Chapter Text
“One often meets their destiny on the road they took to avoid it.”
- Paraphrased from a quote by Jean de La Fontaine.
Saroa, 7th of Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1185
It began on a dark night like any other. Quiet, and unassuming. A frigid night, considering the time of year. Such nights were usually common for a mercenary like Byleth, but she had noted that they were a dying breed as a result of the war; a near-extinct animal on its last legs, like her fire, which clung to life like a parasite.
The flame had long since died down. All that remained was embers that hummed a dull orange. Byleth huddled close to the remains of the fire and rubbed her hands together briskly in an effort to stave off the bitter bite of the cold. Around her fell the midnight snow; as she shifted in place it crunched beneath her body.
Long had it been since she had stayed in one place for more than a week. The life of a mercenary was one of nomadism; of wandering like the winds. That was the life she was used to. Byleth gazed up at the night sky and located the north star Makaren to her left in the eagle constellation Najura. From there she deduced that she was facing due east.
Byleth shifted again, brushing a strand of her pale green hair behind the hood of her poncho with one hand as the other reached into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a scroll of paper, unfurling it to reveal a map of Fodlan. She placed a finger to the map, marking her location in the territory of House Charon in the Kingdom, then traced a path east to the Alliance territory of House Goneril.
The mercenary stood, rolling the map up and placing it back in her bag before kicking snow and dirt over the remains of the fire to extinguish the embers. Goneril was at least a month’s journey from House Charon’s territory, if not longer, and it was better to continue now than wait. Stagnancy meant death. So, she continued onward into the night.
~~
Talroa, 10th of Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1185
Alliance Roundtable, Derdriu, Leicester Alliance
Claude sighed a deep, exasperated sigh as he paced the roundtable room awaiting the arrival of delegates from Houses Goneril, Ordelia, Edmund, and Gloucester. The room was empty save for him and a large circular table that sat in the room’s center. The table was the finest dark oak imported from the western Empire, a symbol of the Alliance’s former allegiance to Adrestia; a darker time that threatened to repeat itself. Adorning the looming windows that overlooked the entrance to the building were two yellow banners that displayed the Alliance’s emblem. A noticeable tear in the emblem felt prophetic to Claude, and he suppressed a shudder.
Today was a meeting of the five houses of the roundtable. It was a crucial meeting of great significance, where the heads of the five houses would exchange information and make plans regarding the future of the Alliance. It had to go well. In these current circumstances, the future of Leicester hung by a decaying thread. Claude was the linchpin holding two opposing sides together; without him the Alliance would collapse.
The man stopped midpace to glance out the window. Outside a carriage had come to a stop. Out of it came a shorter girl with hair like freshly fallen snow in a violet dress who carried herself with an air of dignity that seemed beyond her years. Lysithea pouted as her escort offered to help her get down from the carriage and appeared to snap at him. Claude smiled softly. Just like old times, she was. It reminded him of the academy days before the war.
She was accompanied by armed soldiers, a necessity in these trying times. The nobles couldn’t afford the possibility of their heirs being taken hostage by bandits, and so even in the north of the Alliance, far from the war, there was still a need for protection. The arrivals approached the building slowly and disappeared from Claude’s vision as they entered.
So this is the delegate of House Ordelia, Claude thought to himself minutes later as the girl stood at the opposite end of the roundtable. It made sense, of course; the woman standing in front of him was the heir of her house and would be privy to the knowledge of her father. But he certainly hadn’t expected to see an old friend so suddenly. It was equally a pleasure and a concern.
“Lysithea. It’s been far too long,” said Claude, arms open in a gesture of goodwill. The girl took her seat opposite him and folded her arms, frowning slightly.
“Where are the others?” she asked, turning her head to the left, then the right to survey the mostly empty room. Claude took his seat and folded his hands.
“They’ll be here.”
“I see.”
A knock sounded at the door. The sound was hollow but firm. Claude looked up as the guards opened the door to let in four additional people, who each made their way to a chair surrounding the table.
“Apologies for our lateness,” said a man with long purple hair that framed one side of his face. He wore violet armor with a sizable red rose pinned to his breast. Lorenz carried himself with a regal authority yet smirked as his eyes met Claude’s. “There were… delays.”
“Yes, there was a complication,” said a blue haired woman. Marianne spoke as soft as the breeze but her words were certain. She wore a sky blue dress and white gloves and carried herself with grace, smiling as soft as she spoke. Her hair was short with bangs and tied up in a braid, and her complexion was pale as a sheet.
“Someone was being difficult again?” asked Claude, his words teeming with amusement as he gestured with a nod toward a woman sitting to Lysithea’s right. Her hair, worn in two long ponytails, was as pink as the morning skies. She wore a pink corset and a brown top and sat casually in her seat.
“Hey! Did you really expect a girl like me to do work?” Hilda exclaimed. “Well, joke’s on you, ‘cause I did it!”
“Or was it Holst that did it for you?” muttered Lysithea, who picked at a thread in her sleeve. Claude barely restrained himself from laughing out loud. Lorenz rolled his eyes. Marianne stifled a giggle.
“I- That’s- that’s none of your business!”
Claude held up his hand in a gesture for the group to silence. Their gazes turned to him, expectant.
“As much as I would love to catch up with you all… that’s not what we’re here for,” he explained. “I trust you brought correspondence from the men who couldn’t be here today?”
All nodded.
“Of course,” said Lorenz. “My father has been… overwhelmed as of late. The stress of dealing with the Empire and Phlegethon’s siding with them against us is weighing on him heavily.”
“What’s the news from him?” asked Claude.
“He says he expects to step down as head of House Gloucester by the moon's end.”
“Oh no…” said Marianne, who put a hand over her mouth.
“What of the other thing, what I asked of your house?”
Lorenz sighed, exasperated.
“What other thing?” asked Hilda, who glanced between Lorenz and Claude with a look of confusion.
“Claude is still concerned with chasing ghosts,” explained Lorenz.
“Ghosts?” questioned Lysithea, a look of fear crossing her face for a moment before passing. “Uh… not that I’m scared of them or anything.”
“Not literal ghosts, Lys,” said Marianne.
“I mean the Ashen Demon,” said Lorenz.
“Eisner,” Claude corrected, standing and walking towards the window. “She was more than that title. And I still think she’s out there. Somewhere.”
“Claude, what is your obsession with this mercenary? Don’t tell me you believe those… fairy tales!” yelled Lorenz, who stood and slammed a fist on the table as he spoke.
“Calm yourself!” replied Claude, who whipped around and strode over to Lorenz until the two stood face to face. “It’s not a matter of believing anything. If they’re true… she could be the answer.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then I’m a fool, and all we find is a lone sellsword.”
“So be it,” said Lorenz, who begrudgingly sat back down. “Our spies did find something that might interest you. Here.”
He pulled out a scroll and slid it across the table. Claude picked it up, undid its bindings, and began to read:
To Count Gloucester:
My men have reported seeing an individual matching the Ashen Demon’s description near the village of Clare in Gloucester territory. Per your instructions, we avoided direct contact with the individual but suspect she is heading due eastward.
Additionally, we heard rumors in the western Kingdom regarding a “Silverheart”, whatever that may be. I do not know what relevance this information will have to you or the roundtable but I nonetheless believe it should be known.
Always at your service,
Commander Edwin Loftgren.
“Well? What is it?” asked Lorenz. The others looked at Claude with anticipation.
Claude smirked.
“Exactly what we needed.”
~~
Makhroa, 12th of Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1185
Clare, County of Gloucester, Leicester Alliance
Snow flitted down from the heavens as Byleth strode through the village. It was midday, and the sun peeked through the clouds overhead, illuminating the village with a dull grey light. The village was small, smaller than the nearby Sauin, but it was as equally full of life. Byleth walked past a merchant selling assorted food items and a blacksmith selling his wares, stopping to browse the weapons. Her fingers ran over the blade of a silver sword, feeling the cold metal like ice through the fabric of her glove.
At her hip, a peculiar sword rested in a dark leather sheath. It appeared to be made of bone, with a serrated toothy texture, and had a large hole in the center of its guard. The sword caught the eye of the blacksmith, a gruff bearded man with a toothy grin he flashed at the mercenary.
“Hey, that’s some blade,” he said. “Mind if I take a look?”
Byleth covered the sword with her coat and shook her head once. Her emerald eyes locked with the seller’s gaze as she spoke.
“I would mind,” she said, turning away. Byleth continued her walk, strolling down the snow covered path until she reached an inn. The building was two stories high and made of dark wood that contrasted sharply with the snow on the roof and ground. The mercenary exhaled, her breath condensing on the air like a cloud as she walked up to the inn. Inns were a vital lifeline for mercenaries, serving as both shelter and a source of jobs. She pulled off her hood and ran a hand through her hair.
Before she could enter, a feminine voice interrupted her:
“Is that you, Blue?”
~~
Saroa, 27th of Great Tree Moon, Imperial Year 1180
Officer’s Academy, Garreg Mach Monastery, Oghma Territory
Byleth rushed through the halls of the Officer’s Academy on her way to a meeting of the Knights of Seiros. She was late enough already, and hardly needed to be a second later. Around a corner she bolted, skidding on her heels in an effort to not fall over, then progressed up a flight of stairs before continuing to run. She ducked and weaved through guards and students as she ran, before nearly barreling through an orange-haired student. After a moment, she spoke.
“Is that you, Blue?” Leonie said after the painfully awkward silence. Byleth brushed dust from her outfit before replying.
“Yeah,” she said. “So sorry about that.”
“Why the rush?”
“Important meeting that I’m very late for. I’ll talk with you later.”
“Okay. See you around.”
Byleth ran off, leaving Leonie by herself. As she ran, her mind turned to the last three weeks.
Three weeks had passed since a chance encounter with three nobles had led to her and her father being inducted into the Knights of Seiros. Before, they had grown accustomed to the life of mercenaries, wandering the lands of Fòdlan selling their swords to the highest bidder. Now, their employers were the Church of Seiros, the ultimate authority in the land.
It was peculiar, being in such a place as the monastery and the Officer’s Academy. The place was unique from the rest of Fòdlan. All different walks of life came together in a stew of rich flavors. Nobles, commoners, merchants; all were seemingly equal here. The faculty were just as diverse: a songstress from the Empire who doubled as a physician, an expert in Crests, and a mysterious masked man served as professors. How strange a place Garreg Mach was.
Before she knew it, she arrived at the audience chamber. A grand display of affluence, the chamber served as the venue for those who wished to be granted audience with the archbishop. It was almost a symbolic display of the Church’s dominance, how it towered over the mercenary. The ceiling almost seemed to touch the sky with how high it was, and a large stained glass window colored the floor with a kaleidoscope of hues as the sun shone through it.
The window was odd. In it, the various jagged pieces seemed to form the shape of an androgynous body robed in silver. The figure had pale green hair and held in its hand a sword of bone, and its pose was regal. As she walked up to the window, Byleth stared, feeling an unusual sense of familiarity in her mind. She instinctively reached a hand to her own blue hair.
~~
Makhroa, 12th of Ethereal Moon, Imperial Year 1185
Clare, County of Gloucester, Leicester Alliance
Byleth pulled her hand away from her green hair.
What… was that? she thought. A memory? But why now?
Byleth whirled around at the sound of a nickname she had not heard since the days at the academy. Ahead, a rider on horseback trotted up to the inn. The rider, a young woman with orange hair worn in a side ponytail, was clad in a rust colored tunic and black pauldron. In her left hand she held a silver lance that glimmered in the light. The face had changed in the preceding years but it was recognizable in the eyes. Byleth stepped forward.
“Leonie?”
The rider laughed.
“Of course it’s you! You look… different, though,” she exclaimed, trotting up to an old friend. Byleth felt the curve of a smile on her lips, and ran her fingers through the horse’s mane. It was soft. The horse was clearly well taken care of by her friend.
“Seiros, it’s been years! What in the world are you doing here?” continued Leonie, her expression suddenly turning dour. “We- I thought you were dead.”
“That was my intention. I’m sorry for deceiving you,” said Byleth.
“Come, walk with me,” said Leonie, turning her horse and trotting away slowly. Byleth followed closely. “It’s been… some time. How are you?”
The mercenary took time to think before responding. It had been a while. Five years since that day. She shuddered both from the cold and the memory. Or was it something else? Something about this reunion felt… unnatural. It was too perfect, too unlikely. Why was Leonie here, of all places? She shook her head. Paranoia had its place in the life of a mercenary but it sometimes gave false positives. Maybe she was just overthinking things. Or maybe not. Why did she feel like she was walking into a corner?
“I’m… doing the best I can,” she replied, glancing around with a nervous look. Byleth caught a glimpse of a magenta-haired woman with olive skin moving in a crowd of villagers, but she disappeared before the mercenary could get a closer look. How strange, she thought.
“Is everything alright?” asked Leonie.
“Yeah… It’s fine,” answered Byleth. “Just cold.”
“Hm,” was all Leonie said. They continued on their path in silence, until they reached a clearing at the village’s boundary. Beyond rested the wilds of County Gloucester. Something nagged at Byleth.
Why “we”? she thought. Leonie was by herself, and the way she had corrected herself so suddenly was odd. But why?
Unless… there was someone else, just out of sight.
The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes returned, rising up like a sickness from her stomach. She stepped away from Leonie and placed a hand on her sword’s hilt.
“This meeting was no happy accident, was it?” asked Byleth, eyes darting around the space.
“He was hoping you would listen better to a friend,” answered Leonie, her gentle smile inverting into a frown at Byleth’s demeanor. Byleth stepped back into the clearing, hand still on hilt.
“How long have you been tracking me?”
“At least a week.”
“At least?”
“Spies have been following your path since you crossed into Alliance territory,” explained Leonie. She sighed as Byleth refused to relent. “I had hoped you would’ve done this the easy way.”
Leonie placed a hand to her mouth and whistled sharply. From nearby foliage emerged two people.
The first Byleth recognized as the magenta haired woman she spotted earlier. Her hair worn in a ponytail, she stepped forward with a bow drawn, her brown eyes narrowed with concentration. She wore the characteristic yellow of the Alliance in place of traditional Brigid garb that would have been inappropriate for the chilly weather, as did her companion, a young man with grey hair and sharp green eyes who circled around with a drawn bow.
“Petra. Ashe. How strange to see you two working for the Alliance,” said Byleth, stepping back several paces with strategic slowness. Petra spoke first.
“That is not any of your business,” she said, standing next to Leonie. Byleth scoffed at the orange haired woman.
“So this is your plan? Force me at lancepoint to wherever it is you want me to go?”
“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” said Ashe from behind. “You’re coming with us.”
“Not without a fight.” Byleth drew her sword and dropped her cloak.
“Take her alive,” said Leonie to Ashe and Petra. As they loosened their arrows, Byleth ducked to the side and deflected one arrow with her sword before darting off into the nearby forest.
“After her!” shouted Leonie.
“In pursuit,” replied Petra, switching her bow for a sword and dashing after the fleeing mercenary.
“On it,” said Ashe, following close behind.
Byleth sheathed her sword as she ran like the wind through the woods, jumping over logs and sliding under branches, the sound of twigs crunching beneath her feet and her vision blurring from how fast she sprinted. From behind she could hear the advancing steps of Petra and Ashe in the foliage growing quieter and further away. Left, right, left; over, under, around. On she ran, breath burning in her chest as her muscles seared with exertion like the sun.
Soon she reached a second clearing, forced by her body to come to a rest. She felt as though she were aflame, every fiber of her being alight with subtle pain born of travail. Byleth fell to her knees, ready to collapse into a deep slumber, but she forced herself to stand nonetheless. Stagnancy meant death, or worse if what she remembered about that man was still true. She wavered in place for a moment before staggering forward despite everything telling her to rest.
The slick sound of a sword being removed from its sheath accompanied by rapid footsteps caught her attention. Byleth spun around to see Petra advancing like lightning with her silver sword drawn. As quick as she could, the mercenary drew her sword as well, snapping her wrist and unfurling the blade into a whiplike chain. Petra jumped out of the way of the blade, blocking the attack with her sword, before rolling forward into a series of slashes that Byleth deflected in a sloppy manner.
In a moment, an arrow whirred out from the forest, coming to a stop an inch from Byleth’s face as she caught it with her free hand. Blood like crimson paint began to drip from the fist, and Byleth cried out as she dropped the bloody arrow to the ground. Ashe stepped into the clearing, a third arrow docked in his bow as Petra and he circled Byleth, who sheathed her sword and raised her hands in surrender.
“You got me,” she said. “I surrender.”
“We are not taking any chances here,” said Petra from behind her back. “May the spirits forgive me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ashe, pulling out leather cuffs.
There was a sharp pain, then everything went black.