Chapter Text
The birthing chamber smelled of metallic blood and burning tallow.
Outside, the rain lashed against the stone spires of Garreg Mach Monastery, a relentless weeping that matched the despair suffocating the room within. On the bed, Sitri lay perfectly still. Her skin was the color of winter frost, her breathing already gone, but her final earthly act had not been a peaceful passing. It had been a desperate plea.
Two bundles of linen rested beside her. Neither made a sound. No cries, no frantic gasps for air. Their tiny chests were completely stagnant.
"Lady Rhea... please," Sitri had whispered with her remaining breath, her eyes glassy but fixed on the Archbishop. "The stone... give them... the stone..."
Now, Rhea stood over the silent infants, her hands trembling as she held the pulsing, warm artifact she had just harvested from Sitri’s chest—the Crest Stone of the Progenitor God. It glowed with a faint, rhythmic crimson light, a stark contrast to the gray pallor of the dying twins.
Rhea’s mind raced in a frantic, agonized circle. There are two of them. One stone. If I split it, I will destroy it. I will lose her forever.
But looking down at the innocent faces of the boy and the girl, a sudden, desperate inspiration struck her. She rushed to her private ironwood chest, retrieving a meticulously crafted replica of the Crest Stone—an artifact born of centuries of searching and forbidden experimentation.
Holding both stones in her palms, Rhea brought the cold, artificial replica into direct contact with the vibrant, living original. She dropped to her knees, closing her eyes as tears spilled over her cheeks.
"Mother," Rhea prayed her voice a ragged whisper in the dark. "Forgive me. I must save these innocent children. Lend them your grace. Do not let them perish before they have even seen the sun."
A faint, ethereal hum filled the room. The original stone flared with blinding intensity, its ancient, divine essence surging outward. Like water pouring between cups, half of the goddess’s raw power seeped cleanly into the replica, turning the dull counterfeit into a brilliantly pulsing twin artifact.
Without a moment's delay, Rhea embedded the original Crest Stone into the chest of the baby girl. Then, she placed the empowered replica into the chest of the baby boy.
For a tense, suffocating breath, nothing happened. Then, simultaneously, both infants drew a sharp, deep breath. Their chests began to rise and fall in a steady, perfect rhythm. They did not cry—their eyes merely stared up at the ceiling with an uncanny, quiet awareness—but they were alive.
Several hours later, the storm had passed, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake.
Jeralt sat by his wife’s lifeless body, his head buried in his rough hands. The heavy oak doors creaked open as Rhea stepped into the room; her face was a mask of practiced, solemn grief, even as her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
"Jeralt," she began, her voice soft, carrying a calculated weight of sorrow. "The boy... he has survived. He is breathing."
Jeralt looked up, a spark of desperate hope in his bloodshot eyes. "And the girl? Sitri said there were twins—"
"I am so deeply sorry," Rhea lied, her voice never wavering, though the weight of the deception felt like iron in her throat. "The girl was a stillbirth. She passed along with Sitri before she could ever draw breath."
Jeralt’s face crumbled. He collapsed back into his seat, wrapping his arms around the single, quiet son Rhea handed to him. He could not see the way the Archbishop’s eyes darted toward the hidden corridor behind the tapestry.
Days bled into weeks, and the weight of the monastery grew too heavy for the grieving captain. When a sudden, violent fire broke out in the lower wards of Garreg Mach, Jeralt saw his chance. Believing the Archbishop's intense interest in his remaining child was unnatural, he secretly wrapped his son in his mercenary cloak and fled into the smoke-filled night. He named the boy Beleto, vowing to raise him far away from the shadows of the church.
When the embers finally cooled, Rhea stood amidst the ash of the captain's quarters. No bodies were found, leading her to reach a devastating conclusion: both father and son had perished in the flames.
But the church could not mourn forever. Deep within the Archbishop’s private chambers, hidden away from the prying eyes of the cardinals, a different life was beginning.
A beautifully carved crib rested directly next to Rhea’s heavy canopy bed. Inside, wrapped in the finest silks of the Holy Tomb, lay the baby girl. Rhea had named her Byleth.
Rhea reached down, gently lifting the quiet infant into her arms. Byleth did not cry; she merely stared back with deep, violet-blue eyes, her dark teal hair framing a perfectly calm face. In this child's chest rested the true, undamaged heart of the goddess.
"You are safe here, my sweet Byleth." Rhea murmured, leaning down to press a tender, loving kiss against the baby’s forehead. Having already shed the heavy, stifling weight of her elaborate archbishop vestments, Rhea wore only a simple, flowing white dress. She looked remarkably vulnerable in the dim candlelight—less like the infallible ruler of Fódlan and more like a gentle, devoted mother. She settled comfortably onto the edge of her mattress and unfastened the soft white fabric, cradling the silent infant close to her breast to nurse.
As Byleth drank, a faint iridescent warmth seemed to pulse softly beneath Rhea's pale skin. This was no mere mortal sustenance; it was a divine elixir enriched by ancient Nabatean life-force. Byleth was already pretty looking by default, inheriting the lovely features of her mother, Sitri, who had been considered a remarkably gorgeous woman. Yet, as this celestial essence wove itself into the infant's biology with every drop of Rhea's breast milk, it ensured that the child would blossom into a woman of peerless, breathtaking beauty, entirely unmatched by anyone in Fódlan.
"You will be raised like a princess, shielded from the harshness of the outer world," Rhea whispered, her long green hair cascading over her shoulders as she watched the nursing child. "And one day... through you... she will return."
Meanwhile, miles away in a smoky, loud tavern on the outskirts of a nameless village, Jeralt rocked silent Beleto. At this time, Jeralt had not yet established his own legendary mercenary company; he was merely a wandering blade drowning his exhaustion in a dim, noisy corner. He stared down at his newborn son, his mind weighed down by practical dread as drunken laughter and clinking mugs echoed around him. He was seriously contemplating using a village goat to nurse Beleto, knowing all too well that hiring a proper town wet nurse would cost more coin than he could spare from his meager contracts.
Before he could sink further into despair, a female mercenary traveling with the same local outfit approached his table.
She wore a heavy, dark fabric hood pulled low over her brow, casting a deep shadow across a face that seemed permanently etched with a quiet, lingering sorrow. A trim of rough fur lined the collar of her dark, form-fitting tunic, drawing attention to a full, voluptuous bodice designed for a scout. A single, layered bronze pauldron capped her left shoulder, while her right arm remained unarmored to draw a bowstring, and a thick leather strap ran diagonally across her chest to secure the wooden quiver slung over her back. She looked down at the quiet infant, her heavy eyelids drooping with a sorrow that cut straight through the haze of pipe smoke.
"You're going to starve him if you keep staring at him like that, friend," she said quietly, her voice low and carrying the gravelly exhaustion of the road.
Jeralt looked up, a bitter sigh escaping his lips. "I was thinking of buying a camp goat in the morning. Better than nothing, I suppose."
The woman shook her head, the reinforced metallic trim of her hood catching the dim amber glow of the tavern rafters as she pulled out a chair. "A newborn can't live on goat's milk. Let me nurse him."
Jeralt blinked, caught entirely off guard by the unexpected offer. A sudden wave of profound gratitude washed over his rugged features, and he immediately reached for the leather pouch at his belt. "I... I can pay you. It's not much, just a few gold pieces from the last village contract, but—"
"Keep your coin," she interrupted softly, her fingers gently pressing against his calloused knuckles to push the money away.
With a practiced, maternal tenderness that contrasted sharply with her rigid left pauldron, she carefully gathered the silent boy into her arms. She unfastened the soft, dark fabric beneath her fur-lined collar, cradling the infant close to her breast to nurse.
"I don't want your money," she whispered, her downcast eyes softening as she watched Beleto feed. "I tragically lost my little one to a cruel winter illness just a moon ago. My arms have been empty for weeks, and my milk is only going to waste. I'm doing this for him. Just call it a mother's instinct."
Jeralt watched in silent relief as his son finally began to feed, the boy's tiny hands twitching against the smooth, dark fabric of the mercenary's tunic, safely away from the single bronze armor piece on her shoulder.
The twins were separated, their origins cloaked in flame and falsehoods, completely unaware that their divided hearts—one nourished by divine celestial light, and the other by the raw, quiet kindness of common mortals in a bustling tavern—would one day reshape the fate of Fódlan.