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Chapter Text

Her head was still ringing when they led her into the Faerghan camp’s infirmary, hands bound in front of her. The grumpy swordsman—Felix?—had struck the side of her head with his pommel, the jerk. Her braids were encrusted with dried blood.

The hospital tent was filled to bursting, the cacophonous groans of the wounded and dying drowning out the frantic shouted orders of the healers. People were laid out on stretchers, on the ground, even in the dirt outside the tent. Despite this, her captors managed to find her a cot to sit on. It was still warm from the previous body that had occupied it.

One of the healers hurried to her side to clean and inspect her head wound. “Superficial,” the woman said after a moment. “Might be concussed, but there’s nothing we can do about that.” A brief flash of faith magic to stop the bleeding, then the healer was already on her way to the next patient.

She sat there a while, trying to still her mind. If the Faerghans had taken her captive, Hubert’s position cannot have held out much longer. The battle was lost, then. She closed her eyes. Setbacks in war weren’t unexpected, but still—perhaps if they’d been quicker to secure the northwestern canyon …

“Your Highness?” She opened her eyes and saw a pair of armoured legs before her. She looked up.

Then she looked up some more. Damn, the guy was tall.

She recognised King Dimitri’s Duscan attendant from the academy, though it still took her a moment to recall his name. “Dedue, right?”

He nodded, his grim expression unchanged. “Correct. I am pleased to see you are unharmed, Princess Petra.” He drew a dagger and she resisted the urge to leap away as he cut through the rope binding her hands together. “I apologise for the discourtesy.”

Blood rushed back into her hands, making them sting as though she had touched the leaves of wild nettles. To distract herself as she rubbed her wrists, she asked: “The battle … are you having victory?”

“Indeed. Her Grace the Archbishop has been rescued, and the imperial army has withdrawn back to Garreg Mach.”

Good. That meant Hubert was still in command to maintain order. Losing the archbishop was a setback, but they had accounted for that possibility. Then, a thought struck her. “I have been commanding a company of Brigid fighters. Are they having safety?”

“A number of them surrendered and have been taken captive,” Dedue assured her. “Our healers are seeing to them.”

Petra breathed a sigh of relief. She had seen some of her countrymen fall, trying to protect her, and had been more than a little worried. “I would like to be seeing them.”

“Of course, Your Highness. Before that, though, I would ask you to accompany me to speak to the king.”

She knew better than to try and refuse. Instead, she stood up—she had to lean on Dedue for balance, as the world around her spun for a moment. “Ah, my apologies.”

“You may lean on me, if you wish. Or I can procure a cane, if you prefer …”

Petra straightened herself and fixed her eye on a random point dead ahead of her, the way her father had taught her the first time he’d taken her out to sea. “I will be fine,” she said, firmly. She was the future queen of Brigid, and she could not afford to show weakness in front of her captors.

As Dedue led her through the camp, she did her best to look out for potential weaknesses. Unsurprisingly, given the battle was scarcely over, there was no small amount of chaos in the camp. That would not last. Still, she took note of anything that seemed like it might be of use: the haphazard layout of the camp, each noble’s retinue clustered in their own little group of tents, was a marked change from the ordered rows of the imperial war camps she’d seen. Something to consider, perhaps.

The king’s tent, unsurprisingly, was the largest in the camp, the canvas embroidered with the Crest of Blaiddyd. Dedue held open the tent flap for her as they stepped inside, and she was met by the heavy scent of sweat, charcoal, blade oil and leather. About a dozen men and women in armour stood crowded around a large table, poring over a map by candlelight. Some looked vaguely familiar, whether from the battlefield or from having met their children at the academy, and she tried her best to match names to faces. The grizzled redhead must be Lord Gautier, she thought, and the well-groomed man in blue was the spitting image of Felix. Shez, she recognised of course, though she was clearly better-dressed and better-fed than when the odd mercenary had first come to Garreg Mach. Glad someone was doing well out of this war.

When the kingdom generals noticed her appearance, they abruptly fell silent. Someone rolled up the map before she could catch a glimpse of it. King Dimitri was last to notice her, deep in concentration as he was. He clearly hadn’t taken time to clean up since leaving the battlefield, blood still spattered in his hair and his armour encrusted in dirt. He greeted her with an earnest and only slightly forced smile. “Ah, Petra …” He glanced around the room. “Apologies, friends, would you give us a moment?” The lords and ladies of Faerghus filed out of the room. Shez gave her an encouraging, if apologetic smile as she moved past Petra, and she forced herself to return it.

When only himself, Petra and Dedue remained in the tent, Dimitri cleared his throat and pointed at a chair at the table. Dedue moved to stand behind him, keeping a bodyguard’s eye on her. “Please, have a seat. I trust your injuries are not too severe?”

She sat. “I am well. Congratulation for your victory, Your Majesty.” She’d always found politeness and calm the best policy in dealing with her captors in Enbarr, even when they insulted her. She’d barely exchanged two sentences with the awkward Faerghan prince at the academy, but Edelgard and Hubert had described him as simple and straightforward to a fault.

The king’s eyes flickered over to the gruesome-looking lance propped up against a nearby tent pole. Unlike his armour, the lance’s blade had been carefully cleaned. “Ah, well … you fought bravely.” He stared at his hands, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Which left him wide open for her to strike. “I am needing to see my warriors. The Brigidfolk I was fighting alongside, that you have captured.”

“You shall,” he promised, without hesitation. “Dedue will take you to where they are being held as soon as we are finished here. Is that acceptable?” They both knew, of course, that it was the best she was likely to get, so she nodded. Dimitri breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well. Have you eaten yet? I find I have a voracious hunger after battle.”

She’d been made to attend no small number of formal meals after first coming to Enbarr. Lord Arundel and Duke Aegir had seemed to delight in showing their new captive off to all sorts of visiting dignitaries like some kind of pet monkey. They’d laughed at her when she hadn’t known how to use a fork or what to do with a finger bowl. The cuisine of Enbarr was heavy on cream and butter, which made her sick, and when she first learned that she’d unknowingly eaten pork, which was forbidden to women in Brigid, she’d almost thrown up. Edelgard had put a stop to all that when she’d learned of her distress, communicated through a strange pidgin of hand signs and mispronounced Fódlan words, and she’d be forever grateful for that. Still, it meant she could steel herself against what was to come.

A few minutes later, she was staring at a bowl of … something oddly colourless and mushy in front of her. There was only a single wooden spoon, a pewter cup of wine, and a small, misshapen loaf of bread. If not for the fact that the king was digging into his own bowl with gusto, she might have assumed she was being deliberately humiliated. She tentatively put her spoon in the Something, and it stood upright. Well, she was rather hungry … though even after trying a few spoonfuls, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, she was eating. It wasn’t offensive, as such. That would have implied that it tasted of anything. Petra put down her spoon and tore off a bit of the bread. Ah. The bread, too, seemed to be more sawdust than flour.

She put it aside. “This food of Faerghus has much strangeness.”

Dimitri looked at her with some concern. “You must think rather poorly of me to be indulging so,” he said, seeming genuinely apologetic. “Unfortunately, no matter how much I insist on eating the same food as my common soldiers, the cooks always insist on sneaking in something extra for the royal table.”

She’d known Faerghus was a poor, rough country. She hadn’t expected to feel sorry for them. Petra shared a look with Dedue and could not help but admire his stoicism in the face of such misery.

Unable to eat another bite, she put aside her spoon. “You did not call me here just to be having dinner with you, King Dimitri.”

Her captor nodded. “Indeed, though I was … hoping to work my way around to it.” He paused to gather his thoughts, then said: “Actually, I was hoping you might agree to join our fight.”

She frowned. “You mean to be fighting for you instead of Edelgard?”

“I don’t need more followers, but Faerghus could use another ally. I do not know what the empire offered Brigid in exchange for your aid, but you of all people must understand that their word cannot be trusted. After all, Brigid was the first victim of imperial aggression.”

Ah, now she understood. He sounded much like her grandfather had when she’d first brought Edelgard’s proposal to him, or the many nobles and petty kings she’d had to persuade. Not that she could blame them: the wounds of the war were still fresh in many minds, and the islands had suffered much humiliation under imperial rule. Even their future queen had been transformed, half a creature of Fódlan. Still, things were different now. She might not trust the empire, but … Petra shook her head. “I will not be betraying Edelgard.”

Dimitri’s face fell. “I understand things must be difficult for you, but surely you can’t agree with what she’s doing. Think of all the people who will lose their lives in this senseless war. I can agree that our societies need reform, but what Edelgard is doing is utterly unconscionable.”

Petra didn’t care much about Crests or the nobility of Fódlan. All that mattered was keeping Brigid safe. She simply didn’t have the energy to care equally about every injustice in the world the way Edelgard did. But Edelgard cared deeply and with the brilliant intensity of a flame, and she cared about Edelgard. Brigid did not abandon its friends, and neither did she.

She wondered if perhaps she should tell Dimitri all they knew about Those Who Slither in the Dark, or Edelgard’s and Hubert’s theories on Archbishop Rhea’s true identity. If even half of what they believed was true, it might shake Fódlan to its foundations. Edelgard’s manifesto, however, spoke only of Crests and the outrages of the nobility—matters of which people could convince themselves with their own eyes without having to trust the word of the Adrestian emperor. Anything else was to be treated as a state secret. If she told Dimitri, he might believe her, might even prove an unlikely ally. She had proposed as much in council, backed up by Ferdinand and Caspar, but in the end they had been outvoted.

Which meant she could share none of it with her captor. “Sometimes, it is needed to break an egg,” she said. Or was it ‘break an omelette’? No matter. “There are things that are worth fighting for. Edelgard is one of them.”

Dimitri slumped in his chair, sighing. “Very well, then. I had hoped to gain you as an ally, but if you are set in your way I cannot force you to fight for us. In that case, I have no choice but to treat you as a prisoner of war.”

She nodded. She’d known it was going to end like this the instant she had been captured. Not seeing any point in delaying things, she reached out her hands for Dedue to shackle.

The king startled at that. “Please, no. I would hate to put a former classmate in chains, enemy or not. Dedue, how soon can we send our guest to Fhirdiad?”

“Within a week, Your Majesty. I will prepare an escort. Perhaps Lord—”

Petra interrupted them. She had no intention of sitting out the rest of the war in a gilded cage in Fhirdiad. If she was close to the frontline, she might at least be able to get some intelligence out of it, or even attempt an escape. “Actually, I have been hoping to catch up to some of our former classmates,” she said, which wasn’t a total lie. She wondered how Ashe was doing. “Also, I hear Fhirdiad has much coldness. I would not be liking that very much.” She gave what she hoped was a friendly grin.

Thankfully, Dimitri chuckled at that. “You are not wrong about that. Of course, you understand that we cannot simply allow you to remain with the army. If you wish to stay, I will need to ask for your parole.”

She tilted her head at the unfamiliar word. Pah-role? From context, perhaps some sort of item—she’d been disarmed of her weapons, though. The sound of the word made her think of parrot, peril, and roll, but she doubted any of those were related. “I do not have understanding. What is ‘parole’?”

The king blinked. “Ah, my apologies. I need you to swear to me that you will remain a prisoner until such time as you are released. You will make no attempt to flee, nor take up arms against myself or my kingdom, or do anything to sabotage the war effort. In exchange, you will have the freedom of the camp and all the respect due to your station. Is that acceptable?”

Ah, now she understood the pit trap she had fallen into. She would be a hostage, but of her own volition. She could feel her lips twitching. Simple and straightforward clearly did not mean ‘stupid’. “I have understanding,” she said. “If I break my promise, it is bad for Brigid, and if I do not, I can do nothing against you. It is like killing two birds with one arrow. You are having much more cunning than it seems.”

Dimitri laughed incredulously. “I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of that …”

“Very well then. I am swearing by the Great Flame Spirit that I will be your prisoner. I will not be attempting to flee, or fight against you, or do sabotaging.” She paused. “Will I be able to write a letter to let Edelgard and my king know of what happened?”

“Of course, Princess Petra. Consider yourself an honoured guest. If there is anything you require, or if anyone gives you difficulty, please come speak with me at once.” He looked to Dedue. “Would you please make sure Her Highness has everything she needs?”

“At once, Your Majesty.” Dedue bowed and left the tent to make his preparations.

Dimitri rose to his feet and, walking over to a writing desk in the corner of the tent, gathered up some parchment, ink, and quills. “Please be aware that I will need to see the letters before you send them. Just to make sure you don’t reveal anything that could harm us, you understand.” She nodded. Perhaps she shouldn’t have teased Hubert about his silly codes and cyphers as much and actually bothered to memorise them. “I can’t promise they’ll reach their destination swiftly, given the state of the war, but rest assured I will do everything in my power to ensure they do. I shall give you some space to write.” He paused. “Ah, one other thing. I don’t suppose I could convince you to spar with me some time …?”

Dear Lady Edelgard,

I have been made prisoner by the kingdom army but am uninjured. King Dimitri tells me to tell you that he is happy to make an exchanging exchange of prisoners but will require a captive of equal value to myself in return. As far as he knows, none are currently in imperial hands. Therefore, I expect it will be some time before I can return to the fight.

Out of my Brigid warriors, 23 were captured along with me. I hope they can be exchanged for Faerghus soldiers held by the empire at the first opportunity. King Dimitri suggests the Armbroster banking family of Derdriu as intermediaries.

I am being treated well. It is very cold but I have been given many furs to keep warm. The food is very, very bad. I have mentioned this to Ashe and he has let me in on a secret: most of our old Blue Lion classmates also think so and are taking turns cooking for one another. I am looking forward to making Brigid food for everyone.

Hapi was also captured at Aillel and has agreed to fight for Dimitri. She has asked me to say ‘hi’ to you, which I am now doing.

I hope everyone is fine and the war goes well for us. Please know that I remain your loyal friend and look forward to fighting with by your side again.

Your friend and ally,

Petra, Princess of Brigid

P.S.: Hello, Hubert.

Chapter Text

All things considered, being a prisoner of war was less scary than she’d thought it’d be. Sure, actually getting captured had been horrifying. Same for the debriefing with Lord Fraldarius, who she was pretty sure she’d mortally offended. Being taken to the royal camp, surrounded by enemy soldiers? She’d nearly had a heart attack.

But other than that? Pretty fine, honestly.

The Faerghans had taken over some dinky little town in northern Arundel as their base, just outside the Black Woods. The royal party had taken rooms in the town’s inn, and since she (apparently) belonged to the royal party, that meant she had a room with four walls and a door that locked—

Well, admittedly, it was a lock that she didn’t have the key for, but still. Much, much better than a flimsy canvas tent, or a dungeon cell, or being chopped up and fed to the pigs. She’d only spent about an hour curled up in the corner of the room, trying to make herself as small and invisible as possible.

They had let her keep her satchel, which meant she had her sketchbook with her, at least. Without a model, her drawing is pretty rough, but honestly? It’s kind of calming to just sketch out the idea of a plant, unconstrained by the laws of biology as it fractalised into all sorts of improbably florid growths. She hoped her actual plants were doing okay. Hubert had promised to water them, but would he know to let them get enough sunlight and change their soil and talk to them? Maybe once she’d worked up the courage to write the letter the scary Lord Fraldarius had told her to write she’d be able to let him know—

Oh, but that’d only make him even more mad than he already would be, wouldn’t it? It was bad enough she’d let herself get captured, not to mention she’d lost the battle. Oh, Lady Edelgard would be so very mad! She should just lock herself in her room and never come out again. At least that way she wouldn’t be able to mess anything else up. But then, Lady Edelgard always managed to suss out her hiding places, and she never, ever gave up once she’d put her mind to something—

“Oh, now you’ve really done it, Bernie, now you’ve done it …”

“Done what?” asked Petra from her windowsill.

She let out a very unladylike shriek and scrambled to the opposite corner of the room. “G-g-ghost!” Petra hadn’t been seen since Aillel, it was impossible for her to be here!

The ghost cocked her head. “I am not a ghost. I am your friend Petra.”

“Th-that’s just what a ghost would say,” she insisted, though she could already feel her fear dissipating in the face of Petra’s slightly bemused smile. Then, she realised her room was on the third floor of the inn. “H-how did you get up here, anyway?”

“I climbed, of course,” Petra said and slid smoothly off the windowsill. Right, ask a stupid question. Her friend approached her, just slow enough not to startle her, and pulled Bernadetta into a tight embrace. “I have much gladness to be seeing you,” she added.

She stiffened for but a moment before relaxing into the embrace. As always, Petra smelt of tree bark, earth and ginger. Bernadetta was certain that she would have been able to recognise her friends by their scents: for instance, Hubert smelt of coffee, ozone and plain soap; Ferdinand’s scent was black tea, horses, and pine needles; Lady Edelgard was ink, carnations and that expensive hair extract from Morfis she used …

They all smelt safe. Terrifying in their own way, but safe.

They lingered like that for a while before Petra parted from her. She looked her over. “They did not hurt you, yes?”

Bernadetta shook her head. “N-no, I’m fine. Actually, uhm …” Petra wouldn’t be mad at her, would she? “I kind of … surrendered?” Her nerves had been shot to pieces throughout the battle, and its final moments were a bit of a blur. She’d loosed every arrow she had as her bodyguard fell around her, and then she’d given up like a coward instead of doing what a general was supposed to do. Sometimes, when she was lost in her own mind, she tried to think about what Lady Edelgard would do in her stead, but Lady Edelgard would never have given up. Bernadetta … well, giving up was about the only thing Bernadetta could do. She could already imagine Lady Edelgard’s frowny face. She wouldn’t say anything, but she’d be so disappointed. Hopefully Hubert wouldn’t make her suffer …

Petra’s expression was impenetrable. Somehow, that was worse than if she’d spat at her. “I see,” she said. Oh, she’d messed up again, hadn’t she? Stupid Bernie … Something must have shown on her face, for Petra’s features softened into a gentle smile. “Do not be worrying. I was just thinking of how much you have grown.”

She blinked at that. Sure, she’d had quite a growth spurt over the past couple years, but that wasn’t news to Petra. “W-what?”

Instead of a response, her friend reached up to ruffle her hair, and she huffed at the indignity. She was older than Petra, thank you very much! “I am proud of you,” Petra said. “And I have gladness you survived. You did well.” Then, she took her hand. “Now come. There are people I want you to be meeting!”

She yelped as she was dragged along, out of the safety of her room. “W-wait, I need to—I need to mentally prepare myself—”

“You can prepare yourself on the way,” Petra said, mercilessly, and already they were halfway out of the inn—

She stuck close to Petra as her friend led her around the camp. If she hadn’t known better, Bernadetta would not have been able to tell that she was a prisoner. She moved among the knights and men-at-arms of the kingdom with a confident familiarity, greeting people left and right as Bernadetta watched in awe and tried to make herself as small and invisible as possible. It didn’t stop their captors from regarding her with undisguised curiosity, unfortunately. She knew she stood out—she fit in a military camp about as well as a pig in the imperial throne room. But she couldn’t help but suspect that she had killed some of these strangers’ loved ones, and that it was only a matter of time before they sought their revenge when she least expected it.

Not everyone was an unfamiliar face, though. Bernadetta shrunk at the sight of Ashe and tried to hide behind Petra as they walked up to him, sitting outside his quarters re-fletching his arrows. Her and Ashe had never talked much, but up until two years ago he’d been one of the few students outside her house she hadn’t been scared of. The thought that now, he was her mortal enemy and might well have killed her just the other day sat ill with her.

Even so, his smile was warm enough, albeit fleeting. “Greetings, Petra. And, uh … Lady Bernadetta, right?” Squirming, she nodded.

“Bernadetta has imprisoned—has been taken prisoner in the last battle,” Petra supplied. “I am showing her around the camp. Do you think we could be including her in our conspiracy?”

She yelped. “I-I don’t want to be a part of any c-conspiracy! I’m not the conspiring type!” Oh no, now they were definitely going to kill her, weren’t they?

The Faerghan man laughed awkwardly, rubbing his neck. “Ah, don’t worry about it, it’s nothing serious. It’s just that …”

“The food of the mess hall is a crime of war.”

“I mean, it’s not that bad … the quartermasters try their best with what they have.” He winced. “Apparently, the army’s food supply was designed by doctors at the Royal School of Sorcery to be as nutritious as possible while also being cheap and shelf stable. Unfortunately, the person they asked to do the taste-testing was His Majesty.”

“So, we have been making a conspiracy to get some decent meals instead. We are purchasing food from the sutlers, and then we are taking turns to be preparing it.”

Ashe smiled at Bernadette. He seemed nice, she thought. Not scary at all. Perhaps they could be friends? “Dedue’s away in Fhirdiad at the moment, so it’s my turn tonight. I’m making a vegetable pasta salad, and I think Mercedes is baking something for dessert. You interested?”

“Bernadetta has much skill in cooking,” Petra added (lied).

She stared between the two of them, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears. This was … well, quite overwhelming, really. “You … you mean you’d let Bernie cook for you? And let me eat your cooking? Even though I’m a prisoner? W-wait, this isn’t s-some kind of plot to poison me, is it?!”

If anything, Ashe seemed confused by her sudden outburst, but Petra put a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Do not worry,” she told her. “No one will be getting poisoned, promise.”

Oh. She flushed and hid behind Petra. Which was getting kind of difficult, now that Bernadetta was ever-so-slightly taller than her. “Um, i-in that case … I mean, if you don’t mind …”

“Of course,” Ashe said, smiling. “I’d be happy to have you join us. I’m sure everyone else would be, too.” Oh … great, more people. More people who, come to think of it, were on the other side of a war. She wasn’t any good at making polite dinner conversation at the best of times, what was she supposed to do now? ‘Would you pass the wine, please? So, raided any imperial villages recently?’

The conversation must have moved on while she was imagining being disembowelled with a salad knife, for when she came to, Petra was questioning the Faerghan knight about something he’d said. “… only been here a week. You have won the battle. Why are you not pushing your advantage?”

Ashe seemed more than a little discomfited by this line of questioning. He avoided Petra’s gaze as his hands fiddled with the fletching of his arrow. “I’m, uh … I’m not sure I’m allowed to share that with you.”

Petra rolled her eyes. “Please, Ashe. I have paroled—have given my parole. Even if I wanted to be leaking your plans to the empire, I have no way of letting them know.”

“Still …” Ashe worried his lip. “Well, I guess you’ll find out eventually when we get our marching orders … We’re heading back north. Into Rowe territory.”

Bernadetta startled and shot a quick glance at Petra. Neither of them had been involved in the surreptitious diplomatic manoeuvres leading up to the war, but they knew how often Hubert and Monica had travelled back and forth between Enbarr and Arianrhod. Still, it didn’t make any sense. Last they heard, the bulk of the imperial army had been fighting in Leicester. Count Rowe wasn’t supposed to turn against the kingdom until the situation in the east was settled and Edelgard’s forces were free to link up with his. Something must have gone wrong. Oh, goddess, were the others okay?

If Petra shared her concerns, she could not tell. Her features were carefully schooled, and not for the first time Bernadetta marvelled at the former hostage’s self-control. “Trouble on the home front?” she asked.

Ashe’s shoulders slumped. He stared at the unfinished arrow in his lap, shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy and choked with emotion. “It’s … it’s Lord Lonato. My adoptive father.” He swallowed, hard. “He’s one of Count Rowe’s bannermen. It seems he’s persuaded him to rebel against His Majesty and thrown his lot in with the empire …”

“You will be fighting your father,” Petra said, quietly.

“Seems like it …” He fell silent and looked between the two imperial prisoners. Bernadetta shrunk under his searching gaze, but Petra held firm. “You, uh … did you …”

“Is there something you would like to be asking me, Ashe?”

He paused. “Did you know, Petra?” Bernadetta could plainly see the hurt in his eyes. Maybe they wouldn’t be friends after all. “Every meal we shared, every time we joked around, that we practised our archery together … did you know that your friends,” he spat the word with enough bitterness to make Bernadetta shudder, “were manipulating my father into betraying His Majesty? That I might have to …” Ashe broke off, choking on his words. “Tell me, did you know?”

 Petra did not avoid his gaze. “I had knowing—I knew. I knew that we had offered Lords Rowe and Lonato our support, yes. I did not know when or how he would act. I am sorry, Ashe.”

Their former classmate slumped over on his bench, buried his face in his hands. Unfinished arrows rolled off his lap and fell to the ground. “How could you do this? How can you bear to be—how many more people have to die, how many more families torn apart until you and Edelgard are satisfied?”

Bernadetta’s heart sank. He wasn’t wrong, of course. They all knew it. As Hubert would have put it, the path laid out before them was painted in scarlet, and Lady Edelgard made sure none of them ever forgot it. Thousands had already died, and many thousand more would die in turn before this war was over. Thousands who might have lived, if not for their choices.

Strangely, though, she found that she was fine with that. She wished there were another way, but if there wasn’t … she was willing to shoulder that burden and stain her hands with blood. She wondered if that made Bernie a bad person. She just … she couldn’t go back. She couldn’t be the Bernie who’d been scared of her own shadow anymore, who couldn’t even have conceived of the life she was now living. And if she could stop other people from being hurt the way she had been hurt, moulded into shape to be the perfect Crest-bearing noble wife, then she knew she had to do it.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “I, uhm … I really feel like I should apologise, but … I am proud to have chosen this path. And I’d … I’d chose it again. I’m really sorry you are going through this because of us. But it sounds like your f-father is choosing to fight for what he believes in. For a better future. Even if you’re on different sides, I … I hope you can be proud of him, still.”

Petra squeezed her hand. “You are a good person, Ashe. I have pride to call myself your friend. But we are not allies.” She paused. “We all have things that are worth fighting for. For Brigid, and for my family. Both my families.”

Abruptly, Ashe got to his feet, his hands clenched into tight fists. “I gotta go see to my battalion,” he said, hoarsely. For a moment, he glanced at them, and somehow, Bernadetta did not shy away from meeting his eyes. “… talk to you guys at dinner.”

He stomped off, and Petra squeezed her hand more tightly. Bernadetta closed her eyes, focused on her heartbeat. So much for making friends with their former classmates. Still, if things were going to be this way—if she was going to be a prisoner among enemy soldiers—at least she had some small part of her family here with her.

Dear Lady Edelgard,

Petra said I should write this letter even though you probably never want to hear from me again. I’m really sorry I lost your army and got myself captured and failed to stop the kingdom from advancing into the empire. Sorry!! Please don’t hate me!

I’m with the kingdom army now (as a prisoner I mean! I’d never betray you, I swear!). We were encamped at ███████ and will be marching ███████████████████ soon because ███████████████████████████████████ and
█████████████████████████████████████████████████ and I think ███ must hate me now because of ████████████ The kingdom army has ████████████████████ but I think it ’ s more likely █████████████████████ The food is REALLY terrible because apparently ██████████████████████████ but I made some fruit and herring tarts and everyone said they were great. Even █████ said it was good, though ███████████████████████████████ (Petra is looking over my shoulder and tells me this entire paragraph will probably be redacted before the letter reaches you. Sorry! I was trying to be useful.)

It's not all bad though. I share a tent with Petra which isn’t as good as a room but Lord Fraldarius ordered everyone else to leave me alone if I’m having a bad day. Now that I’m a prisoner, there’s no risk of running into my father by accident, which is nice. Seteth has been around to check on me. He’s even more intimidating now that I know you-know-what but he gave me some books of fables and made sure I have drawing tools. Oh, I also finally met Hapi. Turns out she likes carnivorous plants too!

I really miss you and everyone else and my room in Enbarr and I hope you’re all doing okay. Petra says a prisoner exchange is unlikely at the moment but I hope to see everyone again soon! Please say hello to everyone from me. (I mean, unless it’s too much of a hassle, in which case ignore that bit!)

Your trembling and obedient Bernie

P.S.: If you’re reading this, Hubert, could you please make sure that Priscilla and Cybil (the sundews) get plenty of sunlight? Oh, and please check on the monkey cups, they had a spot of root rot earlier this year when they came out of hibernation so you might need to prune away any mushy roots and repot them. You might also want to sing to Humphrey the butterwort when you feed him, I think it helps him digest. Remember he likes spiders best, provided they’re not too big, but slugs or houseflies will do in a pinch! Thank you so much!

Chapter Text

She could still taste blood in her mouth from when she’d bitten Dedue’s hand. Somehow, that was worse than the mangled and twisted shape of her right arm, the deep blue swelling just above her hip, or even the torn and broken fingernails.

Around her, the Faerghan knights glowered at her. They’d finally managed to put her into manacles. Ingrid had probably gotten the worst of it: deep scratches covered much of her face, and blood had caked her left eyelid shut. Nothing healing magic wouldn’t fix, eventually, but until that point, the bitter, hateful part of her took some pleasure in having marred the lady knight’s annoyingly perfect face. Hopefully, it’d leave a scar. The days when they’d been … well, perhaps not friends, but friendly at least … were nothing but a foggy memory.

Satisfied with her efforts, she closed her eyes. She’d put up quite a fight, hadn’t she? Not the kind of fighting she’d learned at the officer’s academy, not once her final spells had fizzled out and her bodyguards had fallen all around her. It had been the kind of fighting she’d learned as a child in the gutter fighting over dropped change, and as a young soubrette fending off handsy patrons. Look at her now, the blood of Faerghan nobility caked under her fingernails. Not bad for an Enbarr street rat.

“What are you grinning at?” Ingrid’s one-eyed glare was full of suspicion. She was dabbing away at the blood with a wet towel, sitting hunched over on barrel in what remained of Lonato’s ramshackle tent.

In truth, she didn’t have much to smile about. She’d known they were in for a tough fight even before her flying column of mages and cavalry had linked up with Lonato’s pitiful militia, the bulk of the army plodding behind from their abortive offensive into Leicester. Still, she’d held out hope that they might be able to save the raving lordling and hold until Edie could reinforce their positions. The unexpected arrival of Jeralt’s Mercenaries had been a welcome boon, and for a few hours she had even dared hope their superior numbers would keep the Faerghans from attacking …

But then the militia had been put to flight, the Blade-Breaker’s company had broken under the onslaught of Ingrid and her pegasus knights, and even the Ashen Demon—no, Byleth—had withdrawn to fight another day. Which meant she lived and was on her way back to Edie as they spoke.

And so, Dorothea put on the sweetest grin she could muster with a split lip and a black eye. “Oh, nothing,” she responded in that lilting tone she reserved for her most annoying suitors, “Just thinking about how the Blade-Breaker and his daughter are going to obliterate you guys next you meet.”

Ingrid snorted. “Right, of course. That’s why they ran away with their tail between their legs today. It’s what you get for putting your faith in sellswords who only fight for coin. No offense, Shez, you’re one of us now.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure, I agree.” The merc seemed to be miles away, staring into space as though engaged in some internal soliloquy.

“Right.” Ingrid seemed a little annoyed at the lack of backup. She glanced back at Dorothea. “Dream all you want, but you lost today, just like you’re gonna lose every other battle in this war. The people of Fódlan will never submit to imperial tyranny.”

Dorothea could only roll her eyes. It wasn’t as though they hadn’t tried to explain themselves, time and time again, only for their attempts to fall on deaf ears. Even in Adrestia, the nobility and vested interests had sought to stymie Edie’s plans at every turn. It was no surprise at all that the Faerghan nobility had already cast Edie and the rest of them in the villain’s role.

Still, for all that she wanted nothing more than to lash out at her captors, it would have been wasted breath. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Ingrid muttered something crude under her breath and stomped off. One of the Faerghan mages approached to see to her arm, and she had to bite back tears as the bones reset themselves and the surrounding tissue regrew.

“General Arnault?” A man’s voice, a steely tenor coarsened by the winter chills of Faerghus. She opened her eyes to see a tall, handsome stranger standing before her. Shoulder-length dark hair, well-groomed beard, expensive furs—a noble, and not just any old noble at that. Perhaps … ah, yes. She recognised the Crest engraved on the clasp of his cloak. Come to think of it, he was the spitting image of Felix. With any luck, he’d be just as much of a little shit.

“Duke Fraldarius,” she responded by way of greeting. “Well, I already feel better about my defeat knowing that the Shield of Faerghus was my opponent.” Even Dorothea was familiar with the man’s reputation. His name had featured prominently in their war councils at the war’s onset.

He laughed at that. The apple had fallen quite far from the tree, it seemed. “The very same, though my son now bears our ducal title.” He smiled at her with surprising warmth. “I must commend you on a battle well-fought. Shrouding the forest in fog was an inspired stratagem. If our luck hadn’t held, I suspect the day would have had a rather different outcome.”

She sighed. The former duke seemed a decent enough sort, but she wasn’t one of them and was in no mood to play their games. “I expect you are here to receive my surrender?” What little schooling she had received at Garreg Mach had been quite clear on how these things were supposed to go, and Edie had made sure all members of the Black Eagle Strike Force were well-aware of their options and obligations. Better you surrender than lose your life, she had said, her expression a silent plea. There was little Dorothea hated more than the idea of giving herself into the power of unknown noblemen, but she was not about to betray Edie’s trust.

“If you would.”

“Fine.” She had no sword, but she rose to her feet and folded her hands behind her back. “I hereby surrender unconditionally all Adrestian and allied forces under my command to His Faerghan Majesty’s forces. I shall at once direct all forces under my control to seize hostilities and obey your orders. Is this acceptable?”

“Indeed it is. On behalf of His Majesty the King, I accept your surrender.” Lord Fraldarius offered her his hand; she eyed it warily. After a moment, he withdrew it. “Most of your army have already laid down their arms, or slipped away into the forest. I suspect a lot of Lord Lonato’s militiamen will be quietly making their way home in time.”

“What of the mercenaries?” She shouldn’t have asked, really, but the words slipped past her lips unbidden.

“Withdrew in good order. We haven’t the cavalry to give pursuit, so I fear the Blade-Breaker will live to fight for your emperor another day.”

She nodded, trying not to show her relief. Jeralt’s Mercenaries had proved better allies than anyone had expected, and … well, she had seen the way Edie had stared at their captain’s kid. It would do her good to let loose a bit, though she suspected both her dear emperor and the taciturn mercenary would be utterly useless without Dorothea there to guide them along. “Anyone still fighting?”

“A few bands of stragglers. If you are well enough to ride, I would appreciate your assistance in inducing them to surrender.”

A horse was procured for her, and she spent the next several hours riding around the dense forest making sure all who had survived the battle laid down their arms. She had broken bread with these men and women, had entertained them with song and dance around the campfire, had seen them take blows for her … so many had refused to surrender when the word of their defeat had gone out, so many had been willing to go to their deaths for her, for Edie, for their dream. Now here she was, telling them to save their lives instead. Grizzled veterans of the Dagda and Brigid War nodded stoically, already prepared to turn their coats and ply their soldier’s trade for their erstwhile enemies instead. Bright-eyed youths drawn from Enbarr’s university and the schools of the bourgeoisie cursed their fate for robbing them of the hero’s deaths they craved. And then there were those who were like her, trash plucked from the gutter, the debris of respectable society … they stared at her from wan, hollow faces, too accustomed to defeat to feel betrayed. She had promised them a future, and they had been fools to believe her.

Exhaustion had her well within its grip by the time Lord Fraldarius led her into the Faerghan camp. The other captives had already been put to work, and she warily eyed the stockade they had set up adjoining the camp proper. She would need to see to her troops sooner rather than later. Latrines had to be dug, a water supply secured, food stores rationed … somehow, she doubted that the Faerghans had resources to spare with their prisoners. She hoped she wouldn’t have to encourage any of her men to enlist in the enemy’s army, but if it saved them from starvation …

Instead of the stockade, Lord Fraldarius guided their horses into the centre of the Faerghan camp, where the embroidered pavilions of the high nobility crowded the king’s tent. Fraldarius offered her his hand, but she was not so helpless that she could not dismount of her own power. “I fear His Majesty has already set out again, so you will have to settle for me as a host,” he said.

She gave him a thin-lipped smile. “I would hate to impose on your hospitality,” she said. “Perhaps it would be easiest for both of us if you just let me and my men go.”

“Heh, I’m afraid I cannot do that. But I will make you the same offer we have made all other imperial captives …”

Ah, yes. She had read the reports, of course. “You mean to recruit me.”

“His Majesty bears no enmity for the Adrestian people and understands that they have legitimate grievances. We are willing to work with anyone who opposes this mad war of conquest and desires to see peace returned to Fódlan.”

What peace, she thought, but held her tongue. “I appreciate your directness, but I must decline. My loyalty is to my emperor.”

Fraldarius did not seem surprised. “I understand. In that case, you will be considered a prisoner of war. Will you give your parole?”

She had no intention of being a good girl and sitting idle while her friends were in danger. She would attempt to escape, come what may. Still, escape would be easier if she was under less scrutiny. If this Faerghan was fool enough to take her at her word, frankly, he got what he was coming to him. “… I will,” she lied and glanced over in the direction of the stockade. “I assume I am at liberty to visit my men?”

“Of course. But first …” Lord Fraldarius motioned for her to follow him, towards a mid-sized pavilion some distance away from the tents of the royal party. He stopped in front of it. “You must be exhausted. Take some time to rest and catch up. I’ll send someone to try and recover your baggage from the imperial camp, as well. Oh, and if you feel up for it, I would be honoured if you were to join me at my table for supper this evening.” Dorothea nodded, somewhat dazed, and with a gallant bow, she was left alone.

Well, might as well … she pulled aside the tent flap and—

“Dorothea!” Petra rushed at her, almost tackling her to the ground, and she found herself embraced by a pair of strong arms. “You are safe …”

Had she been less exhausted, her instinctive reaction might have been to struggle against the unexpected touch and the face full of purple hair. As it was, her weary body allowed her mind to catch up. “P-Petra?” Haltingly, she returned the embrace. “What are you doing here?” She knew Petra had been taken prisoner at Aillel, two months ago, but she should have been languishing in some faraway Faerghan castle by now. If she was still with the Faerghan army … a horrible suspicion rose in her mind, but she brushed it away as quickly as it had surfaced. She knew Petra wasn’t in this fight for the same reasons as the rest of them, but she wouldn’t betray her friends.

Her friend—her darling Petra released her from her embrace to take in the sight of Dorothea. She was beaming, eyes shining, and at a glance looked healthy—thanks be to whatever spirit of Brigid had gotten turned around and ended up in freezing Fódlan. “I am a prisoner, same as you,” she explained and a wave of relief washed over Dorothea. “When I had hearing—when I heard that you were the leader of the army sent to reinforce Lonato, I had much worry. I am full of gladness that you are unharmed.”

She found herself flushing at that. Rather uncharacteristic of her, that. “Likewise. When Hubie told us about Aillel …” Her voice broke. She’d had nightmares for days after that, and until Manuela had prescribed her a sleeping draught, she’d been unable to close her eyes without drawing to mind horrid visions of a mangled Petra amidst the volcanic wastes.

Petra squeezed her shoulders. “All is well,” she assured her. “I wrote a letter not long after my capturing, but they warned me it would take a long time to reach you. Making you have worries was not my intention.”

Oh, that sweet, sweet woman. Her heart had betrayed her in making her doubt. “I know. I know, I’m just …”

“D-Dorothea!” Bernadetta’s voice from the tent entrance interrupted her recriminations; she turned to face her, smile widening—Dorothea’s response died on her lips as she saw her friend, standing just outside the tent. She’d known from reports that Bern had been captured near Muiridi, and most of her worries had been about what captivity would do to the sweet girl’s mental health. She hadn’t expected … this.

She clasped her hands in front of her mouth as Bernadetta’s smile disappeared, replaced by anxious concern. “I-is everything alright? Oh, I’m so sorry, I was interrupting something I’ll justleavesorrybye—”

Oh no, not like this she wouldn’t. Dorothea rushed towards Bern and had to fight the urge to hug her tight and not let go, which she doubted would do much to ease the poor girl’s anxiety. Instead, she took her hands in hers, gentle but firm. “I’m really glad to see you, Bern. I’ve been just worried sick about you—all of us have been.”

Bernadetta looked at her with an expression usually reserved for deer staring down a loaded crossbow. “So … you’re not mad I let myself get captured?”

“No, of course not!” The loss of a good quarter of the imperial army had been a major setback, but Bernadetta didn’t need to hear that. Instead, she said: “You did the right thing. You know how lost we’d all have been without our darling Bern. You should have seen the way Edie was fretting over you!”

“I have agreement,” Petra added. “You are family.”

Though the girl’s cheeks burned red, she smiled ever so faintly. “R-right.”

Which brought her to the wyvern in the room. “That being said,” she continued, steeling herself, “we do need to talk.”

“T-talk?!”

“About your hair, Bern! What happened? We had you looking so cute!” A horrible thought occurred to her as she examined a strand of knotted and split-ended purple hair. “They—they didn’t make you cut your hair with a dagger, did they?”

“Uhm, I used scissors … w-well, gardening scissors, but still—”

Later that day, when Lord Rodrigue inquired over dinner after the screaming that had been heard throughout the camp, Dorothea was too embarrassed to answer.

My dearest Edie,

If this is the first of our letters you receive, let me calm your nerves: Petra, Bernadetta and myself are all alive and well, though taken prisoner. Our Faerghan captors have forbidden me from including any details of our location, but we are together and are being treated well, horrible food notwithstanding. (It does not appear as though any of our old schoolmates have yet found their way into your care, but if they do I pray you introduce them to such highlights of Enbarr haute cuisine as ‘fresh ingredients’ and ‘seasoning’!)

We remain in high spirits: Bern has been working on gifts for when all of us Eagles are together again, and has even befriended our old schoolmate Shez. Petra has spent much of her time hunting and working on her Fódlani with Dedue. As for myself … would you believe me if I said I almost miss war? Not the fighting and the bloodshed, obviously, or the deprivations of campaign life, which still hound me now. But I miss feeling useful and making a difference. Most of all, I miss fighting by your side. For now, alas, I shall have to content myself annoying every Faerghan around me by (literally) singing your praises.

But that is more than enough ink wasted on little old me! For now, my dear Edie, we must speak about you. Knowing you, you have been stewing in your own mind for far too long now. (Don’t deny it!) I rather doubt Hubie, Ferdie and Monnie are being a good influence on you in that respect, so my letters will have to suffice.

First: you are working too hard. How do I know? Because you are always working too hard. Take a day off for a ride to the countryside or enjoy a good book every now and then. A few hours here and there will not decide the war, but the emperor breaking down from stress will .

Secondly: eat! I expect you to have at least two full meals per day, and I will be checking with Hubie when I’m back. Be sure to have an extra portion of saghert and cream for me.

And thirdly: you are not alone. Even if we are apart, we Eagles are there with you in spirit. Please don’t feel like you have to walk this path alone. Bern and Petra and I are rooting for you from afar, but Caspar and Lin and Monnie and Ferdie and Hubie are all by your side and will never abandon you. We chose you, after all, two years ago and at the start of the war and every day since. And we will choose you every day going forward: not just because we believe in Emperor Edelgard, but because you are our friend and we care about you. Don’t forget that.

All my love,

Your Dorothea

P.S.: Hubie, the same goes for you! I give Ferdie permission to bully you on my behalf if you’re not taking care of yourself.

P.P.S.: You-know-who thinks you’re cute, too, Edie. You should go for it.

Chapter Text

His horse wasn’t long for this world.

With how he was drifting in and out of consciousness, it was impossible to gauge for how long his brave Landgraf had been carrying him, but it must have been some time. The gelding’s head hung low and he walked with a pronounced limp. It would have been a kindness to dismount and let him rest, but there was no chance of that. They had to keep going. “Just a few more miles,” he promised, his voice barely above a croak. “Just a bit longer, old boy …”

In truth, he wasn’t sure which of them would give out first. He sat slumped over in the saddle like a corpse, Landgraf’s reins tied around his waist. The stab wound on his belly had opened up again, and foul-reeking fluids seeped through his makeshift bandage. He had lost too much blood, he knew, and was running a fever.

Perhaps it was a mercy, then, that the road to Arianrhod was all but deserted. If any desperate refugee, deserter or displaced peasant fancied his horse, or his sturdy leather boots, or the gilded sabre at his side, he would have been utterly unable to resist them. But it had been hours since he had last seen another human face on the road. The villages and farmsteads that had lined the imperial highway nearer to Rhiannon, burnt-out and abandoned as they were, had long given way to the desolate, windswept heath of County Rowe.

Under different circumstances, Ferdinand might have appreciated the harsh, untamed landscape around him, the shadowplay of the dark clouds hanging low in the sky. This was poor farmland, but he had read of vast deposits of lignite resting below the soil, just waiting to be extracted and fuel the bright new world they had dreamt of—

By the time he came to, dusk had bathed the heath in twilight and Landgraf had halted, listlessly picking at some weeds off the road. “C’mon, boy,” he murmured, patting the horse’s neck. “You can do this, I know you can …” He gave Landgraf spurs and the poor exhausted bay took off at a trot. “There we go …” He could feel himself fading again—

The horse collapsing under him brought him back to consciousness. A dull white pain flashed through his body as Landgraf’s heaving bulk trapped his leg under it before he lost all feeling in it. He grit his teeth, tried to steady himself and felt blindly for his loyal mount’s neck. “Get up,” he croaked, though the horse was plainly burning up from exertion and dehydration. “Get up, get up, getupgetupgetup—” Arianrhod. He had to reach Arianrhod, no matter the cost—

He woke to a grey, murky sunlight glaring into his eyes and the buzzing of flies. He still lay where he had fallen, trapped under his dead horse in the mud. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered to his poor companion, though no sound broke from his parched lips. He could still hear Landgraf’s hoofbeats at the back of his mind, bravely charging forth for his emperor, the glorious spear-tip of Adrestia’s nobility—he would have laughed if he still could. All in vain, Goddess have mercy upon them … still, the hoofbeats echoed in his head. Multiple horses, moving at a trot.

Ferdinand tilted his head as best he could, squinting against the sunlight. He’d once read that, in Morfis, they believed that Death rode a white horse, but there’d been nothing about him having an entourage. A group of riders was approaching from the east, their armour gleaming brightly—

The next thing he saw was the face of Sylvain Jose Gautier, hovering over him with a perfectly serious expression, and that was how he knew he the afterlife must be a very strange place indeed.

“—a lot of blood. We’re trying to reconstitute it, but it’ll take time—”

“—is our friend! You cannot keep us from him!”

“Mercedes is our best healer. Give her space to work.”

“F-Ferdinand is not gonna die, is he?—”

“—questions to ask him. We still don’t know what happened to Arianrhod …”

“The empire had nothing to do with that, how many times do we have to tell you?”

“And I’ll believe it when I see any proof—”

“Glück, das mir verblieb,

rück zu mir, mein treues Lieb.

Abend sinkt im Hag

bist mir Licht und Tag.

Bange pochet Herz an Herz

Hoffnung schwingt sich himmelwärts …”

A woman’s voice drifting through the haze. Singing? His mother? No, the voice was bright and clear and unmarred by coughing fits. Could it be—no, surely not. The outlines of a face above him, gentle fingers brushing through his hair. He blinked, trying to clear the fog from his eyes. “…del…gard…?”

She gasped, tightly clasped his hands. No calluses, he idly thought, she must have let her training slip. Was the war over? How wonderful … “Ferdie? Ferdie, can you hear—”

He awoke with a splitting headache and a throat as dry as the Almyran desert. He croaked out something; an earthen cup was placed at his lips and he greedily drank up the cold, clear water. “Easy, easy …”

Blinking, he tried to orient himself. He was in a tent that was not his own, laid up on a cot under heavy furs. On a low table by his bedside stood a pitcher of water and a bouquet of wildflowers. And there, seated by his bedside … “Do…Dorothea …?” He tried to sit up, only to be pushed back into the pillows.

“Easy there! We’ve only just gotten you back.” She was the picture of elegance as always, but her smile was brittle. He’d never seen her looking frail before. It was quite an unsettling sight. The songstress took his hand in hers. “You were half-dead when they brought you in,” she explained. “Mercedes did her best to heal your wound, but it was already infected when you got here.”

“Mercedes … are we in the Faerghan camp, then?” If he strained his ears, he could almost make out the noise of the camp beyond the walls of the tent.

Dorothea nodded. “About a day’s march out of Nuvelle.”

Nuvelle! He had ridden for Arianrhod, over 600 miles away. “How … how long have I been unconscious?”

She grimaced at that. “You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for the better part of a month.”

“Goddess …” A whole month! The entire western front must have collapsed if the Faerghans had pushed all the way to Nuvelle in that time, not to mention the Alliance’s counteroffensive in the East. He could scarcely imagine a more ignominious dereliction of duty than this. He had failed—

“Edelgard!” Abruptly, he sat up on the cot, the headache and the exhaustion forgotten. “Dorothea, quick, we need to save Edelgard!” He swung his legs out from under the covers, staggered to his feet, and promptly collapsed as the tent around him began to swing. Dorothea caught him, and his mortification only increased as he realised he was fully nude.

Exasperated, the songstress returned him to his cot as he stammered his apologies for scarring her delicate soul with the sight. She only rolled her eyes at that. “Consider us even, then. Now, what is that about Edie? Is she okay?” A rare quiver entered her voice. “King Dimitri said—said that he was at Arianrhod. Thales.” All of a sudden, Ferdinand realised he’d never thought of how he was going to breach the news he’d crossed half a continent to deliver. Dorothea must have sensed his hesitation, for she leant forward, tightly clasping his hand. “Please, Ferdie. What’s happening to our Edie and how can we help?”

Dorothea’s eyes were a desperate plea, and so he steeled himself and told her. How the emperor had returned from Arianrhod ‘injured’, refusing to see even Hubert. The strange mages and physicians tending to her in place of Professor Casagranda. Monica summarily sent into internal exile. The reappearance of his fa—of Duke Aegir at court and his appointment as regent, as though nothing had happened. It had been trivial to see what was happening: somehow, their true enemies had gotten hold of Edelgard again. He told Dorothea of the conclusions he and Hubert had drawn, of their plotting, of how they had recruited Ladislava to execute a countercoup …

He told her of their failure. Of Thales’ appearance. His gloating presentation of Edelgard, staring blankly ahead with not a hint of recognition, of life in her empty eyes.

There was no need to burden her with all the details. She did not need to know what Thales’ magic had done to Ladislava, or Hubert’s agonising despair as he pleaded for the doll-like emperor to acknowledge him …

She did not need to know how Ferdinand’s father had tried to sway him to their cause, his obscene fantasies of an emperor of Aegir blood, sired by his son upon an Edelgard incapable of resisting like a prized broodmare. He had tried to kill his father for those words, something he should have done long ago, but all it had yielded him had been a knife in his stomach. Ironically, it had been the regent’s lingering parental feelings that had saved Ferdinand’s life. He would make sure he’d come to regret that mistake. But that was his responsibility, no one else’s. The shame that would forever stain the Aegir family name, that had erased centuries of noble deeds, was his yoke to bear.

Dorothea listened to his explanations in silence, though she burned with white-hot, barely contained fury. When he had told all he could bear to tell, she asked about Hubert, and he could not meet her eyes. “I don’t know,” he confessed. Hubert … Hubert had fought tooth and nail, like a wounded animal. They’d been separated, and for all he knew his friend was still lingering in the dungeons of Enbarr. If they didn’t just murder him on the spot. He shuddered at the thought. No, Hubert was alive, he was sure of it. Sheer stubbornness would not allow him to die. “I had to find you,” Ferdinand told Dorothea. “You and … and the Faerghan army.”

For a moment, they both were silent. When Dorothea had found her words again, her voice was hollow. “We’ll need to make sure all of us are on the same page—you, me, Petra, Bern.”

“This is my responsibility,” he protested weakly. “One way or the other, we are handing our enemies a knife and hoping they don’t stab us in the back. You don’t need this on your conscience.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Ferdie. You need us if you want to have any chance of convincing Dimitri to take a chance on us. Besides …” She faltered, sought for a way to express the depth of her feelings. In the end, she settled for a simple: “They have our Edie. We’ll get her back.”

There was something unsettling about the way Sylvain was looking at him as they made their case, Ferdinand decided. The king, Dedue and Lord Rodrigue all listened intently, their expressions carefully controlled and neutral. Sylvain, on the other hand, had been treating them to his finest selection of supercilious smirks, draped over his chair as though he were taking tea in the gardens of Garreg Mach rather than sitting in on a council of war. It was as though the young Lord Gautier were deliberately trying to unnerve them.

If it was, it wasn’t working—at least on Ferdinand. He could sense Dorothea’s annoyance. Petra seemed to be handling it better but had clearly picked up on the songstress’s frequent glares at Sylvain. Bernadetta, of course, hadn’t spoken more than a few words, though he was proud of her for taking part in this to begin with. Even so, Sylvain’s behaviour was getting on Ferdinand’s nerves. He’d never interacted much with him at the academy, but had assumed his reputation as a callous philanderer had been exaggerated. Now, he wondered if that reputation might not have been an understatement instead.

And yet, the smirk did not reach his eyes. Dorothea had described him as affable and quick to joke (as well as other, less flattering things). That made it all the stranger that Ferdinand found himself put in mind of nothing so much as Hubert, of all people. They had the same cold, analytical eyes.

Still, nothing to be done about that now (and certainly not the right time to start thinking about Hubert, languishing away in a dungeon cell somewhere, or worse). “… all we presently know about Those Who Slither in the Dark,” Dorothea concluded. They four Eagles had debated long into the night just what to share and what to omit, but in the end, Bernadetta had been right: the point for secrecy was long past, and it was time to lay all their cards on the table. They could apologise to Edelgard for betraying imperial secrets and losing the war once she was safely back in control of her own body.

For now, openness seemed to be working well. King Dimitri leaned back in his chair, considering Dorothea’s explanations of their common enemy. “I suppose your tale does accord with our own experiences,” he admitted. “Though you will not begrudge me for hesitating to take you at your word. It does seem rather fantastical.”

“To think that Tomas, Cornelia, and this Thales person all belong to some underground civilisation that has been pulling the strings of the empire and the kingdom both for years …” Lord Rodrigue shook his head in disbelief. “I would love nothing more than to dismiss it out of hand, but we have all seen the weapons that destroyed Arianrhod.”

“If there is any consolation, it’s that Those Who Slither haven’t used their Javelins again,” Ferdinand pointed out. “It may be their resources are limited.”

The king agreed. “We can only hope so. As for the rest of your story … it does not take a genius to see that there has been some manner of coup in the imperial leadership.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Sylvain added.

“Even so—Edelgard is the most stubborn, strong-willed person I have ever met.” An odd, melancholy smile played around the king’s lips. “When we were—ah.” He broke off, as though he had been about to say something compromising. “What I meant to say,” he continued, segueing smooth as sandpaper, “is that I struggle to believe Edelgard’s will could be broken so swiftly and completely.”

Ferdinand had to agree with that. “I saw Her Majesty with my own two eyes, unfortunately. It was like looking at a lifeless doll that did nothing except for what Thales ordered her to do. Her own will, her fire, her soul—they must be locked away deep.”

“And you are certain of it? That it was her and not some kind of magicked double?”

“Absolutely, as certain as my name is—I mean, yes.”

Dedue leant in to whisper something in the king’s ear. Ferdinand thought he could make out Shez’s name. King Dimitri nodded. “I will speak with her later. In the meantime, though …” He directed his attention back towards the four Adrestians. “I would like to hear your proposal.”

Ferdinand tried to hide his relief. If the king was willing to hear them out, that meant he was at least theoretically open to persuasion. “We share a common enemy, Your Majesty. Let us fight them together.” He reached for his notes. “The four of us still have friends in the empire—people loyal to Edelgard, not the usurper claiming to speak in her name. We’ve talked it over and we think we can bring over at least a third of the imperial army.”

“So far, you have refused to fight for us,” Lord Rodrigue pointed out.

“And we are still refusing,” Petra retorted. “We are not wishing to fight under the banner of the kingdom. We will be independent, but aligned, like you and the Alliance.” At least until their goals were met. None of them had any illusions about the state of the war, but Edelgard’s strength of conviction would see her break before she bent.

“A civil war in the empire would make things a great deal easier for us,” Dimitri mused. “The regent’s armies could evaporate overnight.”

Dorothea nodded emphatically. “The nobility may be more than happy to betray their emperor, but the common people will support us. Now that Edelgard has shown them another way, the Adrestian people will never stand for going back under the yoke.”

To Ferdinand’s surprise, it was Sylvain who spoke up next. “I gotta say, you do paint a pretty picture. About time the imperials started killing each other instead of us.” He bit back an indignant response, settled for glaring as the son of Gautier leant forward with a roguish grin. “But now comes the part where you tell us your price.”

The Eagles looked to each other for strength. This was the moment they had been dreading. “We do have three conditions,” Ferdinand said, eventually, reaching for his notes.

“Let’s hear them, then.”

“Firstly, we remain independent at all levels. No Adrestian officers, knights or soldiers will take orders from any Faerghan officer, no matter their rank, unless specifically seconded to a Faerghan formation. Our delegates will participate in your council of war as allies, not as your vassals. Any lands, towns, or castles within the borders of pre-war Adrestia that fall under our control will be administered by Adrestians.”

“And what of the territories we have already conquered?” Lord Rodrigue objected. “We would need to reorganise our entire supply network in the middle of campaigning season.”

“Those can be disposed of as the need arises. This condition only applies to any lands we capture going forward. Continuing, Adrestian law will continue to apply in any occupied territory. Specifically, this is including the following acts passed by the imperial council in the reign of the present emperor: the Southern Church Establishment Act of 1180, the Submission of the Clergy Act of 1181, the Inheritance of Peerages Act of 1181, the—”

“Alright, alright.” King Dimitri put his hands up. “It has never been my intention to dictate the internal affairs of another country. Any of Edelgard’s reforms that you deem necessary may remain in place, provided they do not impair the war effort. What else?”

Ferdinand turned to the next page. “I appreciate your patience, Your Majesty. Our second condition is as follows: no requisitions of grain, fodder, materiel, pasturage or any other chattel may be made of any Adrestian citizen without reimbursement according to the rates set out in the Imperial Articles of War of 1173. Any civilians drafted for necessary labour are to be paid at fair rates according to the same Articles. No officer, knight or soldier in the army may be billeted in a private dwelling without the owners’ consent. Any officer, knight or soldier in the army who is found to have engaged in looting or pillaging is to be put to death.”

“We’ve already had to rely on resupplies from home,” Lord Rodrigue admitted. “The imperial army’s scorched earth tactics have seen to that. Even so, we cannot do entirely without requisitioning.”

“Not to mention all the soldiers who’ve been eagerly awaiting the chance to augment their salary with a spot of looting,” Sylvain threw in. Ferdinand caught a glimpse of Dorothea clenching her fists under the table and tried to gently nudge her with his foot. They couldn’t afford to get riled up.

The king, however, nodded. “We will manage. I hear the Royal School of Sorcery has been working on an exciting new way to compact a whole day’s rations into a brick no larger than a tinderbox. When dissolved in water, it supposedly makes for a capital meal.” Somehow, that seemed to cause everyone else in the tent to wince, which Ferdinand found absolutely fascinating. He would need to ask his friends about that later.

So far, at least, negotiations were going better than they had dared hope. Somehow, though, he doubted it would remain that straightforward. “That was our second condition. As for the third …” He took a deep breath. In for a groschen, in for a thaler. “Her Majesty the Emperor is to be liberated and restored to her full power, her condition permitting. No harm is to come to her, no matter what.”

The Faerghans’ faces darkened—all except for Sylvain’s, who burst out into laughter. “Here we go, then.”

Dorothea, evidently, had had enough. “Care to let the rest of us in on the joke?” she snapped.

“Why, I’d have thought it obvious—you’re the joke, dear lady, you and your whole damn empire.” He spread his arms and began to pace about the tent as though standing on a stage. “If you would be so kind as to remind me—who started this war? You. Who proceeded to butcher their way through Faerghus and Leicester? That’s right, you again. Oh, yes, and who’s currently losing on all fronts? Why, you!”

“Get to the point, my lord,” Ferdinand growled, firmly grasping Dorothea’s hand while Petra did her best to stop her from lunging at Sylvain across the table.

“The point is,” he continued, raising his finger at them, “that you, my friends, have nothing. The empire has lost this war, no matter what you do. And now you come to us and insist there shouldn’t be any consequences? Please.”

“Sylvain, calm yourself.”

“Sorry, Your Majesty, no can do. We all know the casualty lists. We’ve all seen the burnt-out villages, the smoking ruins of Arianrhod. And we know who’s responsible—Edelgard. Now, I won’t pretend I didn’t buy into her reforms at the start. A world where Crests don’t matter? Sign me up! But you try looking into the faces of all the widows and orphans she’s made and tell me it’s worth it. Far as I’m concerned, your precious emperor got what was coming to her.” He turned to his king. “You want my advice? Duke Aegir will be an easier opponent to beat; he’ll do half our work for us. We stick to the plan, let him make as many mistakes as he wants, and march straight to Enbarr. And then we decide how merciful we’re gonna be.”

Again, that cold expression in his eyes, and suddenly Ferdinand understood why he had been reminded of Hubert: Sylvain was Dimitri’s Hubert, the one who said and did the unthinkable so no one else had to. Behind the veneer of careless mockery sat a man who would, without hesitation, stab an ally in the back if it kept his friends safe. Ferdinand wondered if Dimitri knew, or if Sylvain, like Hubert, preferred to see to the truly dirty business behind his sovereign’s back. He wondered if, perhaps, true nobility could be found in ruthlessness.

“And what then?” Petra glared at Sylvain with unbridled fury, even as she continued to stand behind Dorothea with both hands on her shoulders. “You will be taking your revenge? Divide up the empire among your nobles? Then you will never be having peace. You would be no better than the people who exploited Brigid, or Duscur—”

The sound of cracking wood interrupted her excoriation. All present stilled and stared. King Dimitri had leapt to his feet and slammed his fist on the table, throwing back his chair and splintering the tabletop. “Enough, all of you!” His voice was tightly pressed, as though it took great effort to utter those words. “This is a council of war; I will have no fighting here!” From one moment to the next, the tension seemed to flee the king’s body, and he brought his hand to his forehead as though he was suffering a sudden headache.

Dedue was at his side in an instant, whispering something in his ear, and the king seemed to settle. “Forgive me, I …” He broke off to gather himself. “Sylvain, I see your point. If there is to be any justice, Edelgard must be punished for her crimes. Letting her reclaim her throne as if nothing happened … the dead cry out for vengeance. Besides, there are so many answers she owes me before I can decide her fate.”

“All of this is assuming the emperor can be cured of her … condition.” Lord Rodrigue had resumed his earlier calm. “Justice will not be served by punishing her in her current state, nor can she rule an empire if she cannot even command her own body. Repellent though it may be, it may well be a kindness to leave her like this.”

“No!” Ferdinand startled at the sudden outburst. All eyes turned towards Bernadetta. Realising what she’d done, the girl’s eyes widened, panic mounting, but she would not stop. The words streamed from her lips like a waterfall. “You can’t do this to her! L-Lady Edelgard needs our help, she’s counting on us!” She shuddered, though her cheeks were flushed from the exertion. Dorothea reached out to take Bernadetta’s hand, but she brushed her aside. “It’s like she’s trapped in her own mind with nothing. No friends, no company, nothing except her own thoughts and memories. That’s w-way worse than being locked up or k-killed. And all the while, evil, wicked men are doing wh-whatever they like with her body like she’s just a doll—” Her voice broke, tears ran down her cheeks. “We can’t do this to her,” she repeated, “or we’d be no better than Thales and them …”

“If we can save her life—”

“Don’t you get it? She’d rather die than live like that! She’s …” A sob roiled Bernadetta’s body. Petra put her arms around her. “She’s already suffered so much …”

Ferdinand found himself kneeling by his friend’s side, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief, and dared a glance at the Faerghans. The king’s head hung low, dark clouds gathered about him. Something about that sight stung, and it took him a moment to remember why: it was a familiar sight to him, one he had often seen on Edelgard’s face when she sat stewing in her guilt and self-recriminations and her thoughts retreated to the darkest, loneliest corners of her mind. Whenever he had caught that expression, he had made it his duty to pull her back from that brink. Now, she had no one. He hoped Dimitri did.

“Your Majesty,” he said, quietly. “I beg your mercy. I know of no soul more noble in all of Fódlan than Edelgard von Hresvelg. If you have ever felt a sympathetic pang for a fellow monarch trying to do right by her people—allow her to finish her work. And if you cannot, then grant her a quick death, and me as well, for I will not abandon my emperor or my friend.”

“And me, too,” Petra added. “Or I swear to you there will never be peace between Brigid and Faerghus.”

“Edelgard is like a sister to us,” said Dorothea. “She has already lost one family. She will not lose another.”

And for but a moment, the hulking King of Faerghus seemed like nothing so much as a forlorn little boy who had lost everything and knew not why.

Before the month was out, he stood in the great hall of Ochs Manor and took the prime minister’s oath of office, surrounded by their fellow conspirators. Duke Gerth bade him swear to be ever loyal, true and obedient to Her Majesty the Emperor, to counsel her true and protect her from all enemies, and he raised his hand, the other resting on the Book of Seiros, and swore that he would do so, so help him the Goddess and all her saints. His friends cheered when he lowered his hand, which felt somewhat inappropriate but he wasn’t about to complain.

He would have complained about the crushing bear hug Caspar gave him, had that not knocked all the air out of his lungs. “Heck yeah, dude!” He was mercifully returned to the ground. “Man, I can’t wait to take on the bastards who hurt Edelgard! Just you wait, Thales, Inferno Caspar is coming for you!”

“He … doesn’t know … what he’s in for,” Ferdinand coughed, catching his breath. “Any news from your father?”

Caspar shrugged. “Eh, it’s as you said. The whole family’s in Enbarr, including my big brother, so my father can’t openly turn against the regent. Still, he let me come here and says he won’t fight us even if your father orders him to, so at least we’ve got nothing to worry about on that front.”

“Leopold’s absence is unfortunate, though understandable.” Count Hevring approached, half-pushing his weary son along. “This is precisely the sort of task that oaf of a man would have been useful for. Luckily, I am free to join you. We’ll simply need to work harder to make up for Leopold’s absence.”

“I hope you’re not including me in that, father.” Linhardt yawned. “Hello, Ferdinand. Hello, Caspar. I’m just here for the bit where Hanneman and I cure Edelgard once we’ve rescued her from Thales’ clutches, really.”

“But you’re still gonna be fighting with us, right?” Caspar seemed genuinely worried.

“Must I?” Puppy dog eyes. “Urgh, fine. I suppose someone will have to patch you up when you charge into the fray like a fool.” Caspar cheered and began to regale his friend with all the new horrible, horrible ways to get himself maimed he’d come up with since their last meeting, even as Linhardt grew increasingly horrified.

Ferdinand exchanged a few words with Count Hevring before excusing himself and making his way over to the corner of the hall by the high table, where he found their generous hosts. “My lord Ochs, Monica! I wanted to thank you once again for welcoming us into your home …” He trailed off as he noticed their expressions. “Oh, I apologise. Am I interrupting something?”

Baron Ochs startled and bowed, rather awkwardly and just a little too deep. “Y-your Excellency!” Ferdinand hadn’t spoken much to their host—Monica had handled all the arrangements—but he’d never seemed like quite as much of a nervous wreck before. “You, ah, you honour us, truly—”

Monica cut him off. Her face was stormy, and she was shaking with barely contained rage. “My father refuses to let me join the fight,” she spat.

The baron flinched as though struck. He was pale as a sheet. “Monica, please—” He looked to Ferdinand for support. “If something were to happen to my Nica …” He reached for his daughter’s hand; she shook him off and stormed away without another word.

Ferdinand caught Dorothea’s eye across the crowded room; she nodded and went after their irate friend. In the meanwhile, he was left alone with the crestfallen baron. “I understand your worries,” he said, as delicately as he could manage. “But Monica has taken to the battlefield before. She can handle herself, and we’ll all be watching out for her.”

“It’s just …” The poor man was shaking. Ferdinand moved to shield him from the rest of the room so none could witness his shame. “Before, I knew she was with Her Majesty. But now … with what you say they did to her, and you going up against the same people who took my Nica from me before …”

“I swear to you, she will come to no harm …” He did his best to comfort the baron, a part of him idly wondering if his own father would ever have worried for him like that. Hopefully, mother wouldn’t be too affected by the news of his rebellion, Goddess knew she was poorly enough as it was.

Eventually, when Baron Ochs had calmed down a little, Ferdinand left him in the care of Duke Gerth. He was about to go looking for Monica and Dorothea when he was waylaid by Caspar and a group of strangers. “Yo, Ferdinand! You gotta meet my uncle Randolph!”

Not much of a family resemblance, there. The general gave a polite bow. “General of the Infantry Randolph von Bergliez, at Your Excellency’s service. My corps is at your command.”

“A pleasure to finally put a face to the name! Edelgard speaks very highly of you; it will be a privilege to have you at our side.” He turned to the two strangers accompanying the Bergliezes, a grizzled bear of a man and a young woman with striking green hair and large, unblinking eyes of the same colour. “And who’s this you’ve brought with you?”

“Ah, may I introduce …”

“Jeralt Eisner,” said the man and reached out his hand. Ferdinand shook it and winced from the force of his grip. “Known as the Blade-Breaker. We’re under contract with General von Bergliez.” He pointed at the woman beside him. “This here’s my kid, Byleth.”

“Greetings,” said Byleth Eisner, staring at him with an unnerving blank expression.

Ferdinand rubbed his hand, trying to coax some blood back into the appendage. “A pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you and your company,” he said through the pain. “I believe you fought for Edelgard at Magdred Way, yes? I thank you for your loyalty to the empire, though I am sorry to say we probably can’t afford to pay you the way the regent can.”

“That’s quite alright. Gerth and Hevring put up most of our fee in advance. ‘Sides …” Captain Eisner nodded towards his daughter. “By insisted we come. Never known her to be this opinionated about anything, but I’m all for it.”

Curiously, he met the strange woman’s gaze. Her expression did not shift. “Edelgard needs help,” she simply said, before adding: “It’s an unpleasant feeling, being a passenger in your own body.”

Before he could ask what she meant by that, her father placed his hand on her shoulder, mumbled an apology and led her away. Caspar shrugged apologetically. “They’re a bit odd, but you should see them in action. Trust me, they’re well worth every heller we spend on them.”

Night had fallen by the time Ferdinand had talked to everyone who needed to be talked to. Every one of the men and women who had come to Ochs Manor today to join their strength to their conspiracy had done so for their own reason, and every one of them needed to feel that they were appreciated and had backed the right side. With that came a great deal of schmoozing: minor nobles and peers of the realm who wanted to be assured of their position in the new order, army officers and knights eager for a chance to distinguish themselves in battle, wealthy burghers and landowners who wanted their property protected and hoped for a return on their investment. Even those who had come for Edelgard—common-born soldiers and officials, idealistic scholars and mages, Crestless children of the nobility—needed to be seen to, needed to be promised that the emperor’s vision would be respected by their new Faerghan ‘allies’.

Eventually, Baron Ochs’s servants called the assembled guests to the great hall for dinner, and Ferdinand could spare a moment for the people who mattered to him rather than the empire. Monica led him into her father’s solar. A merry fire was roiling in the fireplace, and the Black Eagles sat around the table catching up over sautéed haddock and hippocras.

For a bit, it felt like they were back at the academy dining hall, or back in the imperial palace dreaming up the future. They laughed and joked and teased each other, celebrating their success and conjuring up fond memories of bygone days. And then someone would mention something Hubert had said or something Edelgard had done, and they all fell silent.

Monica stared grimly into her goblet. “I am going to tear out Thales’ throat with my bare hands for what he did to Lady Edelgard, what he did to Hubert. I want to remember every second of his agony.” She paused. “Unless Lady Edelgard would prefer to do it herself, of course, in which case I will be honoured to serve witness.”

“We’re gonna get them back, Monnie” said Dorothea, her voice strained with determination and her hand clasping Petra’s for comfort. “No matter what.”

“I’ve been talking with Hanneman and Manuela,” Linhardt added, twirling his finger in his hippocras. “It’s all just theorising until we can examine Edelgard directly, but we think there’s a good chance we can bring her back.”

Caspar slapped him on the back. Linhardt startled and knocked over his cup. “Heck yeah! Now all we gotta do is win the war and we’re golden!”

“Win this war,” Petra corrected. “The other war, the one for the future of Fódlan, we have lost it. We must be hoping that King Dimitri will be keeping his word, and that Edelgard will agree to make peace.”

“We gambled and we lost,” said Dorothea. “But things could always be worse. We’re here, together, aren’t we?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the table, but no one could muster a response. Eventually, Bernadetta spoke, quiet and frail. “Do … do you guys think Hubert … do you think he’s still alive?”

Ferdinand closed his eyes. He’d spoken with Hubert’s sister today, a rail-thin wisp of a girl even younger than Petra. Even the shadowy agents of House Vestra had yet to find any trace of their lord. And yet … Hubert would never abandon Edelgard. “We can only hope,” he said. “But Dorothea is right. We’ll get them back. We’ll sit around the table together, just like we are now, and we’ll laugh and we’ll bicker and, if need be, we’ll mourn. But we’ll all be together.”

Somehow, that seemed to comfort Bernadetta, and she nodded at him from wet eyes. Dorothea nudged her side. “You should show everyone what you’ve made,” she told her.

Bernadetta flushed at that, but reached for her satchel and produced a carefully folded piece of black silk. “I, uh … I was talking to Shez and she asked me what banner we’d be marching under. Cause, y’know, it’d be pretty confusing if b-both we and the enemy were using the imperial banner and I don’t think we can just ask them to change … so, uh, I tried to design something. If that’s okay, I mean, if you guys hate it—” As she spoke, she unfurled the silk bundle on the table. Caspar and Monica stood up to get a better look.

Crimson on a field of black, fringed by red and gold thread, was embroidered the Crest of Flames. “I-I was thinking … thinking about what we’re fighting for,” Bernadetta explained. “And I figured it’s Lady Edelgard. Not just because she’s our friend or our emperor, but so that no one else ever has to … to go through what happened to her.”

“But no one outside of us knows she has that Crest,” Linhardt pointed out. “I doubt she’d appreciate us spilling the beans to everyone who asked about our fancy new banner.”

“R-right. Which is why I thought, well, it’s also the Goddess’s symbol. We fought against the Church, but … if the Goddess exists, I don’t think She’d be angry at us. I think She’d approve of us trying to make a better world, and I think She’d be pretty upset about what Thales did to Lady Edelgard.”

Dorothea was about to respond, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. Bernadetta yelped. Monica stood to open the door and revealed Byleth Eisner, fist raised to knock a second time. “Miss Eisner,” she said, hiding her annoyance under a veneer of polite hospitality, “is everything alright? Are you lost?”

The mercenary stared at them as though she had never seen a group of human beings before. “I needed to ask about tomorrow’s …” When her eyes fell on the banner with the Crest of Flames on the table, her eyes seemed to widen even more. “That Crest …” Ferdinand felt a sudden headache, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared. When she spoke again, the strange mercenary seemed to be fully at ease again. “You will be fighting together, yes? I want to join the Black Eagle Strike Force. I believe that would be the best way for you to use my abilities.”

Utterly bewildered, Ferdinand looked to his friends for support. Caspar shrugged, confused but not surprised, and Dorothea had the strangest smirk on her lips. He wasn’t quite sure how to break it to Eisner that the reason they were together was because they were friends, not because of their combat prowess. “Well … I mean, the Black Eagle Strike Force is really more of an informal …”

“I think she’d fit in great,” Dorothea interrupted him, and added more gently: “I think Edelgard would be in favour of her joining, too.”

Ferdinand stared at her; she gave him a Look. With a sigh, he returned his attentions to the mercenary, who still stood unmoving in the doorway. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her blink. “Alright then,” he said. “Welcome to the Strike Force, Byleth. Provisionally.” And if he didn’t know better, he would have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.

People of Adrestia!

Over the past two years, Emperor Edelgard has led you on the path of liberty: now that path has grown crooked and thorny. You have begun to build a new Fódlan in which it is merit and industry which confer status, not the accident of birth. You have fought bravely against those who would tear down all you have built.

But now the Empire is betrayed from within! Traitorous nobles, led by the treacherous former prime minister Ludwig von Aegir, have taken Her Majesty the Emperor captive and enslaved her with foul magic. Remember the indignities and the desolation the regent’s henchmen have visited upon our country! Remember how he has betrayed Her Majesty the Emperor’s ideals and has sought to place the yoke of servitude upon your shoulders once again!

We call upon all of you to join our cause. A great struggle awaits us, for our enemies are many, but with the aid of our allies and the Goddess Herself we will prevail. Together, we will march to victory, free Her Majesty from the chains that have ensnared her, and return liberty, justice and peace to Adrestia and her people!

Long live the Empire! Long live Emperor Edelgard!

Ochs, 17^th Verdant Rain Moon, 1181

Mr Ferdinand von Adlersnest, HM prime minister
Balduin, Duke of Gerth, HM minister of foreign affairs
Waldemar, Count of Hevring, HM minister of the interior
HRH Petra, Princess of Brigid
Ms Dorothea Arnault, Councillor of State
Ms Bernadetta von Varley, Councillor of State
Ms Monica von Ochs, Councillor of State
Mr Linhard von Hevring, Councillor of State
Mr Caspar von Bergliez, Councillor of State