainsiia cried again, even more desperately, her voice breaking as fresh tears streamed freely down her face. She stepped closer to her father, her small frame shaking visibly with the force of her emotion. "Father, there has to be another way-there always is! Please!"

Before Byleth could respond, Ashen’s deep voice interrupted softly yet firmly, carrying the gentle, weary tone of a man who had finally accepted his fate. "Your father is right, Clainsiia," Ashen murmured quietly, his eyes dimmed with resignation, his voice holding an unmistakable, deep sadness. "He has no other choice."

Clainsiia spun sharply around to face Ashen, her emerald eyes widening with fear, hurt, and disbelief. She could hardly bear to look at the monstrous visage he now bore, yet even now, beneath the scales and claws, she saw clearly the man she had desperately tried to reach, the one she had begun to see as more than just an enemy.

Ashen sighed softly, his voice heavy yet gentle as he continued. "If your father doesn't kill me, my army will never stop. Their rampage will go on. Innocent lives will continue to be lost, and the pain, the suffering—it will never end. This is the only way, Clainsiia."

"No!" she shouted, her voice rising to an anguished cry, echoing painfully throughout the battered cathedral. Her fists clenched tightly, tears spilling uncontrollably down her cheeks. She stared fiercely into Ashen’s eyes, defiant, desperate, pleading. "There has to be another way! Kazamir, please-please find another way! So that I… so that I can save you!"

Ashen’s expression softened immediately, a deep sorrow shimmering gently within his molten gaze. The cathedral fell eerily quiet around them, the echoes of Clainsiia’s anguished plea lingering painfully in the stillness. In the tense silence, the distant sounds of battle outside continued to rage, a cruel reminder of the stakes involved in their choice.

Gently, slowly, Ashen reached out, his clawed hand brushing softly against Clainsiia’s tear-streaked cheek, wiping tenderly away the tears falling freely down her face. A faint, sad smile touched his lips, voice warm yet deeply melancholy as he softly spoke, "You already have... Clainsiia. You helped me remember who I once was, and I can see that Fodlan... does indeed have a bright future... in you."

He shifted his gaze quietly toward Byleth, offering a subtle nod of quiet acceptance and understanding. Then he gently returned his gaze to Clainsiia, a quiet determination filling his voice. "Go now, child."

Clainsiia turned toward her father, her emerald eyes shimmering with pain and pleading. Byleth closed his eyes momentarily, the weight of what he was about to do pressing heavily upon his heart. Without a word, Edelgard stepped forward, gently lifting her daughter into her arms, holding her tightly as Clainsiia buried her face deeply into her mother’s shoulder, weeping openly with uncontrollable sorrow.

Byleth, opening his eyes once more, slowly lifted the Sword of the Creator again, stepping quietly toward Ashen. Yet, as he gazed deeply into Ashen’s eyes—those molten eyes reflecting deep regret and profound humanity—all he saw was a broken, lost soul, a man desperately needing redemption rather than death.

"I... I can't," Byleth whispered softly, his voice filled deeply with sorrowful compassion, gently lowering his sword, unable to deliver the final blow.

But suddenly, Ashen surged forward with unexpected strength, grabbing Byleth's arms firmly, forcibly guiding the Sword of the Creator directly toward his own heart. With a powerful roar of agony, Ashen drove the blade deeply into his chest. A brilliant gray, ethereal aura swiftly enveloped him, swirling violently with dark magic and profound finality.

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Across the battlefield, Ingrid lay weakly on the ground, her spear just out of reach. A beast soldier raised its weapon, preparing to strike the killing blow-when abruptly, it froze, dropping its weapon and clutching its head, a strangled cry of agony ripping from its throat. Ashe quickly ran to Ingrid’s side, helping her shakily to her feet, confusion and relief mingling swiftly in his expression. "What’s going on?" he asked breathlessly, watching in disbelief as every beast soldier around them staggered and collapsed lifelessly to the ground.

Caspar, stepping cautiously forward, whispered with stunned realization, "Their hearts… they’ve stopped beating."

Claude, observing the surreal scene unfolding rapidly around them, lowered his weapon slightly, his voice filled gently with cautious hope and quiet disbelief. "I think we’ve won."

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Back within the cathedral, the ethereal gray aura surrounding Ashen slowly faded away. His once blazing eyes became pitch black, lifeless voids, and his massive form crumpled slowly backward, landing heavily upon the shattered stone floor. A vivid red dust rose softly from his parted lips, swirling gently upward and dissipating quietly into the still, solemn air.

Byleth fell silently to his knees beside Ashen’s fallen form, a heavy sorrow pressing deeply upon his heart. His voice trembled softly, thickened by profound grief, as he quietly murmured, "Kazamir..." With gentle compassion and quiet reverence, he carefully closed Ashen's lifeless eyes, performing the final act of mercy. The weight of realization sank deeply into his chest, it was truly over. The war had finally ended.

Edelgard, holding Clainsiia tightly, felt her heart ache painfully with an overwhelming sadness, whispering softly yet sincerely to her weeping daughter, voice trembling with genuine emotion. "I’m so sorry, my little one."

Slowly, with heavy footsteps and heavy hearts, the group quietly began to depart from the cathedral. Yet Clainsiia paused momentarily in her mother’s arms, turning tearfully toward... Kazamir one final time. Her emerald eyes shimmered softly with quiet understanding and gentle sorrow, knowing deep within her heart that he was truly gone, the finality of his sacrifice settling profoundly upon her young shoulders.

Chapter Text

Seven months had passed since the war ended, and back at the palace of Enbarr, a gentle calm had gradually settled over the Adrestian Empire. Sunlight streamed softly through the stained-glass windows of the throne room, casting delicate patterns of color across the polished marble floors. Edelgard stood quietly beside her throne, her gaze gentle yet deeply thoughtful, a tender warmth softening her usually composed expression as she held her young son, Jeralt, securely in her arms.

Across from her stood Byleth, his teal eyes reflecting the tranquil peace of this moment, his posture calm yet attentive. A subtle, contented smile lingered softly at the corners of his lips as he quietly observed his wife and child. Nearby, Shez leaned casually against one of the towering stone pillars, arms crossed gently, her expression relaxed yet thoughtful. Beside her, Arval floated silently, observing the peaceful scene unfolding before them.

Arval tilted their head slightly, glancing gently toward Shez, their voice quiet and genuinely curious as they softly asked, "What do you think of these past seven months, Shez?"

Shez exhaled softly, a gentle smile curving her lips, her violet eyes reflective yet warmly content as she quietly replied, "They haven't been bad at all, Arval. Peace suits us better than war." Her gaze drifted meaningfully toward Byleth and Edelgard, her smile deepening gently with quiet anticipation. "But right now, we're about to witness a nice little moment."

Edelgard slowly knelt down, carefully placing Jeralt onto the marble floor, gently holding his small hands to help him find his balance. Tenderly, she encouraged him softly, her voice warm and reassuring, "Jeralt, try to walk toward your father."

Jeralt blinked curiously, his small face reflecting quiet uncertainty at first. He turned his wide teal eyes toward Byleth, a determined expression slowly forming upon his little face. His small legs trembled slightly as he stood, wobbling briefly as he fought to find balance. Edelgard gently released his hands, her crimson gaze filled warmly with quiet encouragement and motherly pride.

Slowly, hesitantly, Jeralt took his very first step, his small foot gently placing itself forward. A quiet gasp of delight escaped Edelgard’s lips, pride shimmering softly within her eyes. Byleth's breath caught gently in his chest, eyes widening slightly as he watched his son take another careful step toward him, each movement shaky but filled with determination. His heart swelled warmly within his chest, pride and profound affection mingling deeply.

As Jeralt finally reached his father, Byleth swiftly yet gently lifted his son into his arms, a bright smile spreading warmly across his usually calm features. "Well done Jeralt," Byleth whispered softly, his voice filled deeply with quiet joy, eyes shining softly with paternal pride. Edelgard stepped closer, gently placing a hand on Byleth's shoulder, smiling warmly as she shared in this simple yet profound moment.

Shez smiled gently, her voice quiet and softly amused as she murmured warmly to Arval, "See? Told you it'd be a nice little moment."

Arval chuckled quietly, their expression gently amused yet warmly reflective as they replied softly, "You sure did."

At that moment, the soft sound of footsteps echoed gently into the throne room. Arthur stepped respectfully inside, his posture calm yet quietly attentive. Following the war's conclusion, the young boy had officially become Clainsiia’s retainer, serving her with loyalty and gentle dedication. Byleth turned toward Arthur, curiosity gently flickering within his teal gaze as he quietly asked, "Arthur, where's Clainsiia?"

Arthur hesitated briefly, voice quietly respectful yet gently concerned as he replied softly, "She’s in her room, Your Majesty. I tried to convince her to come see Jeralt take his first steps, but she wanted to be left alone."

Edelgard's expression softened gently, understanding shimmering softly in her crimson gaze as she quietly reached forward, gently taking Jeralt from Byleth’s arms. She spoke softly yet firmly, her voice warm yet gently concerned. "Byleth, you should go see her. She hasn't gotten over Kazamir."

Byleth nodded quietly, a subtle yet determined resolve settling deeply within his heart. With quiet determination, he turned slowly, walking calmly from the throne room and making his way thoughtfully toward Clainsiia’s chambers.

After a gentle, contemplative walk through the palace corridors, Byleth reached Clainsiia’s room. He paused quietly before the closed door, his heart filled deeply with quiet concern and gentle empathy. With careful hesitation, he knocked softly, his voice gentle and warm as he quietly called, "Clainsiia? May I come in?"

Silence lingered quietly behind the door, stretching gently for a thoughtful moment before finally, softly, a quiet voice responded gently, tinged deeply with sorrow yet quiet acceptance. "You can come in, Father."

Byleth gently opened the door, stepping softly inside. He immediately saw Clainsiia sitting quietly upon her bed, emerald eyes thoughtful yet deeply saddened as she gazed down at the armor cuff Kazamir had given her. Quietly, Byleth moved gently toward her, seating himself softly beside his daughter, his presence calm yet warmly comforting.

Clainsiia slowly turned her gaze upward, eyes shimmering gently with unshed tears, her voice quiet yet filled deeply with sorrowful honesty as she softly admitted, "Father, I’m... still not over it."

Byleth gently placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, his teal eyes filled deeply with quiet understanding and compassionate warmth. His voice was tender yet sincere as he gently replied, "I know, Clainsiia. Sadly, these things take time."

Clainsiia hesitated quietly, gaze drifting softly downward, her voice thoughtful yet gently burdened as she softly asked, "Father, do you ever wish things were different? Especially when you and Mother had to fight the people you knew... before you had me?"

Byleth gently placed a reassuring hand upon her shoulder, his teal eyes filled deeply with quiet understanding and compassionate warmth. For a long moment, silence lingered between them, broken only by the distant sound of birds gently chirping outside the window. Finally, he spoke softly yet sincerely, his voice tender and filled deeply with thoughtful honesty.

"There are times I wish things could have been different," he admitted quietly, eyes reflecting softly with memories of the battles he'd fought, the faces he'd once known-friends and allies who had become enemies. "When your mother and I had to fight against those we once cared for deeply, it was painful. Every battle brought its own sorrow, every victory tinged with loss. Life doesn't always unfold the way we want it to, no matter how much we might wish it would."

He paused quietly for a moment, gathering his thoughts, gently squeezing her shoulder in quiet reassurance. When he spoke again, his voice held quiet strength and gentle wisdom, tempered by years of hardship and triumph alike. "But what's truly important, Clainsiia, is that we learn from those experiences, no matter how painful they might be, and find the strength to move forward."

Byleth's gaze softened warmly, his teal eyes reflecting quiet pride and sincere affection as he looked deeply into his daughter's emerald eyes. "Despite all the tragedy, so many blessings have come our way. We've been given chances to heal, to rebuild, to cherish moments like these. And you," he murmured softly, voice gently filled with heartfelt admiration and deep sincerity, "you played a vital role in helping Kazamir remember the man he used to be. Even though he's gone, you gave him the chance for redemption-something few ever truly achieve."

He gently brushed a stray lock of vibrant emerald hair away from Clainsiia’s face, his expression filled quietly with deep pride and sincere warmth. "You should live up to what he saw in you at the very end-a bright future for Fódlan. I'm incredibly proud of you, Clainsiia. You've shown such curiosity, compassion, and strength, just like your mother."

He paused thoughtfully, voice filled quietly yet firmly with unwavering belief in her potential. "I have no doubt that you'll make a difference in the world in your own unique way."

Clainsiia looked slowly up at her father, tears shimmering gently within her emerald eyes, yet a glimmer of hope softly shining through her sadness. Her heart swelled quietly within her chest, warmth filling her as she heard his heartfelt words. Without hesitation, she threw her arms tightly around him, holding him close in a fierce, loving hug. Her voice trembled softly with emotion as she whispered earnestly, "Do you really mean it, Father?"

Byleth gently wrapped his arms around her in return, holding her close, his voice tender yet steadfastly sincere as he softly assured her, "Yes, Clainsiia, I mean every word."

After a quiet, comforting moment, Byleth gently drew back, his eyes warm and affectionate as he softly asked, "Would you like to go see your mother and brother now?"

Clainsiia hesitated softly, wiping gently at the remaining tears upon her cheeks. She offered a small, gentle smile, her voice quiet yet resolute as she murmured, "I will... in a minute."

Byleth nodded quietly in understanding, gently rising to his feet. He smiled warmly, softly squeezing her shoulder once more before quietly leaving the room, giving her the space she needed.

Now alone, Clainsiia slowly moved toward her small traveling bag resting gently beside her bed. With careful hands, she pulled forth Kazamir’s leather-bound journal, the familiar worn cover feeling softly comforting yet bittersweet beneath her fingertips. Quietly, she began turning the pages slowly, gazing thoughtfully at his neat handwriting, the sketches he'd made, the notes and reflections he'd carefully recorded. Her heart ached softly, wishing deeply he had been able to fill the rest of the journal, wishing he were still here to guide her.

Her emerald eyes paused softly upon the last page, heart gently tightening with bittersweet memory as she read Kazamir’s final words, carefully inked in his precise, elegant script: "With this power, I promise to change Fódlan for a bright future."

Quietly, she recalled the final words Kazamir had spoken to her, his voice gentle yet filled with quiet conviction, "Fodlan... does indeed have a bright future... in you."

Suddenly, a familiar voice gently spoke from the air beside her, warm and reassuring, filled softly with sincere conviction and gentle kindness. "He wasn't wrong, you know."

Startled, Clainsiia swiftly turned her head, emerald eyes widening softly in surprise and quiet delight as she saw Sothis gently floating in the air beside her, emerald gaze warmly affectionate and gently knowing, a soft smile curving tenderly upon her lips.

Sothis continued softly yet firmly, her voice filled deeply with quiet conviction and reassuring warmth. "Clainsiia, you are Fódlan's future. It may take some time before you're old enough to rule, but Kazamir wasn't wrong about you. Especially given who you truly are."

Clainsiia blinked gently in quiet confusion, her gaze drifting softly toward the armor cuff resting quietly upon her wrist. Voice filled softly with curiosity and gentle uncertainty, she quietly asked, "Do you mean this cuff he made for me?"

Sothis smiled gently yet knowingly, quietly shaking her head, voice softly yet clearly revealing the truth. "No, dear. I mean the Crest Stone within you-the one helping you keep living, the one that allows you to wield my power."

Clainsiia's eyes widened gently in quiet surprise and gentle awe, her heart softly swelling within her chest with quiet understanding. Sothis continued gently, voice softly reassuring and deeply sincere. "And besides, you won't be alone in this journey. I'll be there, guiding you every step of the way."

Clainsiia gazed deeply into Sothis’s eyes, voice gently earnest yet quietly hopeful as she softly asked, "Do you promise?"

Sothis chuckled softly, warmth and gentle affection shining brightly within her emerald gaze as she replied sincerely, "I promise."

Yet, with quiet determination, Clainsiia gently held out her pinky finger toward the goddess, eyes sparkling gently yet resolutely. "Then let's pinky promise, Sothis."

Sothis chuckled warmly, a soft smile curving her lips with gentle amusement and sincere fondness. She gently extended her own small pinky finger, softly intertwining it with Clainsiia's, sealing their promise with gentle warmth. "Pinky promise," Sothis agreed softly, her eyes filled deeply with sincere warmth and quiet humor.

With a gentle wave of her small hand, Sothis softly warped away, leaving Clainsiia alone once more, yet feeling deeply comforted and gently reassured. Slowly, Clainsiia returned her thoughtful gaze toward Kazamir’s journal, her emerald eyes quietly reflecting on the phrase that had so deeply touched her heart-"bright future."

Quietly, she placed the journal down carefully onto her bedside table, determination and quiet anticipation softly stirring within her heart. She felt a newfound excitement gently bloom within her, quietly eager to see what the future held.

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Years later,

Kazamir’s journal was being picked up by Clainsiia, who was now seventeen years old, her slender fingers brushing over the worn leather as she prepared for the next chapter of her life. It was an early morning tinged with the gentle, golden light of an Enbarr sunrise. Clainsiia’s room was filled with the quiet bustle of packing-neatly folded garments stacked beside her travel trunk, a collection of books and cherished mementos gathered in careful order. She moved with the thoughtful precision that had come to define her, but a sense of restlessness hummed beneath her practiced calm.

She paused, sitting at the edge of her bed, and reopened Kazamir’s old journal one more time. The last page bore his final, hopeful words, “With this power, I promise to change Fódlan for a bright future.” She read them slowly, letting them settle deep within her heart, just as she had so many times before. The phrase echoed within her, a quiet promise she still felt compelled to uphold-not just for Kazamir, but for herself and all of Fodlan.

After a moment of silent reflection, she gently closed the journal, placing it in her travel bag alongside the armor cuff Kazamir had crafted for her so many years ago. The cuff gleamed softly, its crest shining green in the morning light-a quiet, steadfast companion. It was both a reminder of the burdens she’d inherited and a symbol of the possibilities ahead.

With a soft sigh, she stood and crossed to her wardrobe, where two Officer’s Academy uniforms hung side by side. One was modeled after the old Adrestian Empire style, echoing her mother’s strong, iconic design-crimson and black, with bold gold trim, the very image of a future empress. The other was the standard Academy uniform, the deep blue and white so many students had worn before her. She lifted them both, holding them up in front of the mirror, frowning in frustration. Neither felt quite right.

She turned from the mirror and sat heavily on her bed, the uniforms draped over her lap. Her mind swirled with memories-childhood lessons in diplomacy and swordplay, her father’s gentle encouragement, her mother’s fierce devotion, the shadows of war, and the gentle reassurance of Sothis’s voice. But now, on the edge of adulthood, it was this simple, personal choice that stumped her most of all.

A knock at the door startled her, and her heart leapt as her mother’s familiar voice floated through, calm and regal. “Clainsiia, your chariot is ready.”

The door opened, and Edelgard herself stepped inside, her silver hair pinned up with immaculate precision, her crimson eyes soft but expectant. Clainsiia flinched at her sudden arrival, clutching the uniforms closer to her chest.

“Mother, you can’t just sneak up on me like that!” she protested, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Edelgard’s stern facade melted into an apologetic smile, and she approached, her presence both comforting and commanding. “Forgive me, my dear. Old habits die hard.” She glanced down at the uniforms, understanding instantly the source of Clainsiia’s delay. Her voice softened, infused with both empathy and gentle chiding. “But why aren’t you ready yet?”

Clainsiia stared glumly at the uniforms, the corners of her mouth turning downward in frustration. “I’m sorry, but I really am having a hard time deciding. I know it’s silly, but…” She trailed off, sighing, shoulders slumped. “It’s just-I don’t want to be just my mother’s daughter, but I also don’t want to stand out too much.”

A knowing glimmer danced in Edelgard’s eyes-a spark of mischief and maternal affection that cut through the tension. “So, you were brave enough to risk everything to save someone as a child, but now a uniform is your greatest adversary?” Edelgard teased, folding her arms with a smirk. “Well, lucky for you, I anticipated this.”

She snapped her fingers crisply, and the door opened once more. Arthur, Clainsiia’s loyal retainer, entered carrying a long, narrow case. He was taller now, with the hint of a young man’s confidence, but he bowed respectfully, his warm brown eyes shining with excitement.

“You’ll love what’s inside, Princess,” Arthur promised, his voice low and earnest.

Clainsiia’s eyes widened, curiosity banishing her frustration. “What is it?” she asked, voice trembling with anticipation.

Edelgard gestured toward the case, her tone playful and encouraging. “I had something special made for you. Consider it a way to honor both your heritage and your individuality.” She squeezed Clainsiia’s shoulder gently, her affection clear beneath the practiced Empress’s composure. “But you should hurry. The academy won’t wait for indecision.”

With that, Edelgard and Arthur left her alone, closing the door behind them. For a long moment, Clainsiia stood there, the mysterious case resting on her bed. Her heart pounded with excitement and nerves. Slowly, with careful fingers, she undid the latches and lifted the lid. Clainsiia stared in wonder, her breath catching. For a moment, her heart soared, joy rising through her chest as she realized what her mother had done—what she always did.
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At the front gate, Byleth, Shez, Jeralt, Edelgard, and Arthur awaited Clainsiia's arrival. The morning sun was gentle, painting the courtyard in gold as the quiet excitement of a new chapter drifted in the air. Byleth glanced at Shez, a hint of concern flickering in his eyes as he voiced what was on his mind. “Are you sure you want to go with Arthur and Clainsiia?” His voice was calm, but the gravity of this moment-the sending off of his daughter-carried a weight even he couldn’t fully hide.

Shez, leaning casually against the iron gate, smiled with her usual relaxed confidence, a spark of mischief flickering in her violet eyes. “Of course, Byleth. Someone has to keep an eye on these two,” she teased lightly. Then, more sincerely, she added, “Besides, I’m Clainsiia’s combat teacher. I promised to make sure she’s prepared for whatever comes next. I’ll look after her-you have my word.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the soft footsteps of Jeralt, only ten but already showing the steady gaze and quiet bravery of both his parents. He tugged at Byleth’s sleeve, his voice small but earnest. “Father…will we see Clainsiia again?” There was fear in his eyes, and Byleth felt it echo in his own hear-a father’s worry, mingled with pride and inevitable distance.

Kneeling so he could meet his son’s gaze, Byleth placed a comforting hand on Jeralt’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Of course we will. She’ll come home, and we’ll visit her, too. You’ll see, Jeralt. She’s only beginning her journey.” He tried to reassure him with a gentle smile, but as he spoke, his gaze shifted to the gate. There, bathed in the morning light, he saw her.

Clainsiia strode toward them, her presence somehow both regal and new. Her Officer’s Academy uniform was transformed-gone was the standard black. In its place was a bright, immaculate white, with bold red replacing the usual gold trim. A cape of red and white draped over her shoulder, fluttering gently in the wind, completing the vision. In that moment, she looked every inch her own person—proud, radiant, and ready.

Byleth couldn’t help but notice the fondness with which she wore the new uniform. “I see you like the uniform,” he said quietly, his eyes softening with warmth.

Clainsiia beamed, her confidence shining. “Yes, but… what made you and mother come up with this?”

A slow smile spread across Byleth’s lips. “Well, we know you still think of Kazamir. So why not let you have a uniform color reminiscent of his, combined with the Empire’s colors?” His voice was gentle, and Clainsiia’s eyes glistened at the mention of Kazamir-the man whose memory she still cherished, and whose final redemption meant so much to her.

She held her arms out, looking down at the red and white, the symbolism not lost on her. To her, it was more than fabric. It was a bridge between past and future, tragedy and hope. “Thank you…I love it.” Her voice trembled, emotion catching her off guard. Without hesitation, she hugged her father tightly, burying her face into his shoulder and feeling, for a fleeting moment, like a little girl again.

Edelgard moved in, her arms encircling both of them. There was pride in her eyes, but also that familiar trace of worry-the kind only a mother knows. She pulled Clainsiia close, whispering, “We’re proud of you. Never forget that.”

Clainsiia nodded, heart swelling with love and gratitude. As they broke apart, she turned to Jeralt, ruffling his hair with a gentle hand. “You think you’ll be okay without me for a while?”

Jeralt straightened, squaring his shoulders with all the bravado he could muster. “I…I think so. I-I promise to visit you! And I’ll make sure to train hard so I can protect you!” His voice cracked, but the determination in his eyes was fierce.

Clainsiia couldn’t help but laugh, her spirits lifting at her brother’s earnestness. “I’m sure you will, little brother.” She leaned down, rubbing the top of his head affectionately, then pulled him into a hug, feeling him cling to her tightly before finally letting go.

Arthur stepped forward, ever the loyal retainer. “Princess, the chariot is ready,” he announced with the formal grace he’d perfected over years of service, but his eyes were warm with friendship.

Clainsiia looked back at her family once more-Edelgard’s gentle pride, Byleth’s quiet encouragement, Jeralt’s hopeful gaze—and committed every detail to memory. They watched her, seeing not just the girl she had been but the young woman she was becoming. With one last smile, she climbed into the chariot, Arthur and Shez settling in beside her.

The carriage started to roll forward, wheels creaking softly on the stones as the palace gate slowly opened. As Enbarr slipped away behind her, Clainsiia felt a quiet mixture of excitement and fear, loss and anticipation. She took a deep breath, eyes lingering on her parents’ silhouettes until they faded from view.

As the city receded, Sothis’s voice echoed gently in her mind, warm and reassuring as ever. “Don’t forget you have me by your side.” The goddess’s presence was as calming as a hand on her shoulder. Clainsiia smiled, closing her eyes for a moment and nodding silently.

Sothis turned, as if looking over her shoulder, and spoke to another presence only she could see-Arval, ever the enigmatic companion. “You know, I think I’m going to like where this is going,” Arval mused, his tone dry but sincere.

Sothis agreed, her laughter a soft ripple in Clainsiia’s mind. Clainsiia, though she couldn’t see Arval she just simply smiled.

She glanced to her left, where Shez sat, arms crossed and gaze fixed on the road ahead. “Thank you for joining me and Arthur on this journey, Shez.”

Shez shrugged, a playful glint in her eyes. “I’m your combat teacher, remember? Someone has to make sure you’re ready for anything. But,” she added, lowering her voice and leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “I’ve also kept an eye on who you’ve been looking at lately.” She flicked her gaze toward Arthur, causing Clainsiia’s cheeks to flush a bright crimson. “Your secret is safe with me and Arval,” Shez whispered, winking as she leaned back.

Clainsiia covered her face with her hands, embarrassment mingling with laughter. “Well… can’t blame me, right?” she managed to say, voice muffled and bashful.

Shez just chuckled, sharing a knowing look with Arthur-who, oblivious to the exchange, peered out the window at the passing countryside. After the laughter faded, Clainsiia reached into her travel bag and carefully drew out Kazamir’s old journal. The worn leather was soft beneath her fingertips, familiar and comforting. She opened to the first page, eyes moving slowly across the careful handwriting-the hopes, the regrets, the lessons, the sketches that had shaped the man she once tried to save.

As the chariot carried them toward Garreg Mach, Clainsiia read quietly, letting Kazamir’s words fill the silence between their conversations, grounding her in both memory and purpose. For a long time, she simply read, feeling the carriage rock gently beneath her. She traced the words on the final page, "With this power, I promise to change Fodlan for a bright future." And with that, she made her own silent vow, to become the bright future that and all of Fodlan, deserved.

Fin.