Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Horse Through a Crack of Light
Felix had long known that he was not the sentimental type. Dwelling on the past seemed pointless to him: tedious, boring, and utterly useless.
So when, after years of wandering as a mercenary, he received a contract in the former territory of House Gautier and ran into Sylvain and Ingrid by chance in the marketplace, the ripple in his chest was more surprise than sorrow.
Ingrid, eyes rimmed red, tried to keep the ever-elusive swordsman from slipping away again. “At least join us for dinner at the manor,” she said, her voice tinged with fondness. “The last time we shared a meal was right after the war ended.”
It was the Red Wolf Moon of Year 6 in the Unified Calendar of the Kingdom of Fódlan. In the early winter gloom of the northern lands, Felix allowed the rigid line of his lips to soften ever so slightly, accepting the long-overdue embraces of two old friends.
He walked through the wide courtyard and training grounds of the count’s estate, his mercenary boots clicking sharply against the ground—clack, clack, clack, a steady, echoing rhythm that accompanied Ingrid’s soft voice as she began recounting the years they had spent apart.
Straight ahead. Left turn. Straight again. All the way to the end of the corridor. Felix could have walked the layout of the Gautier estate blindfolded, just as he once knew the shape of House Fraldarius and the old palace of Fhirdiad like the lines on his sword hand.
A door creaked open. A young boy darted toward them, and Ingrid bent down to sweep him into her arms.
“Mom,” the boy said softly, arms wrapped around her neck. He had inherited his mother’s golden hair, bright, soft, and shining, and his father’s amber eyes, which now studied the unfamiliar swordsman with quiet curiosity.
Felix offered the boy a small smile.
“Turned five just two moons ago,” Sylvain said.
“I never gave him a birthday gift,” Felix replied. He reached into his belt and pulled out a dagger. “This blade’s from a skilled craftsman. Too light for me, but when he’s older, he can play with it.”
The boy glanced at his parents, and after a quiet nod from them, accepted the gift with shy hands.
Sylvain chuckled. “Look at you. Since when did you start giving weapons as presents, just like His Highness?”
The words had barely left his mouth before Ingrid glanced back at him. The joy of reunion faded slightly from the corners of her eyes.
Sylvain knew he’d slipped.
This was now the count’s estate under the Unified Kingdom of Fódlan. There was no more “Your Highness.”
Felix, unfazed, replied calmly, “I own little. It’s the only thing worth giving.”
The Count of Gautier looked down at his son turning the dagger over in small fingers, and swallowed the words that had risen to his lips.
When he had first met Dimitri and Felix, they had been about that age too. Time passed too quickly, so quickly that even a man like Sylvain, once careless and carefree, had grown prone to nostalgia. But he also knew that if he voiced such thoughts aloud, the man before him would only reply with a cool, “Is that so? I don’t remember.”
Forgetting wasn’t the worst thing, Sylvain thought.
The three of them might have remembered the same person, or the same moment. The warmth of reunion began to quiet.
Just before they reached the dining room, a ridiculous thought crossed Felix’s mind, one so absurd it nearly made him laugh. He thought, It’s a good thing ghosts don’t exist. Otherwise, this is exactly the kind of moment where Dimitri’s spirit would float out of some corner of the hallway, bow his head, and say sincerely: “I'm sorry I spoiled the mood for dinner. It is my fault.”
He glanced behind him as the thought passed, almost as if expecting to see a golden-haired, blue-eyed ghost trailing quietly at his heels.
Imperial Year 1167, the Ethereal Moon
The first time Felix met Dimitri was at the ducal estate of House Fraldarius. So many years had passed since then that the memory had long unraveled into fragmented images: blurry, soft, and difficult to piece together. He no longer remembered the details. Only that, on a freezing morning, his brother Glenn had dragged him out of bed to greet the crown prince of the Kingdom.
The sun had barely risen. Still groggy with sleep, Felix saw his father enter, leading a boy about his own age by the hand.
In that pale morning light, the boy who was said to be the prince had shoulder-length golden hair, and a pair of bright, unblinking blue eyes. He looked at Felix for a long while, then smiled—a gentle, quiet smile.
“Felix,” he said, calling his name.
He looked so polished and delicate, like the kind of doll noble girls loved to dress up and display.
No wonder their father had started drilling that line into their ears, Felix’s and Glenn’s both, long before either of them had even understood what it meant:
“You are of House Fraldarius. Your purpose in life is to protect His Highness with your life.”
In the years to come, no matter how Felix rejected those words, hated them, or recalled them with bitter ambivalence, there was no denying one thing:
The moment he first saw Dimitri, some part of him had truly wanted to live up to them.
Back then, their childhood meetings had been rare. Dimitri remained in Fhirdiad most of the time, and they would only cross paths when Duke Rodrigue came to court, or when the late king himself visited the Fraldarius territory. Even then, it was only for a few hours.
During that time, it was Glenn and Dimitri who had been near inseparable.
Later, when they grew older, Glenn had taken up the post of a Royal Knight, stationed in the capital. And the two boys, now closer in age and strength, began to meet more often—training, hunting, exploring the snowy mountains of the north. That was when they truly began to spend time together.
Imperial Year 1175, the Verdant Rain Moon
Felix had invited Dimitri again to the training grounds of the ducal estate.
He was only two months older, but already half a head taller. Felix was quietly, irrationally annoyed by that.
“You’re distracted, Felix.” Dimitri said his name with an easy intimacy, his voice light and amused as he tapped Felix’s chest with the tip of his wooden lance.
He never used a metal lance when sparring with Felix. Said he couldn’t always control his strength, didn’t want to risk hurting him. Which meant Felix had to use a wooden sword, too.
He always felt like it dulled the edge of the fight.
“Wooden swords feel off,” Felix said, irritated. “Let’s go again.”
Dimitri rarely turned him down. He flipped the sword on the ground up into his hand with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Alright.”
“What were you thinking about just now?” he asked, striking forward in a clean, sharp move that made contact with the flat of Felix’s blade before sliding away again at an angle.
Felix focused, moving with practiced lightness to deflect the strength behind each blow, far beyond what any other boy their age could muster.
“Thinking about the short sword you broke last month,” he said, with a huff of mock annoyance. “I haven’t found another that feels quite the same. Your fault.”
Dimitri chuckled. “Yes, it was my fault. You have my word—no matter who wins today, I’ll find you another sword just as good. Deal?”
“That’s boring,” Felix said. “A bet’s a bet.”
They were at that age, bright-blooded and unrelenting, where even sparring needed a wager. Something small, to keep it interesting.
Dimitri laughed. “Then you’d better focus. Don’t think you can beat me while daydreaming.”
Their quiet breaths and the dull clack of wood-on-wood filled the empty courtyard, floating upward in slow, rising coils. The pounding in Felix’s chest could’ve been from the exertion… or something else entirely.
It was ridiculous, really.
Dimitri was the sole heir to King Lambert, raised in a cradle of duty and expectation, the pride of both the king and Duke Rodrigue. In public, he was already well-mannered and dignified, just as he had been taught to be.
But in front of Felix, all of that careful polish vanished. He was simply warm, and eager, and alive, no pretense, no mask.
Not even in front of Glenn did he act like this.
Felix didn’t know why, but the realization sent a sudden tension flickering through his chest, something flickered low and sharp beneath his ribs, a feeling he couldn’t quite name.
Felix had a natural gift for swordsmanship, and he trained harder than anyone, never falling short even when compared to his brilliant older brother.
He and Dimitri had sparred from morning until noon, neither gaining a clear advantage over the other.
“Let’s call it a draw,” Dimitri said, panting slightly as he knocked Felix’s blade aside and stepped back. He tossed his cracked wooden lance onto the rack with a practiced motion. “Next time.”
But Felix wasn’t ready to stop. He blocked his path with the wooden sword, refusing to let him leave.
“You’re going already? It’s still early.”
“You should eat, Felix. Glenn told me you tend to skip meals when you’re focused on training. That is not good for you.”
“You're not joining me?” Felix asked. He didn’t try to hide the disappointment. As a boy, he was blunt to the point of recklessness, his emotions sharp-edged, his affections unfiltered. When he liked someone, he wanted to be with them always.
Dimitri turned to look at him. Those deep golden eyes were impossibly bright, every shift of their gaze like a spark drawn across the air. Felix didn’t know it, but Dimitri could never stand to see him like this. His handsome, radiant face showed clear hesitation.
“I have to return to Fhirdiad this afternoon. Father gave me some documents to handle. I'll just have something on the road.”
The king and the duke had begun grooming him in earnest. Beyond combat training, the Kingdom’s sole heir was now burdened with more and more civic responsibilities.
“I’ll come with you,” Felix said. “I can protect you on the way. My father would allow it.”
Dimitri didn’t truly believe he needed the protection of House Fraldarius while traveling through the heartlands of Faerghus, but something in Felix’s tone made him hesitate.
“You really want to? It is all boring work, tedious, mindless things. I’m afraid you’d…”
“Stop talking,” Felix cut him off. “I’ll get the horses. There’s smoked meat and roast in the kitchen. What do you want for the road?”
It was high summer in the heart of Faerghus, though even the heat there was mild and clean. The air carried the dry, crisp scent of trees and grass. The two strikingly handsome boys, dressed in their light summer tunics, rode side by side down the sunlit road. They joked and bickered and talked of hunting trips in the northern wilds once winter came.
Even if he didn’t care about the old refrain his father never stopped repeating—that they were bound by blood to serve the royal line—
If he could spend his life like this, beside the future king of Faerghus…That might be a good life, Felix thought.
He wasn't meant to handle the crown prince's paperwork, nor did he want to, but he sat behind Dimitri, a young swordsman with calloused fingers, preparing a pot of chamomile tea. Playing the role of the prince’s quiet attendant came surprisingly easily to him.
Dimitri’s way of dealing with others was much like his personality—humble, patient, and endlessly gentle. Duke Rodrigue, ever concerned, had once remarked that such a temperament might be too soft for a future king.
“With Glenn and Felix beside him, no one will harm Dimitri,” Rodrigue had said, fussing over the crown prince like a steward doting on a nobleman’s sheltered daughter.
Felix had only muttered a vague, unamused reply: “Sure.”
The scent of chamomile, sweet and delicate, drifted with the steam. Felix had always disliked things that were too sweet, but for some reason, this tea was an exception. He didn’t quite like it, but he didn’t hate it either.
He was nearly dozing off over the ledgers when a harsh, gravelly voice snapped him awake.
“Rules are man-made, aren't they? Fhirdiad’s coffers are still recovering from last year’s snowstorm. House Fraldarius had a bountiful harvest, so what’s wrong with raising the tax by another ten percent?”
Dimitri, who had begun assisting King Lambert in court matters since the previous year, was far from naive. His voice remained calm.
“The surplus tax revenue collected from the duchy has already covered the deficit reported several months ago. And now there is a new shortage? Return to Lord Rufus and have him go over the accounts again.”
The man’s tone sharpened, emboldened by the mention of Dimitri’s uncle.
“Your Highness, you’ve gotten far too much on your plate these days. It’s easy to forget a detail or two. Lord Rufus has always had the kingdom’s best interests at heart. Surely you wouldn’t question a loyal elder’s devotion?”
Dimitri didn’t raise his voice. “There is a copy of last year’s ledgers stored at the palace. We can clarify the matter here, or you can return to the capital and reconcile it line by line.”
“Your Highness, post-disaster recovery and resettlement cost money—plenty of it. Last year’s hole may have been patched, but who’s going to fill this year’s?”
The man’s voice grew shrill, testing the waters. Dimitri was young. He might be pliable.
But Dimitri’s tone finally turned cold.
“The budget we received last year already included expanded costs for reconstruction. The taxes were more than sufficient. So I ask you—where has the money gone?”
“Lord Rufus—”
“My uncle is undoubtedly loyal to the realm,” Dimitri said, weariness slipping into his voice. “But if the men under him act with false obedience, lining their own pockets, then the books will never balance.”
He drew a breath.
“House Fraldarius gave aid to the capital when the storm hit. What we should feel is gratitude, not greed. I will inform His Majesty. Someone else will take charge of the reconstruction.”
The man stared at him, stunned, then flinched, face darkening with rage and fear.
“I… I was appointed by His Majesty himself. And Lord Rufus! That man has always thought only of Fhirdiad’s welfare! But I’m beginning to wonder—Your Highness, do you serve the kingdom, or House Fraldarius?”
His voice turned venomous.
“You’ve always been close with the duke’s sons. If your judgment is clouded by favoritism, even Lord Rufus would have cause to object!”
Dimitri’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could respond, a sudden blast of cold pressure swept through the room.
Felix’s sword struck the stone floor between them like a falling star, shattering the tile beneath with a sharp, cracking roar.
The young “attendant” had reached his limit. His voice was flat, low, and icy with anger.
“Leave.”
The man’s legs gave out beneath him. He dropped to his knees with a choked breath. He hadn’t even seen the face of the one behind the prince, only the hilt of a noble sword, embedded in the ground just inches from his leg. A gleam of emerald in the guard caught the light as the blade trembled faintly in the stone.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, drenched in sweat.
“I—I will report today’s exchange to Lord Rufus,” he stammered, and fled without waiting for permission.
Dimitri turned to look behind him.
Felix was still seated, jaw clenched, fingers white around the cup of cooling tea in his hand. Dimitri didn’t doubt that if Felix had the strength, the cup would have shattered in his grasp.
Even so, he was getting stronger. His control, his aim, it had all sharpened. Dimitri glanced at the sword embedded in the stone and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Felix. I shouldn’t have brought you to deal with all this. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”
But for some reason, the apology only made Felix’s expression darken further.
He stood without a word, walked over, and yanked his sword free. Then, as he passed by Dimitri’s side, he shoved a cup of tea into his hands.
“Drink it,” he said curtly. “You’ve been talking too long. You must be thirsty.”
Dimitri cradled the tea in both hands, watching his friend’s expression with caution.
“I know he insulted House Fraldarius,” he said slowly, weighing every word. “You have every right to be angry… But if he is to be punished, I must first return to the capital and report to my father. It must follow the proper channels. I’m sorry, Felix.”
Somehow, the more he spoke, the worse it became.
Felix said nothing. The sound of his sword sliding back into its sheath was accompanied by a sharp, disdainful snort. He turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his expression shuttered and cold.
Dimitri wanted to follow him, but there were still matters left unresolved. He forced down the unease in his chest and returned to listening to the capital’s minister and the duke’s retainers finish their reports. By the time everything was concluded, dusk had already fallen.
He thought Felix must have left long ago, returned to the ducal estate on his own.
But instead, he found him in the manor’s training yard.
Felix was still there, sword in hand, moving with a ferocity that made the decorative noble blade in his grip sing like tempered steel. The sheer force behind his strikes reverberated through the cooling air, layer after layer of sweeping arc and flashing light. It was almost hard to look at.
Dimitri watched in silence. Then he spoke, softly.
“Still angry with me, Felix?”
Felix stilled, but didn’t turn. His voice was clipped and flat.
“Why would I be angry? It wasn’t me that bastard insulted, after all. Maybe everyone should come watch—you, the crown prince, answering cruelty with kindness. Isn’t that just noble?”
He stood there, rigid and unmoving, still refusing to face him.
But even Dimitri, who was often oblivious to subtleties, understood what Felix truly meant.
“So… you are not angry because he insulted your house,” he said carefully. “You are angry because I was the one being insulted.”
Felix's voice was hard and tense.
“With what we have between us… this kind of bond… do you really think I’d care more about the name Fraldarius than I care about you?”
Silence.
Felix waited for an answer, but none came.
He turned, half-impatient, wanting to see the expression on Dimitri’s face, only to feel the sudden warmth and weight of arms around his back.
Dimitri had moved before he could stop himself, wrapping him in a quiet embrace. His breath was warm against Felix’s ear, soft and close.
It was already too late to return to the ducal estate, and Dimitri invited him to dine at the palace instead.
By coincidence, the Margrave of the western border and the Count of Galatea had also returned to court, both accompanied by their heirs along. Glenn, Sylvain, Ingrid, and the travel-worn pair of Dimitri and Felix were, for once, gathered together in full.
The royal chef, beaming with delight, prepared a lavish table filled with roasted meats, pastries, and sweet wine.
The night was so warm, so golden with laughter and light, that when Felix looked back on it later, all he could clearly remember were the sting of spices on the roast, the glance shared between a golden-haired girl and her handsome young fiancé, Sylvain’s awful jokes—
And Dimitri, smiling at him across the candlelight.
Unified Year 6 of the Kingdom of Fódlan
After a plain but comforting supper at the Count’s manor, Felix rose to take his leave.
Sylvain looked at him with quiet concern, amber eyes narrowing slightly.
“If you're headed north again, let me pack you a fur cloak and some strong liquor. It’s colder than usual this year.”
“I know it’s cold. I go to the mountains every year,” Felix replied. But he didn’t turn down the offer.
Ingrid embraced him tightly and for a long time. “We all hope you’ll… come visit us sometimes. We’ll be thinking of you.”
Felix leaned down, resting briefly against her slight shoulder. He gave her a soft pat on the back she kept so straight.
Inside the manor, the fire burned steady in the hearth. Outside, the wind of early winter bit sharp and cold through the dark.
The wandering mercenary tugged the new cloak tighter around his shoulders. He knew it was the world beyond the door that belonged to him.
Behind him, the Count and Countess stood watching his figure disappear into the dark.
He didn’t look back.