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The Apostolic Palace, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 12 Pegasus Moon, 1180 (First Attempt)

Byleth didn’t want to see the Pope right now. She felt waves of dizziness every time she saw her green hair in the mirror, and the memory of Pope Rhea petting her as she half-slept made her skin prickle and crawl. But she had sent Cyril to deliver the summons, which meant she expected a prompt response, and Byleth wasn’t ready to discover the consequences if she refused.

Byleth had been invited to the Pope’s bedroom twice before (and brought there while unconscious, too, but her memories of the event were hazy.) Rhea had guided her through the security protocols the first time, and she managed them on her own without incident. The guards waved her through the service door of the Apostolic Palace. When she reached Pope Rhea’s private wing of the palace, she turned the wheels in the great clockwork mechanism of the metal door until they spelled out the number code, and the cogs turned, pulling the door to the side.

At the door to the papal bedroom, Byleth rolled up her jacket and shirtsleeve to expose the back of her arm, where she found this part hurt a little less. She pressed it to the strange little square keyhole, where a tiny needle emerged and pricked her skin. The door swung open.

Pope Rhea was dressed down from her full regalia, bare of her crown and cloak, but still proper in a white dress with puff sleeves and lace at the collar and wrists. Byleth startled a little; she had never seen the Pope so informal, not even in her half-memories of being petted in her vulnerable state. “Hello there,” Rhea said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Byleth took a single tentative step into the bedroom.

“If you would, please allow me a closer look at your face. Those beautiful, shining eyes…” Pope Rhea took a step forward, her hand rising as if to pet her again. “And silken hair, so similar to my own…”

Byleth startled backward like a frightened rabbit.

“Oh dear,” said Pope Rhea, letting her hand fall. “Please excuse my rudeness. I forgot myself for a moment.” She looked down at Byleth with soft, pleading eyes, every inch the sweet and demure holy woman. “It is only that we haven't had a chance to speak privately since you were blessed with the power of the goddess. I hope I have not caused you any discomfort.”

Byleth took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Please don’t do that again.”

Pope Rhea’s eyes widened, huge and wounded. “You cannot mean that!”

And then the quiet of the papal bedroom was shattered by the strident scream of an alarm bell.

Byleth and Rhea both froze. Then Byleth fished her watch out of her jacket pocket to check the time, as she was now wont to do whenever something worried her. It was thirteen minutes to six.

There was a knock at the door. “Pope Rhea? It’s Cyril. The Grand Inquisitor sent me.”

Pope Rhea strode past Byleth to open the door. Her errand boy looked ashen. “Please, come with me, Your Holiness. Two of the St. Cichol’s students have been found dead. Murdered.”

Byleth’s heart was a still stone in her chest, as always, but her breath rasped in her throat. She hoped against hope that the students were not her students, not her Black Eagles, then felt forlorn over her own wish.

“A double murder? Here in Seiros City? Oh no,” said Pope Rhea. She swept on her cloak of office, leaving her crown behind, and they both followed Cyril out of the Apostolic Palace.

It was a cold and rainy evening in Seiros City, the holy city nestled within the larger city-state of Garreg Mach. The stone courtyards ran with sheets of rainwater, which gathered in the manicured gardens. Pope Rhea lifted her long skirts to keep the hems from getting wet, and Cyril sheltered her with an umbrella as best he could with his gangling teenage arms. Byleth just pulled up the hood of her oilskin cloak. It was only just warm enough for the rain not to freeze.

Cyril led them behind the greenhouses. Byleth could already see that the stones and grass were seared black by combat magic, and even with the rain, there was a reek of ash, ozone, blood, and death. Seteth, the Grand Inquisitor, stood over two bodies that had fallen against the back wall of the greenhouse. Byleth ran ahead of Rhea and Cyril to see.

Hubert and Edelgard lay in a spread of broken glass and blood, which was draining away from the stones in the rain. Just like every other time Byleth had seen them die, their corpses’ hands were clasped together, their bare fingertips touching where they were exposed by their mage-gloves. Just like every other time Byleth had seen them die, she felt for the pulse of time itself. But before she carried herself away on that heart’s-flow, she stopped to listen and learn.

Hubert had been wearing a shoulder-bag slung across his chest. It was open, its contents rifled through, spilt out across the wet stones. There was nothing much of note, except a goddess talisman, which Byleth would not have expected him to carry.

“What happened, Seteth?” Pope Rhea demanded. “Who killed these students? And why?”

“Cyril,” said Seteth. His jaw was tight. “Did you check the vaults?”

“Yes, Inquisitor, sir,” said Cyril. “It’s just like you suspected. The Crest stones are missing.”

Seteth squeezed his eyes shut and made a sound like he’d been kicked in the stomach. As he took deep breaths to gather himself, Byleth wondered why he was so distraught over the loss of these stones that turned people into monsters.

Once he had gathered himself, Seteth said, “The attackers searched through Hresvelg and Vestra’s belongings, and took most of what they had. But not all. I found this tucked in the Vestra boy’s shirt pocket.” He held up a stone, small enough to fit in his palm, engraved with a delicate pattern: a Crest stone.

Pope Rhea’s face flushed deep red and contorted in rage. Byleth had never seen such an expression on her face before, not when Flayn went missing, not when there was a supposed assassination plot against her, not when the Western Church rose up in revolt. “These children stole the Crest stones from me?! How is this possible? Where is the Papal Guard?!”

“The Death Knight was spotted in Garreg Mach about an hour ago, attacking one of the noble compounds,” said Seteth. “They deployed to search the city before he could cause any more mayhem. There are only a few left in Seiros City.”

“So someone else caught the thieves, took their ill-gotten gains, and gave them what they deserved,” Rhea said, growling in satisfaction. “We do not yet know their motives, but if they return the stones, I will reward them handsomely for punishing these traitors. To think the descendant of Emperor Wilhelm would commit this rank sacrilege! It’s disgusting!” She snarled and gave Edelgard’s body a vicious kick. Her dead hand jolted loose from Hubert’s, and something inside her squelched sickeningly.

Byleth’s eyes spilled over in hot tears. She had wanted to trust Rhea, months ago. She had wanted to believe that she was someone who saw Byleth’s potential, her ability to be a teacher and a leader, when she hadn’t seen it in herself. The last of that dream had died with that kick.

She had last seen Hubert and Edelgard alive at about a quarter to five, through the window of her dormitory as they walked past. She had never made a leap quite so far back in time, and especially not without Sothis to hold her hand. She figured she had only one jump of that magnitude in her, if she had it at all. It ought to have been impossible. But if it was possible, then she had one chance to do this right.

Byleth took hold of the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. It felt like holding Sothis’s hand, just a little bit. Her wrists pulsed with the flow of time itself, and the terrible present dissolved away in the rain.

The Ducal Palace, Enbarr, Adrestia Duchy, 1169

Most days, Hubert and El learned from different tutors. After all, she was seven and he was nine, so he was ahead of her in reading and mathematics and history. And there were other subjects that one learned and the other didn’t, because Hresvelgs and Vestras needed to know different things. But today was different. Hubert and El were about to have their first magic lesson, and they would go together.

There was an elderly nun in the nursery, accompanied by a younger maidservant. They both bowed to El, then to Hubert. “Welcome, Lady Edelgard, Young Master Vestra. I am Sister Adelheid, and I will be your magic tutor. Come, come, sit.”

Sister Adelheid sat in a child-sized chair like Hubert and El, even though she had to tuck in her knees toward her chest to do so. The maidservant stood politely to the side, still unintroduced. “Tell me, children. What do you know about magic?”

“I saw the palace mages cast spells,” El said. “They can make fire! And they bless swords.”

“They do,” the nun confirmed. “And many other things besides.”

Hubert said, “Magic is a gift from the goddess.”

Sister Adelheid beamed. “It is! Now, all the goddess’s gifts come with lessons. Do you know the lesson that magic teaches us?” When the children only looked at her blankly, she said, “Magic is a lesson in humility, children. No one can cast magic alone, not even your great father the duke, Lady Edelgard. Even the smallest of spells requires two people to cast, and the great spells require an entire coven. Magic is a reminder that no one among us is like the goddess, who could shape the world with her power alone. That is why I brought Gertie along with me for the lesson. Come kneel beside me, Gertie.”

Gertie knelt beside Sister Adelheid on the play rug in a sweep of brown skirts.

“Not everyone is a mage,” said Sister Adelheid. “It’s about one in three among the common folk, four in five among the nobility. Gertie here is fortunate enough to have the gift. And not every pair of mages will be compatible enough in temperament to be able to cast together. Growing up, my sister and I would scald our hands every time we tried! But I have no doubt that the two of you will have the gift, and the harmony of spirit, to cast a spell of your own.”

“Like what?” said El, wide-eyed. “What could me and Hubert do?”

“Hubert and I,” Sister Adelheid corrected gently. “That is an excellent question, my lady. That will depend on the two of you. Each combination of people will find that their collective magic to be different. When I cast with Gertie here, we tend toward very concrete and practical spells: we can enchant sturdiness into an old rafter, or clear a pathway through brush. But when I cast with the Abbess, our spells have much to do with perception and knowledge: we can grant ourselves night vision, or find the one loose thread in an old tapestry. Remember, it is very important to be united in purpose when you cast. If one of you wishes to cast one spell, and the other wants something else, the magic won’t work at all!”

“How will we know what our magic can do?” Hubert asked.

“When you focus together,” Sister Adelheid said, “you will experience something called a gestalt. It is the magic you share, something greater than your mere sum. Your gestalt will show you what you are capable of.” She looked to her servant and held out her hand. “Gertie?”

Gertie pressed her forehead to the back of Sister Adelheid’s hand, as both children had seen servants do, sometimes, to show respect to their lords. Both women closed their eyes.

“What do you feel right now, Gertie?” murmured Sister Adelheid.

“I’m folding and stacking cloths, Sister. Each time I pull a cloth from the basket to fold it, I see a different holy symbol stitched into the cloth. The Blue Sea Star… the goddess in her wolf shape…”

“I see it a little differently,” Sister Adelheid said. “I am cutting fruits in half, and each one I cut, I see a symbol of a saint in the pattern of seeds within. Now, Gertie…”

The wooden pegasus toys Hubert and El had been playing with earlier that day flew from their spill on the floor, back up into the toy chest. El gasped. Hubert’s eyes widened. El said, “Can you make them fly around the room?”

“Now that would be frivolous,” Sister Adelheid said primly. “Gertie and I are tidying up.”

“I want to cast a spell with Hubert to make them fly!” El said. “I promise we’ll put them back! Do you want to see the pegasuses fly, Hubert?”

Hubert nodded frantically, eyes huge.

“How do we do it?” El demanded.

“It requires skin to skin contact. In an appropriate and decorous manner, of course. When skin touches skin, focus your mind to the point of contact. Then you guide the gestalt together toward your goal.”

El reached out and squeezed Hubert’s hand.

“Lady Edelgard,” Sister Adelheid said sternly, “Young Master Vestra is your vassal. There is a proper order you must observe. Master Vestra, you may kiss your lady’s hand, or touch your forehead to her hand, like Gertie did.”

El’s chest puffed out indignantly, but Hubert said, “I don’t mind, El,” which earned him a sharp look from the nun. He raised her hand a little and bowed to touch his forehead to it. It was easy to turn all of his thoughts toward the spot of warmth between his brows.

The warmth washed over him. He was in a small, dim, cozy room. The only source of light was a small fire in the grate. The shadows were orange-tinged and flowed as the fire rippled.

Hubert gasped and pulled back in surprise. Then he lowered his forehead again, furrowed his brow as he thought, and the shadowy room with the fireplace was back. In this space, Hubert could feel what El wanted to do. He joined her, focusing on the toy chest, hoping…

The little pegasus toys rose from the box and floated up to the ceiling, wings spread. Hubert watched them sideways, head bowed to El’s hand, and smiled.

“We did it, Hubert,” El whispered. “We can do magic!”

Black Eagles College, St. Cichol’s Military Academy, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, Great Tree Moon, 1180

“Why aren’t you teaching this class, Miss Eisner?” said Linhardt von Hevring. He leaned toward Byleth, chin in hand, studying her.

Granted, Byleth had been the tutor for Black Eagles College for less than a week, but it did not escape her notice that this was the first time Linhardt had shown up early for anything. Manuela had not yet arrived, and other Black Eagles students were trickling in.

“I’m not a mage,” Byleth said, drawing surprised stares from everyone in the classroom, except Hanneman Kolding, who had insisted on testing that claim the day she’d come to Seiros City. She knew this statement to be simultaneously true and untrue. She was not a mage in the manner of any mage she had ever met. When she made skin contact with a mage and focused, nothing happened. But when she held hands with the green-haired girl in her mind, she did wield a magical power: a finger on the pulse of time itself. Everybody knew that it was impossible to cast a spell alone. But as of one week ago, Byleth could.

Not alone, said Sothis, floating lazily along the classroom ceiling like a cloud. You’re casting with me.

Dorothea, who had just come in, folded her arms across her chest and frowned at Byleth. “How come they let you teach at the academy? I had to be examined by Professor Kolding to make sure I was really a mage before they’d let me in!”

Ferdinand frowned. “No one examined me before my admission.”

“Well, of course they didn’t,” Dorothea huffed, slamming her papers and inkwell on her desk with some force. “I’m sure they didn’t ask you for a character reference either.”

“Well, I’m no expert at battlefield tactics,” said Hanneman, “and they let me teach here. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, I suppose. Ah, Manuela, there you are. Do be on time next time.”

“You can give me your backtalk after class,” grumbled Manuela. “You’re all here, are you? And your lovely new tutor, too. Excellent.”

“Welcome, Black Eagles, to your first magic class at St. Cichol’s!” said Hanneman. “Now, who here has done magic before?”

Everyone in the classroom raised their hands, except for Byleth. She felt uncomfortable with the lie, but Sothis encouraged her to keep her silence.

“Excellent!” said Hanneman. “Then you’ll be ready to hit the ground running! I’ll have you all casting together as a coven in no time.”

The reaction to Hanneman’s enthusiasm was decidedly mixed. Ferdinand was as alert and eager as a trained dog at the start of an obstacle course. Linhardt was more enthusiastic than Byleth had seen him about anything other than unraveling her own mysteries. Caspar looked ready to burst out of his seat with excitement. Petra’s eyes were wide and hopeful, but she bit her lip nervously.

The other students were not so pleased. Dorothea had her arms folded across her chest, giving her classmates evaluating looks. Bernadetta, as usual, looked like she wanted to shrink in on herself until she disappeared. Edelgard was like an icy wall without a single crack in the glittering facade. Hubert was at maximum glower, making it very clear without words that if anyone but his liege tried to touch him, they would lose the hand.

Petra said, “Since coming to Fódlan, I have no magical harmony with others. Is this because I am a stranger here?”

“There is still much to be discovered when it comes to magical compatibility!” said Hanneman. “There is no single factor that guarantees it, but the most important is how the mages view magic and its role in their lives. Since Brigid has an entirely different perspective on magic than we do in Fódlan, I am not surprised there has been a compatibility issue for you. However, you mustn’t despair, Petra. Compatibility may still emerge if you and your fellow mages are united by a common purpose. And as you learn about magic in this class, you may find your perspective opened up to the Fódlaner way of doing things!”

Petra nodded, deep in thought, and scribbled notes to herself in what appeared to be her own language.

Manuela said, “Who here can describe what a gestalt is?”

Caspar didn’t bother to be called on. “It’s a feeling in your gut! Like when the air turns and you can feel a storm is coming? It tells you what’s gonna happen when you try to cast your spell.”

“That’s an excellent way of putting it, Caspar,” said Manuela, which surprised the boy. “Many people believe that the gestalt is a message from the goddess about the relationship between the mages casting. That might be true, but our minds aren’t able to fully grasp that mystery, in my experience. But it is a fairly reliable indicator of what kind of magic you’ll be able to cast together.” Manuela held out a hand to Hanneman. “Maybe it’s time to demonstrate.”

“Very well,” said Hanneman. “The usual?”

Manuela rolled her eyes. “Do we have a ‘usual’?”

Hanneman chuckled. “I suppose we don’t.”

They touched the tips of their index and middle fingers together, in a very decorous manner for two mages of equal social rank. Presently, chirps of cheerful song, like twittering birds, arose around the room. At first the songs’ origin appeared to be random. But as Byleth tilted her head this way and that, she noticed that they came from particular places: one seemed to be coming from Ferdinand’s pen, another from Hanneman’s monocle, one or two from Linhardt’s school-bag, several from Hubert’s pockets, and one from Byleth’s chest, for some reason. Hubert’s eyes locked on her chest in a manner that she would have considered very rude in any other context, and unnerved her enough as it was.

“Of course it had to be song,” Hanneman muttered, breaking the contact. The songs died down, much to Byleth’s relief. “You always bring a melodramatic flavor to any spell.”

“You were the one who wanted to show off,” Manuela huffed.

“What was that?” said Caspar.

“It was a spell to locate enchanted objects in the room,” said Hanneman. “There were quite a few more than I expected! What is that, Ferdinand, a self-inking pen?”

“Indeed,” said Ferdinand. “It is from an artisan magery in Enbarr.”

Much to Byleth’s relief, Hanneman didn’t inquire after any of the hidden magical objects the spell had revealed.

Linhardt raised his hand, and when Hanneman called on him, he said, “Professor Kolding, you have the Crest of Indech, isn’t that right?” When Hanneman nodded, he went on, “And Professor Casagranda, you don’t have a Crest, do you?”

“That’s right,” said Manuela. “I don’t come from any fancy noble bloodline.”

Linhardt turned his attention back to Hanneman, his dark eyes sparking with interest. “So you could shepherd Professor Casagranda, couldn’t you? I’d love to see a demonstration.”

The effect was instantaneous. Hanneman’s monocle nearly fell off his face in surprise. Manuela folded her arms across her chest and raised her eyebrows at Linhardt. Other students shot him nervous, cold, or offended looks. Petra said, “Shepherd? I hear the nobles of Enbarr say this word also, but I am thinking it is not about sheep.”

“You’ve never heard of shepherding?” Hanneman said to Petra, surprised.

“Perhaps there is a word in Brigid with the same meaning,” said Petra. “But first I need to know this Fódlani word.”

“I—I don’t know what it is either!” Bernie stammered from the back of the room.

“Neither do I,” Byleth admitted.

Hanneman and Manuela gave each other a long look. Then Hanneman said, “Normally, we wouldn’t cover this until later in the curriculum. But since several of you lack the basics of the subject, and Master Hevring is curious, we will explain what we can right now.”

“Before we go ahead,” Manuela said, “remember that shepherding isn’t something to be taken lightly. I know some of you have Crests. Don’t go running out to try this right after class. Do you understand?” Her gaze lingered on Bernadetta, Ferdinand, Edelgard, and especially Linhardt. She waited for them all to say yes, professor, before she gave the floor to Hanneman.

“Normally,” said Hanneman, “spells are cast collaboratively. The participants all make skin contact, focus on that contact, a gestalt emerges, and everyone contributes equally to the spell and what it will do. However, a Crest confers the ability to make skin contact, draw other people’s power toward oneself, and create a gestalt under the Crest-bearer’s complete control. The magic is still shaped by the gestalt of all the mages involved, but it is the Crest-bearer who creates the magical connection and decides what that magic will do. The Church calls this process shepherding, because the Crest-bearer herds the other mages and their power like a shepherd with the flock.” Hanneman turned to Manuela. “Professor Casagranda, are you willing to participate in a demonstration? If not, I will simply continue the lecture.”

Manuela blinked, then smiled slightly. “Fine, then. But make it a small one. No showing off this time.” She held out her hand.

“Thank you, madam,” Hanneman said, low and genuine, and touched his fingertips decorously to hers once more. Manuela bit her lip, just for a moment. Then a tiny firework of green and gold sparks blazed into life above their heads, near the ceiling, before burning itself out. They dropped their hands.

Linhardt was rapidly taking notes. “But that looked exactly the same as the other demonstration! Except for the spell’s effects, of course.”

“Precisely, young man,” Hanneman said. “There is no way for an outside observer to tell whether a spell has been shepherded or not, except by asking the participants. This is why Crested nobles must take care how they conduct themselves.”

Petra frowned deeply, lost in thought. Hubert and Dorothea looked like they had bitten into lemons. Ferdinand had his head down, attending closely to his notes. Even Caspar’s brow was furrowed. From the back, Bernadetta said in a tiny voice, “Can someone with a Crest do that to someone else with a Crest?” She looked like she was about to burst into tears—even more so than usual.

“Yes,” said Hanneman, “but it is possible for them to resist by shepherding the magic right back. The power getting pulled into multiple loci of control simultaneously causes the spell to become collaborative once more. A Crest-bearer may also withdraw from a shepherded gestalt entirely, while a crestless mage cannot. I will cover this in greater detail in a future lesson.”

Petra raised her hand and said, “And if there is no harmony in the magic? No, ah, compatibility?”

“It is only possible to shepherd a compatible mage,” Hanneman said. “The physical toll of attempting an incompatible connection would be the same, regardless of Crests.”

Byleth suddenly felt very strange. According to Hanneman’s tests, she appeared to have a mysterious Crest but no magical ability to cast with others—a rare combination that meant her Crest was essentially useless. Was any of this relevant to her? What did her Crest mean? What did her connection with Sothis mean?

“Why don’t we pair off so we can practice casting spells?” said Manuela brightly, in an effort to break the pall over the room. “Master Aegir, you can pair off with Mistress Hresvelg, and—”

“My apologies, Professor Casagranda,” Edelgard said coolly. “I only cast magic with my retainer.”

Ferdinand’s face began to redden. His grip tightened on his pen.

“It’s better for your magical development if you try casting with different combinations of people, Mistress Hresvelg,” said Manuela. “You may want to consider broadening your horizons.”

“Thank you for the thought,” said Edelgard. “I will consider it in future. For now, I will continue to cast with Hubert as I have always done.”

“Edelgard,” Ferdinand burst out. “You know me! Surely you know that I have practiced magic extensively with my family. I would be a more than competent spell partner!”

While Hubert sneered at him, Edelgard said calmly, “I am sure you would be, Master Aegir. My choice does not reflect on your skill in any way. It is only that Hubert has been my spell partner since I was a small child, and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“Let’s not get bogged down in these little details,” Manuela said. “Master Hevring, would you like to partner with Master Aegir?”

“It’s no trouble,” said Linhardt, and leaned back languidly in his chair. Ferdinand sighed and gathered his supplies to move to a desk near the other noble boy. Byleth realized then that it was shrewd of Manuela to pair off Linhardt with another Crested noble, after he had displayed such an unseemly curiosity about his Crest’s unnerving power.

“Master Bergliez, you can work with Miss Macneary,” said Manuela.

Caspar’s eyes widened. He swallowed. “Uhh. What happens if our magic is incompatible?”

“It burns,” said Petra. “Like holding a brick from a fire.”

“Oh,” said Caspar glumly. He moved over to the desk next to Petra, shooting forlorn looks at Linhardt over his shoulder all the while.

“And Dorothea,” said Manuela, dropping the formality for her friend, “will you work with Mistress Varley?”

Bernadetta slumped low in her chair, but she didn’t scream or flee the room, which was probably as close to approval as they were going to get. Dorothea’s expression, so closed off through the class until now, softened at the sight of her. “Yeah. I think we can make it work.”

As Byleth watched the class, she thought about her own mysterious gestalt with Sothis. The two of them had no teacher they could turn to for instruction. But it was past time they started to experiment, and learned how to cast magic, too.

The Ducal Palace, Fhirdiad, Faerghus Duchy, 1177

There was frost on the trampled grass of the training grounds, everywhere except in a steaming circle around Dimitri and Dedue. Dimitri looked up at Dedue and found him smiling with his eyes instead of his mouth, the way he always did. He wouldn’t say it in front of Rodrigue, who wouldn’t understand, but he would say it to Dedue in private, later: see, it isn’t over for you, you can still have power and purpose in this life.

Rodrigue said, “Excellent, Your Highness. Your control over the fire spell is improving. I think you’re ready to try something new. A very important combat skill for every prince to develop.”

Dimitri’s chest burned with purpose. Any new combat skill was a skill he could one day use to avenge his family and Duscur. Each lesson brought him and Dedue closer to making things right in the world.

Rodrigue went on. “It is time for you to learn shepherding.”

Dimitri nodded. “Who shall be my opponent?” Usually, when he learned a new combat art, he tried it out with Rodrigue, as an experienced sparring partner who could show him the trick of it. But Rodrigue bore a Crest—was it even possible for Dimitri to try the strength of his Crest against one who had a Crest of his own?

Rodrigue nodded toward Dedue. “It is best to learn with an uncrested opponent—it is impossible to shepherd someone with a Crest unless they are taken entirely by surprise, or they are completely untrained in magic.”

Dimitri let go of Dedue’s hand, reluctant as he was to lose the comfort of their gestalt. It was a vision of a clearing in an ironwood pine forest, and a group of Duscurian women lighting fires with precise applications of their torches to the dry brush. Dedue said that in Duscur, fires renewed the land—not the terrible runaway fires of the slaughter, but carefully controlled fire like the simmer of a stew. Dimitri had once asked him why it was always women who lit the fires in their gestalt, and he had only said, the healing fire is—was—women’s business.

He said to Rodrigue, “When I first sparred with Dedue, I used a training lance. If I had used a live weapon, I could have hurt him badly. With magic, there is no such thing as a training lance. It is all live weaponry.”

“Surely your retainer can handle himself,” said Rodrigue, brow furrowing.

“Please, Your Highness,” said Dedue, stoic as he always was, except in those early days when he’d cried soundlessly over books he couldn’t understand, clothing he couldn’t lace, and memories he couldn’t explain. “Think nothing of it. I stand ready to assist you in your training in whatever way you require.”

“Dedue, please,” said Dimitri. “I couldn’t bear to hurt you because of my inexperience and ignorance.” He turned to Rodrigue. “Surely there must be someone in the palace who could serve as an experienced opponent as I begin my training.”

Finally, Dimitri seemed to have reached Rodrigue. He was deep in thought. “There is a soldier in my guard who will serve. One moment.” He strode down the training grounds to the archery range to speak to his guard.

“Do you doubt my devotion?” Dedue asked Dimitri flatly.

“No!” said Dimitri. “Never. It is only that I could not ask such a risk of anyone, no matter how loyal. You didn’t see me when I first tried to wield Areadhbar. My control of my Crest slipped and I nearly crushed my own foot. Would you have me crush you?” Dimitri feared he already would have crushed Dedue in the course of their training if he weren’t so big and strong.

“You have the right to do so,” said Dedue.

Before Dimitri could tell him how wrong that was, Rodrigue returned with a soldier in Fraldarius colors, who bowed. “This is Sergeant Lemaitre,” said Rodrigue. “He drills all the magical recruits to the Fraldarius guard. You will find he brings a grounding aspect to a gestalt.”

Dimitri’s head swam with relief. Here was an experienced soldier who he would not hurt. “Thank you for your assistance, Sergeant.” He held out his hand.

Typically, he and Dedue cast holding hands, even though it was considered more proper to their stations for them to cast with Dedue bowing his forehead to Dimitri’s hand. Dimitri hated this pose, and had successfully argued that they ought to cast in the way that was most practical in battle: hand gripping hand. Sergeant Lemaitre deferred to Dimitri’s station, however, and bowed over Dimitri’s hand, touching his forehead to the knuckles.

For a moment, Dimitri wondered why he felt nothing. Then he remembered that the entire point of the exercise was for Dimitri to create a gestalt by pulling the magic from his opponent. He focused on the point where the sergeant’s forehead met his knuckles and focused his magical intention, despite the lack of reciprocal intention from the soldier.

The gestalt seemed to leap across the bridge between them, into his skin: a fist made of ice crashing into a wall made of ice, shattering the fist and the wall both into a cloud of glittering shards. It was easy, shockingly so, as if he faced off in a sparring match against a five-year-old child, not a seasoned Fraldarius guard. He was left at a loss at what to do with all this power, now that he had grasped it for himself. He remembered what Rodrigue had said about grounding, and directed the power downward. The earth beneath their feet, Dimitri’s and the sergeant’s, crashed and crumbled, and they fell downward so that their feet were anchored in cold dirt. The jolt made Sergeant Lemaitre yelp in surprise.

“Sorry,” Dimitri said hastily, and used the magic to blast the dirt outward from their feet, freeing them. Four pits now marred the training grounds. Dimitri withdrew his hand, and Sergeant Lemaitre straightened.

“Excellent!” said Rodrigue, beaming with pride, and Dimitri felt an answering pride in his own chest. He looked to Dedue.

Dedue was as impassive as ever, showing neither pride in his accomplishment nor anger that he had not been chosen. Dimitri set a fire inside himself, as deliberately as the women with their torches in their gestalt. He was not sure why, for he beat and bruised Dedue in sparring matches all the time without qualm, but he knew it for certain: what he had just done, he must never, ever do to Dedue.

The Ducal Palace, Enbarr, Adrestia Duchy, 1175

The lords of Adrestia, ever-concerned as they were with the appearance of propriety over actually behaving appropriately, objected in strong terms when the ducal heir Edelgard demanded to be attended upon by Hubert. After all, she was thirteen, a young lady, and Hubert two years older; she needed to preserve her maidenly modesty in front of men. Edelgard remained steadfast in her demand, and bit every maidservant and nurse sent through her bedroom door. Despite her starveling frame and healing wounds, she even brandished a knife she’d found somewhere in her room and dared her attendants to come any closer. After a day of her unflagging resistance, Lord Arundel declared that it was Vestra tradition to serve the Hresvelgs faithfully, and who were they to stand in the way of noble tradition?

The first day serving his lady, Hubert was quiet, wide-eyed, drinking in the sight of her alive when he had feared her dead for months. She appreciated his near-silence, the way he treated her gently without thinking her too fragile to handle pain and awkwardness.

The second day serving his lady, Hubert listened as she spoke. He barely left her sickbed all day, listening to her account of what had happened to her, chasing off anyone who tried to enter her sickroom except the doctors, who were necessary, and Lord Arundel, who he did not dare defy. When she was done telling him, Hubert wondered if he ought to hold her, or pet her hair, the way his mother did for him and his siblings after his father’s beatings when she got the chance. But he was not her mother, and he worried that perhaps his attempts at comfort would be unwelcome. So he said, “What might I do to help you, Lady Edelgard? You may ask anything of me.”

“There’s nobody here but us,” said the girl in her sickbed. “Can’t you call me El? Like you used to when we were kids?”

“No one calls you Lady Edelgard anymore,” Hubert said in a rush. “Everyone calls you Edelgard or Mistress Hresvelg now, as if the Insurrection has utterly destroyed the dukedom and stripped you of your birthright. I believe that you will become the Duke of Adrestia one day, even if no one else does.” He reached slowly for her bandaged hand, giving her the chance to refuse the touch, but she smiled and allowed it. “Please, allow me to continue calling you Lady Edelgard, and ask of me anything else.”

He meant it, sincerely. But even he had not expected the magnitude of what she would ask. Propped up against her mountain of pillows, she looked him in the eyes and said, “Hubert. My dear, dear friend. Will you help me change the world so that this tragedy should never happen to anyone else again?”

It was an enormous thing to ask. Hubert sat with the question in silence for many minutes, occasionally rubbing his thumb very gently over her knuckles to show that his thoughts were still with her. He had been prepared for her to ask him to wreak revenge on the treasonous Seven. But she wanted something much bigger than that. If the Seven died at Hubert’s hand, the world that made them would remain. She wanted to break this bitter world and forge a new one entirely. Hubert could not imagine that new world, but just by voicing the idea that there could be something different, Edelgard forged an entirely new Hubert.

“I will,” Hubert said. “No matter what the cost.”

“You don’t even know what kinds of changes I want to make. I had a lot of time to think, down in the dungeons. My ideas are—don’t make promises until you understand me.”

“I think I can guess,” Hubert said slowly. “Lord Arundel—or the creature who stole his name—implanted a second Crest in you because he wanted a powerful weapon in Fódlan. But a Crest—even two Crests—means very little on its own. The world makes it mean much more.”

“The nobility and the Church,” said Edelgard. “Both claim that Crests represent a divine right to rule. That is why Thales—the creature’s true name—made me this way. Not because of the petty influence the Crest power itself might give me.” She stared at Hubert levelly, waiting, assessing. Before her abduction to Fhirdiad, she had known him as a devout child, praying fervently to the saint statues in the palace chapel.

“After your abduction to Fhirdiad,” Hubert said, staring right back, “my lessons continued. Because my liege was gone, I was… available… for magic practice with all of your siblings, and any other noble child currently in residence in Enbarr. Some of those lessons taught Crested children how to shepherd the Crestless.” The word shepherd made his mouth curl, like a bad taste.

Edelgard’s hand twitched in Hubert’s loose grip like a crushed insect. She blinked rapidly. “My siblings did that to you?”

“I do not blame them, my lady. Sister Adelheid told us it was important for our magical education. I believed her myself. I volunteered the first three times. Then I told Sister Adelheid that I had learned all I needed to know, and asked to be excused from any more of those lessons.” Hubert laughed bitterly. “She said the gift of magic was the goddess’s lesson in humility, and I must not have learned it if I thought I knew better than her. My faith in the church is thoroughly broken. And after I watched my father seize you in his arms and take you to that place… now that I know what happened to you there…” His eyes gleamed with tears, and he looked down. “I think there must not be a goddess at all. Only us, and these vast and terrible powers.”

“I will never let that happen to you again,” Edelgard said fiercely. “You never need to cast magic ever again if you do not wish to. I will protect you from anyone who tries.”

“Please do not worry on my behalf. I have developed a reputation since your abduction. I do not think there is anyone left in the Ducal Palace who would dare to shepherd me, or my younger siblings.” He had been particularly emphatic on that point; he would not allow them to experience that misery, not even once. “Perhaps there are those beyond the palace who would try, but you cannot protect me from them.”

“Not yet,” Edelgard said, her expression determined.

“Pray let me check your wounds,” Hubert said, partly to redirect her attention from worrying about him, partly because it was truly necessary. She nodded, and let him pull back the covers and hike up the hem of her nightgown to show the bandaged arc of one hip-bone. The nobles of the palace would have been scandalized if they had known a young man was attending to Edelgard in such a way, but Hubert’s gaze on her bare hip and thigh was gentle and matter-of-fact. Her deepest wounds were here, incisions made down and into the bone. They required specially enchanted bandages to prevent any contamination. Hubert noted that they were damp with sweat, perhaps from her nightmares.

Hubert tapped one of these bandages with his fingertip. “These must be replaced with fresh dry bandages, but they need an enchantment to protect the wounds from any taint. I will call for the healers.”

Edelgard’s complexion, already sallow, paled further. “Who is on duty today?”

“Sister Hildegard and Katrin.” A nun and her servant, like Sister Adelheid and Gertie. The names were bitter in Hubert’s mouth. He saw the pinched fear around Edelgard’s eyes and said, “But first we can make an attempt ourselves. Impermeability for a bandage is simply a very small shield, isn’t it? We practiced those together, once upon a time.”

“Hubert!” Edelgard said, taken aback. “You heard me say that I have two Crests now. They said I could shepherd even a Crested mage! I run the risk of crushing your magic like an overripe fruit.”

“I know that you never would, my lady,” Hubert said, with the absolute faith he had once reserved for prayer. “Your Crests do not matter. Only you.”

“Right,” Edelgard said, wondrous, finding in Hubert’s words a mirror of her own thoughts. “Of course. I… I thank you for your trust. It means more than I can say.”

They were arranged rather awkwardly on the bed, Edelgard with her nightgown rucked up to expose one leg all the way up past the hip, Hubert sitting on the edge of the bed by her knee, facing toward her bandaged leg and open face. He reached for her hand, already bending into a bow to press his forehead to it.

Edelgard tucked her hand against her chest. “None of that,” she said. “Not when it’s just us.” She tilted her head toward her knee. “My leg’s right there.”

Part of Hubert’s mind insisted it was entirely improper. The rest sneered at the very notion of propriety, after all the monstrosity he had seen beneath the mask of propriety that nobility wore. He took a deep breath, and his fingertips alighted on Edelgard’s bare knee like a bird that might startle at any sound. Both of their minds focused on those five feather-light points of contact.

There was no room. There was no fireplace.

There was darkness. The dim outline of a black-gloved hand reaching for a hilt. The fingers wrapped around the hilt and slowly pulled. Inch by inch, a bright blade emerged from a shadowy sheath, igniting with white fire as it went. It was only in the fierce white glow of the unsheathed blade that the sheath was visible at all, so perfectly did it blend into the darkness. The gloved hand held the blade with perfect poise, the sharp point unwavering.

“We can’t enchant a bandage,” Edelgard said, looking at Hubert. He realized the burning blade was the color of her hair. “Not with this.”

“No.” Hubert would have to send for Sister Hildegard and Katrin after all. But perhaps now his lady could face them with more poise. Dark satisfaction curled through him as he felt their new gestalt in every part of himself. “But we can make a blade to cut down our enemies.”

Commoners’ Dormitory, St. Cichol’s Academy, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 12 Pegasus Moon, 1180 (Second Attempt)

The sun was up, its light anemic through the clouds. It was flurrying outside Byleth’s window. She gulped down air and checked her pocket watch. Seventeen minutes to five. She had made it.

Outside her window, she saw Edelgard walking from the nobles’ dormitory, trailed as ever by her loyal shadow. The occasional snowflake caught in their hair, invisible against Edelgard’s, stark for a moment against Hubert’s until it melted. Byleth’s breath caught. She opened her door. “Lady Edelgard!” she called, as open an acknowledgment as she dared of the coronation she had recently witnessed in Enbarr. “Master Vestra! Please, I need to speak with you.”

Edelgard snapped to attention. Byleth had only called her Lady Edelgard once before, right after the coronation, haltingly, unsure of how to address her. You may continue to call me Mistress Hresvelg, my teacher, she’d said, but Hubert had smirked in approval. Now, a look passed between Edelgard and Hubert, one of their many speaking looks that could seemingly transmit an entire conversation, and they turned as one toward Byleth’s dormitory. As they walked toward her, her mind raced. She had only one chance to get this right. If she said the wrong thing, she had no doubt she would be dead within the next few minutes. Edelgard might hesitate, but Hubert would not.

Byleth didn’t need to tell her students to close the door behind them. “Your Grace,” she said. “Master Vestra. I need to give you a warning. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“I’m listening, Miss Eisner,” said Edelgard.

“First, Master Vestra,” said Byleth, turning to him, “I need you to bleed me into one of your vials. I know you always have some on your person.” She rolled back her jacket and shirt sleeve to offer her forearm. “There are some doors in the Apostolic Palace with square keyholes. Pope Rhea granted me access to them. A needle emerges from these keyholes. If you give the needle my blood, the doors will open.”

Hubert’s visible eye narrowed. He kept his hands in his cloak pockets. “I have no idea whatever you might mean by this, Miss Eisner. Lady Edelgard and I have no need to trespass on any restricted areas in Seiros City.”

“Hubert,” Edelgard said quellingly.

“I know you’re about to steal Crest stones from the Church,” said Byleth. “And I know that someone is going to ambush you behind the greenhouse, kill you, and take the stones, unless I do something to prevent it.”

Before she was done speaking that second sentence, Hubert’s right hand was joined to Edelgard’s left, fingertips touching. They habitually wore mage-gloves on those hands, which left the first knuckles of their fingers exposed. Byleth felt a blood-hot blade poised invisibly against her jugular. She had seen many a highwayman, rebel, and apostate die like this by their magic, bled out by a blade they never even saw. Until now, she hadn’t known how hot that blade was, as if warmed by an unseen fire.

“I am sorry, my teacher,” said Edelgard, “but I need to ask you two questions before we can release you. My first question: what did I tell you when we met at the Goddess Tower the night of the St. Cichol’s Day Ball?”

Byleth swallowed, and felt the blade’s heat shift against her throat. “You told me the story of how your parents met at the Goddess Tower. The duke and the new academy student. It was love at first sight, you said.”

Edelgard’s posture relaxed a little, but the blade remained. “My second question: how did you learn of our plans?”

Byleth slowly reached up to touch the ends of her hair, so recently turned green. “There is a power I received from… I suppose she must be the goddess. I’m not sure. It’s not like any magic I’ve ever heard of. I can use it on my own, somehow. It gives me a strange insight into the flow of time itself.” Byleth closed her eyes and saw the terrible rain-soaked scene before her once more. “I’ve seen your future. I saw your dead bodies behind the greenhouses. Whoever killed you, they went through your belongings…” She opened her eyes and dropped all formality. In that moment, she was not looking at the duke and her retainer, but her two precious students who she wanted to nurture and protect. “Hubert, they left your goddess talisman next to your corpse. Not that it made any difference to Pope Rhea. I never would have thought you would own such a thing.”

Hubert’s pale eye widened. His hand fell from Edelgard’s, and the blade’s hot line vanished from Byleth’s neck. Edelgard stared at him. “Hubert? Is that true?”

Hubert reached into the depths of his shoulder bag and pulled out the little talisman. Edelgard gaped at it. “Why?”

“It was my constant companion as a child,” Hubert said, abashed. “It was a comfort to me, when they took you away. Even after my faith crumbled… the comfort I feel when I have it near has never entirely gone.”

Another speaking look between them. A sideways flicker of their eyes toward Byleth. They both nodded. Edelgard said, “We believe you. You’ve seen the future. But if you know that we intend to steal holy artifacts from the church, why have you decided to change our fate?”

“I don’t know that there’s any such thing as fate,” said Byleth. “I’ve changed the course of time before now. Dozens of times. But I understand what you’re asking.” Byleth was not an eloquent speaker by anyone’s standards, much less the two refined nobles before her. She gathered her thoughts. “I’ve gotten to know Pope Rhea personally over the past nine months, and I’ve gotten to know you, too. You have always been polite, always careful to check that I agree to whatever you ask of me. Pope Rhea makes demands. She… applies pressure. When I tell her no, she doesn’t believe me.

“In the future where you die, the one that might happen in less than an hour… she calls you disgusting. She says she’ll reward whoever killed you. She kicks your corpse.” Hubert and Edelgard’s faces both go even paler, at that. “I don’t know why you want to steal those Crest stones. But I know you, Edelgard, and I know Rhea. And I choose you.” Byleth offered her bare forearm again. “Take my blood. I’ll keep watch behind the greenhouse. Do what you need to do. Don’t get killed.”

Edelgard’s eyes shone with tears. “I’ll tell you everything later, my teacher. There’s no time now. But once we’ve gotten the stones, we’ll tell you why we’re doing this. I’ll explain everything. For now… I cannot thank you enough.”

Hubert drew an empty glass vial from a bandolier within his cloak. He took Byleth’s arm gently, found a vein inside her elbow, unstoppered the vial, and held it to the vein. He reached for Edelgard with his right hand without looking back. She touched her fingertips to his, and inside the seal of the vial’s mouth, Byleth’s vein opened in a sharp, hot pinprick of pain. As the dark blood flowed into the vial, Hubert met her eyes and said, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it, “I thank you, Miss Eisner, from the bottom of my heart.”

Byleth only nodded, not knowing what to do with such a display of vulnerability from Hubert. When the vial was nearly full, Hubert took it away from her arm, stoppered it, and pressed a small linen pad to the wound. “As you know, our gestalt is not suited to healing,” he said, genuinely contrite. Ever equipped with the tools of his trade, he withdrew a bandage from his bag and wrapped it around her arm to secure the dressing.

“We’ll find you as soon as we can,” said Edelgard. “I will make sure your faith in me is not misplaced.”

Hubert tucked the vial of blood inside his cloak and bowed to Byleth, hand to his heart. Then his right hand reached for Edelgard’s left, and the duo repelled Byleth’s gaze, like an uncomfortable situation, or an unpleasant reminder: her eyes slid away from them. When her eyes were free to move again where they would, she was alone in her dormitory.

Cyril knocked on Byleth’s door at five past five, just as he had the first time around. She opened the door and received his summons from Pope Rhea. “Unfortunately, I will be running a little late,” Byleth told him. “My students have needs I must attend to.” She could forestall the Pope, but not even she could deny her completely.

Byleth checked the Sword of the Creator for any sign of wear, and buckled on her leather armor. She put on her oilskin cloak and stepped out into the freezing rain. She wasn’t sure who or what she would find behind the greenhouses, but she stood her guard, hand on the hilt of her sword. Inside one of the greenhouses, she saw the large shadow of Dedue watering the plants, until he finished his work and departed into the gloomy winter evening. After what felt like an eternity of watchful vigil, she dared to check her pocket watch, squinting to make it out in the rain-swept light of the gas-lamps.

The hour hand pointed to six. Byleth sagged in relief. Hubert and Edelgard did not die here. She heard no alarm, no hue and cry. It was time for her next trial: facing Pope Rhea.

Byleth went through the security protocols of the Apostolic Palace once more. Once more, she pricked her finger on a needle for admittance into the papal bedroom. “Hello there,” Pope Rhea said, strangely bare in her pretty but plain white dress. “I’ve been waiting quite a while for you. Cyril tells me you were attending to your students. So diligent. I knew I could trust you.”

Byleth’s stomach curdled. If it had been me you had found dead behind the greenhouses, what would you have said then?

“If you would, please allow me a closer look at your face. Those beautiful, shining eyes…” Pope Rhea took a step forward, her hand rising as if to pet her the way she had when Byleth had been helpless to stop her. “And silken hair, so similar to my own…”

Byleth pressed her back against the door as if she had been pinned there.

“Oh dear,” said Pope Rhea, letting her hand fall. “Please excuse my rudeness. I forgot myself for a moment.”

“Did you forget yourself when you petted me as I slept?” Byleth said tonelessly.

“I...I am so very sorry,” said Rhea, closing her eyes as if Byleth had dealt her a blow. “No matter how dearly I wish to strengthen the bonds between us, it is important that I—”

She was interrupted by the klaxon of the alarm.

Byleth’s stomach swooped as if she rode a rambunctious wyvern. What was it now? Had Hubert and Edelgard died again, in some new and horrible way? She checked the time on her pocket watch. The time was a quarter past six.

There was a knock at the door. “Pope Rhea? It’s Cyril. The Grand Inquisitor sent me.”

Pope Rhea strode past Byleth to open the door. Her errand boy looked ashen. “Please, come with me, Pope Rhea. The phantom soldier security system’s been activated. Somebody broke into the Holy Tomb.”

“Someone broke into the Holy Tomb?!” Rhea said, outraged, an undertone of a growl to her voice. Byleth realized, to her horror, that Rhea sounded much more upset now than she had when Cyril had reported two students murdered. Rhea swept on her cloak and jammed her crown on her head, the lilies knocked slightly askew in her haste. Cyril led them to the throne room, where Seteth was waiting.

“What did the intruders do?!” Pope Rhea demanded. “How have they not yet been apprehended!”

“The Death Knight was spotted in Garreg Mach about an hour ago, attacking one of the noble compounds,” said Seteth. “The Papal Guard deployed to search the city before he could cause any more mayhem. There is only a small security detail left in Seiros City. As for what they took…” Seteth looked grim. “I checked. The Crest stone vaults in the Holy Tomb are empty.”

“WHAT?!” Rhea roared. “When did this happen?”

“The Papal Guard deployed in the city around five,” said Seteth. “It must have been sometime since then.”

“Recall the Papal Guard at once!” Rhea cried. “Scour Seiros City! Interrogate all staff and students! Impose a curfew on all of Garreg Mach and round up any who dare to walk the streets! Stop at nothing, nothing, until the Crest stones are recovered and the thieves apprehended!”

Dread settled over Byleth. How could Hubert and Edelgard escape such tyranny? How many would be tortured or killed in Rhea’s frantic search for the Crest stones? Byleth had been there for the punishment of Lord Gaspard. She knew Pope Rhea would stop at nothing until she had found the one responsible.

Or until she thought she had found the one responsible.

“Don’t,” said Byleth. “There’s no need for all of that.” Pope Rhea and Seteth turned to stare at her, as if they were startled to remember that she could speak at all. “I confess. I’m the one who took the Crest stones.”

“This is no time to be playing practical jokes, my dear child,” said Rhea. “There is much to be done.”

“Ask Cyril,” said Byleth. “He came to my dormitory at five past five. I told him I would run late for our meeting. I needed time to open the vault first.”

“That’s impossible,” Rhea scoffed. “You were just in my rooms with me. How could you have done such a thing in such a short time?”

“You told the Papal Guard to allow me into the Apostolic Palace any time,” said Byleth, utterly toneless and flat. “You gave me the access code. The special doors open to my blood. It was easy.”

Absolute horror dawned on Rhea and Seteth’s faces. Cyril flushed brick red. He looked ready to launch himself at Byleth fists first.

“So you’ve decided to confess your crimes,” Rhea said softly. “Good. Very good. Just tell me where the stones are now, and we can forget that any of this happened.”

“I destroyed them,” said Byleth, and as she said it, she realized the perfectly obvious reason why Edelgard and Hubert had made their choice. Rhea and Seteth flinched back as if they’d been struck. To Byleth’s shock, tears began to shine in both their eyes, as if she’d just confessed to murdering their children. “I used the Sword of the Creator. I saw what that Crest stone did to Miklan Gautier. Those stones are evil. Why did you keep such things?”

“You don’t even know what they are,” Seteth said, also in the tones of someone discovering the truth even as they spoke it. His voice was hoarse with some emotion—grief? “You have no notion of what they are, and you simply destroyed them.”

“You could have told me after you sent me on the mission to stop Mister Gautier. You didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know what they are,” said Byleth. “I know what they do. Destroying them is the only right choice.” There was no point resisting the inevitable. If she fought and escaped, she would only visit misery upon all of Garreg Mach. She offered her wrists. “Take me away. Do what you will. I know I did the right thing.”

“Cyril,” said Pope Rhea. “Take her to the guest bedroom in my wing of the palace.” She gave the boy a strange, squarish key. “Lock her in for now, until I can come up and speak with her privately.” She smiled her usual benevolent smile at Byleth, despite the glitter of tears in her eyes. Byleth’s skin crawled. “Not to worry, child. You will be treated well. Thank you for telling me the truth.”

Cyril led Byleth away, glaring at her all the way.

“Seteth,” said Rhea, serene once more. “Make ready the papal balcony. I have an announcement to make.” She smiled. “All of Fodlan needs to know of Byleth Eisner’s most noble sacrifice, so they may honor her commitment to the Church. In two weeks’ time, she will offer her life’s blood in a magical ritual to summon the goddess’s return.”

Chapter Text

St. Macuil’s Square, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 12 Pegasus Moon, 1180

Edelgard stood in the shelter of Hubert’s wide black umbrella and indulged for a moment in despair.

They were not the only ones in St. Macuil’s Square. The bugle calls and heralds had brought a large audience to the papal balcony despite the evening hour and the freezing rain. In front of Edelgard and Hubert stood Claude and Lorenz under umbrellas of their own. Claude gazed up thoughtfully at the papal balcony where Pope Rhea had just made her pronouncement. “Huh. Teach never struck me as the religious type. Let alone the kind of fanatic who’d die on some wild hope the goddess might come back.”

“Perhaps the goddess’s blessing changed her,” Lorenz murmured, but he did not sound entirely convinced.

The other Black Eagles, for their part, were quietly, utterly devastated.

Caspar fidgeted in place as if ready to charge into the Apostolic Palace himself to rescue their tutor. Linhardt stared up at the papal balcony as if the Pope might have left some clue there that would make all of this make sense. Bernadetta started to cry, none too quietly, and Dorothea came over to comfort her, tears streaming unchecked down her own face. Petra spoke softly to Ferdinand, who had his face buried in his hands, shaking his head from side to side in denial.

There was a cold touch to the fingertips of Edelgard’s left hand, and she fell into the gestalt as easily as her next breath. The black-gloved hand. The hilt. The satisfying slide of the burning-bright blade from its sheath. She felt Hubert’s familiar intention in the hold on the hilt, and she cast the spell with him, quieting their voices so they faded into the rain and wind in any listening ears.

“Well,” said Hubert, perfectly audible to them alone. “At least now we know what we shall steal from her next.”

“This is the time to recruit them, if there ever was one,” said Edelgard. “Their faith in the Pope is shaken. They begin to understand the scope of her evil.”

“And if we should include them in our plans and one of them should turn around and inform on us to the Church?” said Hubert, directing a withering glare toward Ferdinand. His disdain struck Edelgard as a little absurd in that moment, as Ferdinand was currently attempting to speak with the other Black Eagles while continuously dabbing tears and snot from his face with a handkerchief.

The Black Eagles strode over to Hubert and Edelgard. Petra led the group, but they all seemed determined: even Linhardt, grim-faced; even Bernie, steely-eyed and sniffling into one of Ferdinand’s handkerchiefs. Edelgard let her hand fall away from Hubert’s, and their spell dissolved.

“We have been making… we have made an agreement,” Petra announced, firmly but quietly so her voice wouldn’t carry. “We will be making a way into the church to find our tutor and learn what truly is happening. Will you make this agreement with us?”

Edelgard looked up and to the left at Hubert, smiling. Her look said: See? Faith in the goddess may not be rewarded, but faith in other people is.

A tiny, awed smile came to Hubert’s face. It was such a rare and precious thing to see directed at someone besides herself that Edelgard wanted to keep it in a jar like a firefly. He bowed, hand to his heart. “Of course, Miss Macneary. Lady Edelgard and I intended to do the same, but we dared not hope you would have the same idea. Shall we all swear on our magic?”

It was a startling proposition. Even now, Hubert was reluctant to cast with anyone but Edelgard. Now he proposed that they all cast together, if only for a moment, to formalize the oath. His boldness seemed to shock everyone into action. Hubert folded up his umbrella to free both hands, leaving the rain to drip off the hood of her oilskin cloak. Hands reached for hands; Dorothea pulled Bernie back into a comforting embrace, her chin on Bernie’s head; Edelgard held the familiar shape of Hubert’s right hand in her left, and the unfamiliar shape of Petra’s hand in her right. Petra looked at Edelgard sidelong, and Edelgard knew that she had to be nervous that they would be incompatible, as they had once been in the past.

Edelgard said, “We shall not falter until we achieve our end. So we swear.” And she reached out with her magic to the ragtag circle of her classmates, huddled together in the rain. For a fleeting moment, there was a glimpse of something almost like a map, and then she dropped her hands and it was gone.

“We have sworn our oath,” said Hubert. “But we must not discuss our plans here.”

Dorothea smiled, energized by their accord. “I think I know just the place.”

Dining Hall, St. Cichol’s Academy, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 15 Red Wolf Moon, 1180

Edelgard leaned across the table, a smile turning up the corners of her eyes. “So, Arnault. Would you like to tell me where you and some of the other Eagles sneak off to on evenings when we don’t have a mission?”

Dorothea scoffed. “We don’t sneak! We just… don’t talk too loudly about where we’re going.”

“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” said Edelgard, scraping up the last of her saghert and cream with her spoon. “I promise.”

Dorothea gazed at Edelgard levelly. “It’s a mirror bar. In the Artists’ Quarter.”

Edelgard had never heard the term “mirror bar” before, but she could guess what it meant. People like Dorothea and Edelgard herself were often called mirror-kin or mirror-gazers, because they found their desire reflected in their own gender—or because what they saw in the mirror was an identity of their own creation, rather than the one laid out for them. If the implication was that mirror-gazers were vain and selfish, that was no accident. Church policy did not explicitly condemn anyone’s private activities, but if passing on the “blessings” of one’s bloodline was a sacred duty, then any distraction from marriage and Crest babies was a frivolous self-indulgence.

In that moment, Edelgard learned that there were places for mirror-kin to gather, and see themselves in the mirror rather than pawns of the goddess. Her chest ached with longing. “Will you take me there?” she said.

Dorothea blinked. Then she grinned. “Oh, Edie. I thought you’d never ask.” She finished her cup of apple cider. “I should swing by Lin’s room, see if he wants to come along.”

It was Edelgard’s turn to be surprised. “I didn’t know Hevring came along on these excursions.”

“Oh, Lin’s a regular,” said Dorothea. “Not on my level, of course. The owners and I go back. I really should get him to come, too. There’s more to Lin than Crest studies and naps, you know.”

Edelgard scooted her chair back from the table. “I’ll change out of my uniform and meet you at your dorm, then.”

“Oh!” said Dorothea. “Before I forget—do you have a chatelaine?”

Edelgard’s brow knit in confusion, but she nodded. She didn’t need one right now, because her school uniform had pockets, but it was useful to wear with a skirt. “Yes. Why do I need one?”

Dorothea plucked at the lapel of her uniform. “Just like this marks me as an insider when I’m here, the chatelaine will help mark you as an insider, where we’re going.”

Edelgard frowned thoughtfully, then nodded. She had much to learn, and understood that Dorothea was her best possible guide.

She changed into a white dress trimmed with red ribbon at the hem, waist, collar, and cuffs, and covered it with a fur-lined black cloak to ward off the chill. She tucked the hook of her chatelaine in the red-ribboned waistband of her skirt. When she walked over to the commoners’ dormitory, she found Linhardt waiting at Dorothea’s door. Edelgard could barely see what he wore, bundled as he was into a dove-gray cloak, but she noticed his pair of deep blue boots under it. The door opened, and Dorothea emerged, lovely in a dark red dress under a brown wool cloak.

Dorothea dimpled. “Off to the Polished Bronze we go!” she said, quietly enough not to carry.

Once the three of them were out of Seiros City, Edelgard said, “I’m curious about the significance of the chatelaine.”

Dorothea unclasped the front of her cloak to show Edelgard the chatelaine hooked at the waistband of her skirt. Three chains hung from it. One held a large pewter key, polished to a silvery sheen. Another held a plain gray ribbon. The third hung loose, with nothing attached. Dorothea tapped the key. “Silver-colored key to be treated like a lady. Plain gray ribbon means I’m looking to make friends.”

“Hmm,” said Edelgard, trying to figure it out. “And you, Hevring?”

Linhardt sighed and unbuttoned his cloak, exposing his front to the chill wind. Edelgard was astonished to see that he was dressed in women’s attire: a long, layered blue skirt, and a matching blouse with green lace panels that matched his hair. The sight drew stares from other passersby, which Linhardt noticed about as much as he noticed anything he didn’t care about. Hooked on the waistband of the skirt was a chatelaine, more elaborate than Dorothea’s. One chain held a brass key, and the other two held floral-patterned ribbons, one in robin’s egg blue, one in deep sapphire.

“I wouldn’t dare to guess what those mean,” Edelgard said, taken aback by all this new information. They were moving out of the noble compounds surrounding Seiros City into the dirtier, livelier quarters of Garreg Mach.

Dorothea and Linhardt exchanged a look. Linhardt shrugged and gestured for Dorothea to go on. She said, “Brass key to be treated neutrally. The ribbons mean that they…” Here Dorothea used the neuter pronoun in Fódlani, which Edelgard was used to using for nouns like child and apple, not people. She finished, delicately, “...are looking for some stress relief.”

It began to flurry, and Linhardt hastily buttoned his—their?—cloak back up. Edelgard found herself staring at Linhardt, trying to understand. Dorothea said, an edge to her tone, “Is there a problem, Edie?”

“No!” Edelgard said. “Not at all. It’s just… back in the palace in Enbarr, nobles were always… discreet. You know. I’ve never really seen the world within the mirror.”

“The world in the mirror is mostly a commoners’ world,” Linhardt told her. “You and I are pretty much tourists here.”

Indeed, the neighborhood they had come to was one of ramshackle buildings, street stalls selling greasy food in paper cones, and musicians collecting alms in the cases of their instruments as they played. Edelgard laid a coin before each musician she heard, thrilling to the dulcimer and the drum alike.

Dorothea and Linhardt led Edelgard to a tavern with a bronze mirror on the sign. “Welcome to the Polished Bronze,” said Dorothea, going down the stairs to the basement-level entrance.

The light of the fireplace inside was much warmer than the light of the gas lanterns on the street. Bronze mirrors on the walls amplified the firelight in a dozen warm reflections. The air rippled with the steamy, spicy scent of glühwein. The sparse snowflakes on Edelgard’s cloak melted instantly. She swept it off and had a look around the place.

Edelgard had never seen so many colorfully different sorts of people together in one place, not even at St. Cichol’s Academy, where she’d mingled with commoners for the first time. There were more foreigners here than she’d seen out on the streets: a pair of Dagdans in traditional kilts enjoying hot drinks by the fireplace; a youngster who looked to be part Brigidian, wearing braids like Petra’s. Nearly everyone in the bar was a commoner, though Edelgard saw a middle-aged gentleman ordering spirits who was likely a minor noble. She immediately saw the utility of the signaling system her classmates had shown her: the mirror-gazers mixed and matched men’s and women’s attire and hairstyles with no regard for the expectations of polite society, and she found her eyes dropping to the watch-chains and chatelaines at their waists to find the key that would unlock the reflection they wished to cast in the mirror.

 “Do you have spares?” Edelgard asked Dorothea. “I only have the ribbons in my hair, and I’d rather not use one of my actual keys.”

“Of course!” said Dorothea. “What would you like?”

“The same as yours,” said Edelgard.

Dorothea got out a satchel from her cloak pocket and sorted through a variety of keys and ribbons to find Edelgard a pewter key and gray ribbon. When Edelgard looked up from attaching these to her chatelaine, she found that Linhardt had already approached someone at the bar. His—their—back was a long, interested line leaning toward an ethereally pretty person with long lavender hair, magenta eyeshadow, and a watch-chain adorned with a checked orange ribbon and not one but two keys: one brass like Linhardt’s, one black.

“I suppose Hevring found their stress relief,” Edelgard said, stunned. The neuter pronoun felt strange to use for a person, but Jeritza had asked much stranger favors of her; surely she could adjust to a change of wording. “Hevring’s, ah, new friend has two keys.”

Dorothea laughed. “That’s how it works in the mirror world. You never have to pick just one thing. Here, let’s have a seat.”

She and Edelgard took up mismatched but comfortable chairs at a small round table. Almost immediately, a young man—Edelgard’s eyes strayed to the chatelaine on the skirt beneath his apron to check—about Hubert’s age came up, holding an empty serving tray. “Dory! How’re you traveling? Who’s your lovely friend?” Edelgard recognized an Adrestian accent in his crisp consonants.

“Michi!” Dorothea stood and gave him a sideways hug. “I’m introducing Edelgard here to the Garreg Mach mirror-kin!”

“Got another one, did you?” said Michi, grinning. “You must have brought in half your college by now!”

“They’re a very reflective bunch,” Dorothea said, faux-seriously, and they both burst out laughing. “Edie, meet Michi. We met in the streets of Enbarr as kids. He and his lover run the Polished Bronze. Where is Sigi tonight?”

“Siegfried’s in the back, doing inventory,” said Michi. “Just the way he likes it. Can I bring you ladies anything?”

“I’d love a mug of glühwein,” said Dorothea. “It was a chilly walk from Seiros City. I hate to think what Pegasus Moon will be like here.”

“Tea with honey and a dash of schnapps, please,” said Edelgard, feeling bold.

Michi stiffened his spine and saluted crisply as if he were a student at St. Cichol’s, then winked at Dorothea and went behind the bar.

“You didn’t tell him who I am,” said Edelgard.

“That’s how it works here,” said Dorothea. “A lot of people need to be discreet. We don’t stand on ceremony or surnames. Sigi—that’s Michi’s lover who got him off the streets—is a runaway child of a noble house. Even I don’t know which one. Here, he’s just Sigi or Siegfried.” She leaned across the small table toward Edelgard, eyes intent. “When you become the duke of Adrestia, Edie, Michi and Sigi will be your subjects. So will I. And so many other mirror-kin like us. That’s why I want you to see this. You could make life better for us, in Adrestia.”

Not just in Adrestia, if I have my way, Edelgard thought. She looked Dorothea in the eye and dropped formality. “Dorothea, you and Michi and Siegfried aren’t just my future subjects. I’m one of you. I belong here—if it’s not too bold of me to say so as a noble among commoners.” When Dorothea blinked in surprise, Edelgard laughed. “Are you so surprised? You’ve flirted with me quite shamelessly. Did you really think I find no appeal in my reflection?”

“No, I—I thought you might,” Dorothea said, flushing a little. “I just didn’t think you’d say as much. Nobles often—glance in the mirror, as it pleases them, but keep themselves apart from the world beyond the glass.”

“I want to belong here, if I may,” Edelgard said. “I want to know how to make these people’s lives better as duke. What do you think I could do to help?”

Dorothea gestured around to the lively tavern. “I think there are as many answers as there are people in this bar.” She looked at the gray ribbon tied to Edelgard’s chatelaine. “If you want to find out, you’d better start making some new friends.”

Artists’ Quarter, Garreg Mach, 12 Pegasus Moon, 1180

The Black Eagles resolved to meet at a rendezvous point outside Seiros City, at Hubert’s insistence, so they wouldn’t so obviously depart from the holy grounds as a group. This arrangement also gave Edelgard and Hubert time to meet at their designated rendezvous point with Jeritza first.

They met him in an alley beside a piano bar in the Artists’ Quarter. Under his white mask, half his face was purpled with bruises, and his stance favored one leg. He stared at them balefully. Edelgard wanted to speak to him, but there was something she had to do first. She gritted her teeth and took his ungloved hand. She hated doing this, but Jeritza had asked it of her—very nearly begged her, in fact.

Forming a gestalt with Hubert was effortless. It was as if their skin was a gossamer-thin barrier between his magic and hers, brushed aside by nothing more than a breath. Shepherding Jeritza was altogether different. She stood her ground, focused her mind to the place where her fingertips met his, and pulled. It was a sensation like reaching through his skin, grabbing hold of the blood inside him, drawing it from his body like a liquid sword from its sheath—

There was blood in the gestalt. She said to Hubert tersely, “It’s the Death Knight,” and reached back for him with her other hand. His fingers and his magic were there for her instantly. The gestalt changed: now her hands were gauntleted in shadow, a protective barrier as she drew the blood and wielded it in her hands like a bullwhip formed from a dark red river. The deep red stained to black around her shadowed hands.

Bringing her two Crests to bear over his single one, she used the magic to slow his pounding heart, slower and slower, until he slumped, and she broke skin contact with him and Hubert so she could catch him before he fell. Hubert hastened to help her prop him up against the dirty wall of the alley.

It did not take him long to come out of his swoon. Edelgard steeled herself, took his hand, and forced a gestalt again. This time, she was on a stage, in a caped costume, holding a prop sword that looked fearsome but would be utterly impractical in a true battle. Her nemesis was about to join her on stage—

Edelgard let go of his hand. “How did it go, Jeritza?”

“I faced worthy opponents.” Still leaning back against the wall, he turned his bruised, masked face to look down at her. “Thank you.”

She wanted to offer him healing, but between the three of them, none of them could create a gestalt suitable to the task. They all debriefed on the mission, which had gone as planned, except for Byleth getting captured.

“The Black Eagles are planning a rescue mission,” Edelgard told Jeritza. “We’ll need you.”

Jeritza only nodded. His loyalty was very different from Hubert’s—it was contractual, an exchange for all she’d done and continued to do for him—but it was still precious to her in its reliability.

“Hubert,” said Edelgard, “I need the vial of Byleth’s blood.”

He raised his eyebrows even as he reached inside his cloak to retrieve the vial. “What for, Your Grace?”

Edelgard took the vial and smiled. “Because if you present our classmates with a vial of Byleth’s blood, they will assume that you did something highly untoward.”

Hubert huffed a dark little laugh, and did not disagree.

The three of them were the last to arrive at the rendezvous point, a statue of one of Pope Rhea’s past personae (Edelgard looked up at it and dreamed idly of the day she could tear down all these wretched tributes to the Immaculate One’s vanity.) To Edelgard’s relief, all the other Black Eagles were still there; she had worried one of them might have had second thoughts about their scheme.

Amazement and shock at the sight of Jeritza rippled through the Black Eagles. Bernadetta yelped in surprise and hid behind Ferdinand. Caspar shouted, “Professor Hrym! Is that really you? I thought you’d gone for good!”

Petra, her face nearly disappearing in the fur lining of her cowl, folded her arms across her chest and said coolly, “Are you the knight who is a kidnapper?”

Ferdinand, predictably, was also upset. “Edelgard, where did you find Professor Hrym? He has been missing for months, and under very suspicious circumstances!”

“I promise you,” Edelgard said, addressing all of the Black Eagles, “that I will explain everything once we reach our destination. I am committed to the agreement we just made, and I will do everything in my power to fulfill it. Master Hrym stands ready to assist us as well.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Then Dorothea said, “For the sake of our tutor, I’m ready to hear you out, Edie. We’re headed to the Polished Bronze.” She struck out on a narrow cross-street, and the Black Eagles followed, though not without a few sets of suspicious eyes on Jeritza. “Have you told Hubie about it, Edie?”

“Of course,” said Edelgard.

Bernadetta gave Hubert a nervous look; Ferdinand, a challenging one. He smirked. “You think I disapprove of this establishment and its clientele?” He unclasped his cloak and took out a lilac ribbon from his pocket—a spare in case Edelgard lost one of her hair ribbons. He tied the ribbon around the silver pocket watch chain on his black double-breasted waistcoat.

Edelgard was not well-versed enough in the coded signaling of the mirror-gazers to know what the ribbon meant. As far as she’d been aware, Hubert had never visited the Polished Bronze, but evidently he’d tailed the Black Eagles there after she’d told him about her excursion with Dorothea and Linhardt. Clearly he had made some observations of his own, because at the sight of the ribbon on his watch-chain, Dorothea choked on her own spit and started coughing, while Linhardt’s eyebrows rocketed upward. Bernadetta’s eyes went huge in her face, and she nearly tripped over herself. Ferdinand, Caspar, and Petra looked about as confused and intrigued as Edelgard felt, but nobody seemed of a mind to explain the meaning of the ribbon. At least Ferdinand no longer seemed like he might challenge Hubert for the honor of all mirror-kin.

Dorothea got out a satchel from inside her cloak and passed it to Bernadetta. “I’ve got spare ribbons and keys for anyone who needs them.”

Bernadetta passed the satchel on to Caspar, who said, “Is there a ribbon for if you want to find a sparring partner?”

“No,” said Linhardt. “Though if you put up leaflets for self-defense classes at the Bronze, I bet it would go over quite well.”

“Huh,” said Caspar, looking thoughtful. He took a black key out of the satchel and passed it on to Ferdinand.

Ferdinand said, “I prepared my watch-chain before setting out,” which surprised Edelgard—she hadn’t realized that he had already been to the Polished Bronze. He passed the satchel to Petra.

“My chain is also ready,” she said, and passed it to Hubert.

He looked to Edelgard and said, “Is there a key you would like me to wear, my lady?”

Edelgard spluttered. “I—I—please, Hubert, by all means, wear whichever key you prefer!”

Ferdinand watched this interaction in disbelief, no doubt chalking it up to Hubert’s mindless sycophancy. Hubert said, “Then I shall wear none. Let people think of me what they like,” and passed the satchel to Edelgard.

“I tried that, you know,” Linhardt commented. “Going without a key altogether. A lot of people just expected me to act like a nobleman by default, and that’s exactly what I find so tiresome.”

“On that,” said Hubert, “we are in complete agreement.” This exchange seemed to mildly scandalize Ferdinand, which obviously pleased him.

Edelgard took out a pewter key and solid gray ribbon, as she had done before, and attached them to her chatelaine. She looked to Jeritza. Hesitantly, she said, “You… wouldn’t happen to have a pocket-watch, would you, Jeritza?” She didn’t realize her slip until the Black Eagles, save Hubert, all noticed the informality and stared at her in disbelief.

“No,” said Jeritza, exactly as Edelgard had expected. She returned the satchel to Dorothea with a grateful smile.

Inside the Polished Bronze, Dorothea waved for Michi’s attention. “We’re going to need a big table,” she told him. “In the back, if we can. We have a lot to talk about.”

Michi laughed. “Is this all your classmates, Dory? You really did it, didn’t you.” He surveyed the tavern. “We have a birthday party taking up the big table right now, but we can push together a few small tables in the back.”

“That would be perfect,” said Dorothea, pecking him on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Michi.”

In the bronze-reflected glow of the tavern’s fireplace, the Black Eagles took off their cloaks. Edelgard noticed with amusement that Caspar plainly didn’t wear a pocket-watch; he had scrounged up a loose watch-chain, which dangled from a buttonhole on his blue felted vest with its black key at the end. Jeritza wore a beige morning coat more suitable for horseback riding than a night on the town, and what she saw of his shirt clung to his skin with clammy sweat. Petra wore a long, full-bodied brown skirt with a chatelaine hung with a plain gray ribbon and pewter key, and a corset over a man’s collared white shirt and linen neckcloth, which gave her a rather dashing air. Edelgard had never seen Bernadetta wear anything but loungewear for staying in her room, her uniform for classes, or her battle gear, but she now wore a daringly short dress that came just below her knees, in dark pink with purple stripes, and dark stockings. Her chatelaine bore a pewter key and a gray ribbon checked with black, whose meaning Edelgard didn’t quite understand. Ferdinand wore a pinstriped sapphire blue tailcoat that nicely set off his hair, and provided a strong contrast to his gold watch-chain, and the black key and two solid gray and red ribbons affixed to it.

Edelgard stared at the red ribbon. She was not well-versed in the code, but she knew that Dorothea had a red ribbon with dark red dots for when she wanted to have a romantic liaison with a girl. A mirror-kin bar packed with commoners was hardly a proper place for a nobleman to seek romance.

Dorothea was also staring. “Aegir, do you know what that ribbon means?”

“There is no need to stand on ceremony here,” Ferdinand said in response to her form of address. “And yes, of course! I listened attentively when Mister Siegfried explained it to me.” He pressed his hand to his heart. “One never knows where or when one might find love. Someone in this very tavern could steal my heart,” he said, sweeping his hand to encompass the colorful, strange array of people in the Polished Bronze, from the Duscurian boy cleaning glasses behind the bar to the trio of men wearing black keys on the chatelaines on their floral-patterned skirts. “I must be open to it at any time!”

Dorothea’s jaw dropped. A rare blush had risen to her cheeks. She simply couldn’t seem to believe what she was hearing. Ferdinand apparently didn’t notice; he was already in the back of the bar, talking to Siegfried and Michi as he helped them arrange the tables for the Black Eagles. As Edelgard moved to the back, she saw Hubert and his ribbon drawing keen interest from a number of the bar’s patrons, which made him adjust the fall of hair over his face so he could retreat further behind it.

When they were settled around the tables in the back, the reality of what had just happened, and what they were about to do, settled in. Everyone was dead quiet, perhaps thinking of Byleth languishing in a dungeon in Seiros City, as Edelgard was. When Michi came around to take their orders, everyone ordered a stiff drink except for Jeritza (“Hot chocolate,” to everyone’s surprise except Edelgard and Hubert), even Bernie (“Absinthe,” to absolutely everyone’s astonishment.)

When Michi came back and distributed his carefully balanced tray of drinks, Hubert turned to Petra and extended his mage-gloved hand. “Miss Macneary. Would you do myself and Lady Edelgard the favor of helping us cloak our conspiracy from curious onlookers?”

All of the Black Eagles except Edelgard and Jeritza stared at Hubert in disbelief, Petra most of all. Edelgard merely smiled over her steaming mug of fruit tea with schnapps.

Black Eagles College, St. Cichol’s Military Academy, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, Garland Moon, 1180

Byleth had gathered her students in the common room of Black Eagles College. It was five in the evening, and Petra wanted nothing more than to enjoy the warm evening outdoors. But Byleth never gathered the Black Eagles without a worthy reason.

Byleth had snacks, sweet and savory, laid out on a table in the common room, and had arranged the chairs around it. Petra smiled at Byleth’s thoughtfulness and took a handful of crunchy celery sticks. When the Black Eagles had all settled in—as much as flighty birds of Caspar’s, Bernadetta’s, and Hubert’s feathers ever settled—Byleth said, “I’ve brought us all here to solve Miss Macneary’s magic problem.”

Petra’s face burned hot. She chewed her celery sticks viciously. How many times had Duke Gerth tried to ‘fix’ her so her magic would be compatible? She had spent endless hours forced to kneel before saints’ altars and study the Church’s teachings on magic, all to no avail. She had thought that her tutor was different.

Byleth went on, “Professor Kolding says that one of the most important reasons for incompatibility is that the mages believe different things about magic. We all know what Fódlan believes about magic—that it’s a gift from the Goddess to teach us about humility and the power of her favor. But we’ve never asked Miss Macneary about what Brigid believes—what she believes. Maybe that could help.”

Maybe Byleth really was different after all.

“That’s an excellent idea, Miss Eisner,” Edelgard said warmly. “Would you mind telling us, Miss Macneary?”

Petra swallowed down the rest of her celery. “Magic is an ancestor gift. It is running in families—in Fódlan it is also this way. It is bringing our families together. The ancient song-lines of my Macneary family are telling us that our gestalt is a feeling of home and togetherness, and this is what I feel—what I felt—casting with my family, just as the casting was for my ancestors when the song-line began. In Brigid, magic is something to be sharing with family, for help and protection.”

Ferdinand’s face lit up. He was a boy with sunlight inside of him, even if that sun often shone too bright, without the considerate shade that would make it more comfortable for those around him. “Aha! I think we may be getting somewhere. That sounds very like the role of magic in my own life!”

Petra blinked. “But this way is not the Fódlaner way. In Fódlan, magic is for working. I see soldiers casting, and teams of healers, and artisans in the mageries. It is not for bringing a family together.”

“Not all Fódlaners are the same,” said Ferdinand, “just as I am sure not all your countrymen are the same. I did not learn magic from a governess as most nobles do, but from my mother. She taught me and my sisters how to cast, and we would bring my father into the gestalt too, purely for the joy of being together as a family. That feeling of home you describe is one I know well. When I cast with my mother, it feels like the sun on the azure Aegir sea, and everyone in my family we add to the gestalt only makes the tapestry of our home more vivid.”

Petra could see he was telling the truth, in the way he looked a little sad, like he missed his family already, after only a few months apart. She remembered that feeling, when the ache of separation was new.

“What do you think, Miss Macneary?” said Byleth. “Will you try casting with Master Aegir?”

“I am happy to try it,” said Ferdinand. “I suppose I need only think of you as a sister-in-arms, and we have fought side by side enough that it should come easily to me.”

Petra hesitated a moment. He had a Crest, and she did not. She had always been protected from the power of Crests by her magical incompatibility; if she became compatible with Ferdinand, she would become vulnerable to him. Ferdinand’s face held nothing but sincerity and eagerness. He looked down on foreigners, she knew, but it was because he knew very little outside his little worlds of Aegir and Enbarr, and every time she said something about her homeland, he listened.

Besides, Byleth and the others were here. They would not allow any harm to come to her.

Petra held out her hand. Ferdinand made to touch his fingertips to hers, in the style of Fódlaner nobles, who seemed to fear anything but the most fleeting touch. She shifted to clasp his forearm instead, as she would have done with one of her sisters. Ferdinand’s eyes widened, then closed as he focused. Petra did the same, and felt the first gestalt she had felt since she left her homeland six years ago.

It was not a vision, but a feeling. It was a summer day. She was basking in the sun, and her family was all around her, enjoying it too. She heard laughter, and the excited shrieks of younger sisters in the distance. She smiled. All around the common room, the curtains pulled themselves back, and the windows opened, letting in the flower-scented breeze of a Garland Moon evening.

Hanneman had told Petra that she could overcome her incompatibility by learning the Fódlaner way of doing magic. Byleth had seen that the Black Eagles could overcome it by learning her way, instead.

“Thank you,” Petra told Ferdinand, “my brother in weapons.”

The Polished Bronze, Artists’ Quarter, Garreg Mach, 12 Pegasus Moon, 1180

“Are you sure that your magic has harmony with mine?” said Petra. She was drinking something Brigidian, Edelgard was fairly sure; it had a spicy scent to it that matched some perfume oils from home that she guarded jealously in little vials.

Hubert said gravely, “The moment you all swore an oath in St. Macuil’s Square to help Miss Eisner, you became more family to me than my flesh and blood ever was. I would be honored to cast with you as a filial act, Miss Macneary.”

This declaration drew astonished looks from most of the Black Eagles, but Petra only smiled. She seemed like she might have been about to tell Hubert something, but she held back and extended her ungloved hand to him. He clasped her by the forearm, in the custom of her people, and she touched the tiny sliver of skin she could reach below his glove, without insinuating her way too far up his sleeve. Hubert then reached for Edelgard, as always, mage-glove to mage-glove.

She was in the dark, but she knew her family was with her. She reached forward for Hubert’s blade, knowing exactly where the hilt was, and behind her another hand reached for her blade. She felt safe, prepared, alert, as they drew their blades from each other’s belts. Just as Hubert had apparently expected, this gestalt was perfect for stealth magic, and stronger than it would have been without Petra. A sense of standing within a protective shadow together, like lost hikers huddling in a cave, fell over the joined tables and chairs where the Black Eagles had gathered. The rest of the Polished Bronze was there, but distant, like a rainstorm heard from inside a shelter.

Edelgard straightened in her seat, her hand still joined to Hubert’s under the table. The gestalt thrummed in the back of her mind. She said, “Our tutor has been put on death row for a crime she did not commit. She took responsibility for a crime against the Church that Hubert and I committed, to spare us a terrible fate. We are determined to repay the favor.”

Bernadetta gulped and took a swig of her absinthe. “A crime? Against the Church?” For once, Bernadetta’s terror was entirely justified. They had all seen the consequences of defying Church edict. They had carried out the punishment themselves, once, against Lord Gaspard.

Dorothea folded her arms across her chest. “I’m sorry, Edie, but how do we know that Byleth was on your side?” She shot Jeritza a cold look, and Edelgard was reminded forcefully that the Death Knight stabbed Dorothea’s dear friend Manuela. “How do we know you didn’t make her take the fall for you?”

It hurt to hear Dorothea say that, but Edelgard had already known that Dorothea was more loyal to Byleth than to Edelgard, especially now that Edelgard was beginning to show her hand. “For one, we have joined your plot to rescue Byleth from the Church. If we cared only for our own safety, we would not put ourselves at so much risk.” Edelgard had brought a variety of supporting evidence with her to the bar to answer precisely this sort of question. She reached into her cloak pocket with her free hand and drew out the vial of Byleth’s blood, setting it on the table next to her fruit tea with schnapps. “For another, she gave me and Hubert her blood. Some of Pope Rhea’s security measures are keyed to accept the blood of a few specific people. She is one of them.”

Nobody questioned whether the blood was truly Byleth’s. It was clearly not quite human blood, in a way that was difficult to define. They had all seen far too much blood, and it was not supposed to shine in the light quite like this, not even through a glass vial.

“Security measures,” Petra echoed. “You were breaking into a secret part of Seiros City. Why?”

“We emptied one of the vaults in the Apostolic Palace,” said Edelgard. “It was full of these.” She reached awkwardly across her body into Hubert’s shoulder-bag. When she placed the Crest Stone on the table, there was a sharp intake of breath.

Ferdinand pointed a gloved finger at a place where a piece of the Crest Stone was missing. “Those are chisel marks,” he said, wide-eyed. “Someone in the Church chiseled away a piece of this Stone.”

“Many of the Crest Stones we appropriated were chiseled this way,” said Hubert.

“The only legitimate use of Crest Stones I know of,” said Linhardt, staring at the chiseled Crest Stone with mingled curiosity and horror, “is to forge Heroes’ Relics, and no one’s done that in over a thousand years. Even if the Church were doing such a thing in secret, no Relic houses only a piece of a Crest Stone. The other possible use of a Crest Stone…”

“...is to do to some unfortunate what the Gautier Crest Stone did to the elder Master Gautier,” Hubert finished.

“N-no wonder Pope Rhea swore us to secrecy about what happened to Miklan, huh?” Bernie mumbled into her glass.

At this point, everyone at the table took a drink, except Hubert, who was holding Petra’s and Edelgard’s hands. He did gaze longingly at his glass of whiskey, however.

Linhardt set down their foul-smelling bright green drink and said, “How did you know the Church had a vault full of Crest Stones in the first place? I’ve asked after Crest-related material in Seiros City a dozen times, and the priests always told me I was chasing phantoms.”

Edelgard reached into her own cloak pocket to answer this question. One-handed, she awkwardly plucked at the twine holding the roll of paper shut until Ferdinand assisted her with the knot, smoothing the paper flat over a dry, flat section of the joined tables (Jeritza took up his hot chocolate to make room.) On the paper was a perfect, precise map of the Apostolic Palace, the labels small but perfectly legible, the arcs more precise than any draftsman’s hand. Linhardt leaned halfway across the table to get a better look, nearly upsetting their own drink before Caspar steadied it. They looked like they never wanted to look at anything else again.

“Not even the finest artisan magery in Enbarr could make a map such as this,” said Ferdinand, awed.

“I have other maps for the basement and upper floors,” Edelgard said.

“Where are you getting maps of such preciseness?” said Petra. “Someone who has many secrets of the Church of Seiros must be making these.”

Hubert squeezed Edelgard’s hand, just a little, and gave her a warm look through a gap in his fringe. Many would not consider him capable of showing warmth; Edelgard knew otherwise, though he kept it as hidden as a fire inside a grate, allowing the occasional smoke signal through for her to see.

Edelgard took a deep breath. If this all fell apart now—well, at least the other Black Eagles would pursue their own rescue of Byleth, with or without her. She only regretted that they would likely get themselves killed without her assistance. “I have resources of my own.” She reached into her bag and, with no room left on the tables, held a red feathered shoulder adornment of the Duke of Flames against her chest.

Caspar sprang to his feet and banged the table so hard that his beer sloshed over; Linhardt hastily pulled the map from the table before it could get splattered. “Remire Village. Captain Eisner’s murder. Flayn’s kidnapping. You’re a criminal, Edelgard! You’re the worst kind of dastard! Why, I ought to turn you over to the Papal G—” His words piled up in his mouth and his eyes widened as he realized that if he turned Edelgard over to the Papal Guard, she would face the same grisly fate as Byleth, if not worse. He rallied and resumed. “I ought to drag you to Bergliez to face my father! He’ll never let you become the duke if he finds out what you’ve done!”

Edelgard sighed and placed the feather adornment on the table where space had been freed up by Linhardt; they had pulled up a stool and placed Caspar’s beer and their foul green concoction on it, leaving a safe dry space on the table for the map. She reached into her bag once more, hefted the horned crown, and set it on the table with a thunk that fell heavily inside the shelter of the stealth spell. Edelgard looked into Caspar’s eyes and said, “Minister Bergliez has already sworn fealty to Duke Edelgard I. So has Minister Hevring.”

Caspar flushed red. “There’s no way my father knew about what you did to Flayn and Jeralt and Remire when he made that vow!”

Hubert hissed, “Your father chose political expediency over honor when he participated in the Insurrection of the Seven.” He curled his lip in contempt. “Do you imagine it was mere coincidence that all ten of Lady Edelgard’s siblings died of ‘plague’ in the Insurrection’s aftermath? If you hold Lady Edelgard responsible for every cruel deed committed by her allies, then hold your father to account for the deaths of ten children!”

Caspar went quiet and sickly pale. So did Linhardt, Bernadetta, and especially Ferdinand. He quaffed his wine (far humbler than the vintage he’d initially tried to order), then stared into its crimson depths. Hubert gave Edelgard an apologetic look through his fringe; he knew that she did not like her personal pain to be used as a political cudgel. At this moment, however, keeping the Black Eagles on side was more important than her privacy, and she let him know with a nod and a squeeze of his hand.

“The allies who procured that map for me,” Edelgard said, nodding toward it, “are monstrous. I will not deny it. But I had no idea what they had planned for Captain Eisner, Flayn, or Remire Village, and I was every bit as horrified as you were when I found out. That is why I was so adamant that we assist in the mission to apprehend Solon and Kronya. However inadequate it might have been, it was my first effort at making right what I have done wrong by allying with them. I suppose that is also what Ministers Bergliez and Hevring meant to do when they swore their oaths to me.” Edelgard met eyes with Dorothea. “When the time is right, I will apologize personally to Professor Casagranda. I am the one who ordered Master Hrym to assist our allies on that mission, without knowing its goal. The responsibility for her injury lies with me for giving the order, not with Master Hrym for following it.”

“I will apologize,” Jeritza said, with the finality of a door slamming shut.

“So w-what now?” said Bernadetta. “How are we supposed to save Byleth from the Pope? Do we even have a tiny chance? Are we all gonna die?!”

“Hubert and I have discussed our next step,” said Edelgard, projecting more confidence than she felt. “We need a way for all of us to move unnoticed through Seiros City. Hubert and I have relied on our maps and our gestalt for secrecy. We can acquire additional copies of the maps, but not all of us will have gestalts suitable for stealth magic. Our maps tell us that there is an extensive underground system of tunnels beneath Seiros City, but in our explorations, Hubert and I have found their entrances guarded—not by the Church, but by some other unknown group. We must make contact with this group and persuade them to let us pass through their tunnels, so we may gain access to all of Seiros City.” Edelgard looked around the table. “Unless anyone else has an idea as to how we might rescue our tutor.”

She was greeted by an array of stunned, blank faces. Dorothea said, “I think I need a break before I can even begin to answer that. That was… a lot of new information.”

Ferdinand, Bernadetta, and Petra nodded fervently. Caspar was already getting up out of his seat. Linhardt had their nose buried in the map of Seiros City. “Very well,” said Edelgard, putting her crown and Duke of Flames adornment away. “I’ll let Hubert have his drink. Be careful what you say after we drop the stealth magic.”

She let go of Hubert’s hand, and the Polished Bronze clamored in around them. Edelgard and Hubert drank deeply from their cups. Linhardt had noticed that Caspar wasn’t beside them, and reluctantly parted from the map to look for him. Bernadetta put on her cloak despite the warmth of the tavern, sat next to Jeritza as a bulwark against anyone who might try to speak to her, and huddled in the shadow of her cloak’s hood, nursing her absinthe. Dorothea and Petra stood up and went to drink and talk in low voices in the corner. Ferdinand drained the last of his wine, looking despondent.

“Well,” Edelgard murmured to Hubert. “That could have gone worse.”

Ferdinand moved to Edelgard’s side and bowed. “Your Grace. Do you have a moment?”

“You never called me ‘Your Highness’ before,” Edelgard said wearily. “I don’t see any reason to start calling me ‘Your Grace’ now. Have a seat, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand sat to her right. Sitting between him and Hubert, Edelgard felt a strange echo. This was the shape her life had always been intended to take: the Duke of Adrestia, with Minister Vestra at her left, Minister Aegir at her right. Those had been her twin chains, one at each wrist. With the former Lord Vestra dead, the chain at her left hand was broken, replaced with the pressure-forged diamond of her bond with Hubert. With Lord Aegir neutralized, the chain at her right hand was now broken, too, but Edelgard had yet to determine what would replace it.

“Lady Edelgard,” said Ferdinand, spine straight and hands clasped politely in his lap. “You said that Ministers Bergliez and Hevring swore oaths of fealty to you upon your ascension. What about Minister Aegir?”

Edelgard shook her head. “He is under arrest for treason.”

“Treason!” Ferdinand’s eyes widened. “What did he do?!”

“Your father’s ‘advisory position’ to Duke Ionius was treasonous enough, as you already know,” Hubert drawled, relishing the moment. “The ducal court will issue further charges once Lady Edelgard has returned to Enbarr.”

Edelgard shot Hubert a quelling look; there was no reason to hold this knowledge over Ferdinand’s head. “While Lord Bergliez and Lord Hevring were complicit in the deaths of my siblings, much as I am complicit in the death of Captain Eisner, your father was more than merely complicit.”

“Where is the evidence?” Ferdinand cried, impassioned. “How do you know?”

Edelgard felt all warmth leave her. One scene out of hundreds played out in her mind: Duke Aegir pulling her sister Irmingard upright from her anguished fetal curl on the cot, examining her, checking her mouth and eyes and hair as if she were horseflesh on the auction block—

She let each word fall like an icicle, cold and shattering. “I saw him.”

Ferdinand blanched. He blinked rapidly. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Then he sprang to his feet. “I am sorry. I should go.”

“Stay,” said Edelgard. “I do not hold you responsible for your father’s crimes. You are your own man, Ferdinand. You swore an oath to help us rescue Miss Eisner. I need you to fulfill what you promised.”

Ferdinand stopped in his tracks. He turned back toward Edelgard. His eyes were huge and sad. “Very well. I will stay. But I still must apologize to you, Lady Edelgard. I should not have—I am so very sorry. I have failed you.”

“Help me rescue Byleth Eisner,” said Edelgard, “and I will do more than forgive you—I will consider myself in your debt.”

Ferdinand bowed, then strode to the bar to order another drink.

“Hmph. We shall see if he can uphold his end of the bargain,” said Hubert.

Edelgard had only had time for one more fortifying sip of boozy tea before another classmate approached her. Linhardt approached, with a fresh lip rouge stain on their cheek. Edelgard had never seen them blush before, but there was a faint color along their cheekbones. They said, “The lovely mirror-queen at the end of the bar wants to speak with you.”

Edelgard looked. At the end of the bar sat the pretty lavender-haired person that she had seen Linhardt flirt with before. They wore shirtsleeves, a waistcoat, a neckcloth, and a skirt with loose trousers underneath instead of petticoats, all in dark blue except the shirtsleeves. They wore magenta eye makeup again, something to darken their lashes, and a lip rouge that matched their eyes. Their watch-chain bore not only different ribbons from last time, but different keys, to Edelgard’s surprise: a plain gray ribbon like her own, and a pair of brass and pewter keys instead of brass and black.

“Ah,” said Edelgard. “Your, ah, friend. Could you introduce us?”

“Fine,” said Linhardt. They walked briskly over to the bar; Hubert and Edelgard followed. “Yuri, this is Edelgard and Hubert. Edelgard, Hubert, this is Yuri. Can I go look at your map now?”

Edelgard fought down her eternal exasperation with Linhardt. “By all means.”

“Thank you, lullaby,” Yuri said sing-song to Linhardt. The pet name made a flush creep up Edelgard’s neck, and it wasn’t even directed at her.

“We’ve both seen you here before,” Hubert said, surprising Edelgard—he must have caught sight of Yuri before while skulking about the place. He loomed over Yuri in his characteristic fashion. “Yet neither of us have drawn your notice until now. What changed?”

Yuri’s gaze fixed on the lavender ribbon wrapped around Hubert’s watch-chain. They smirked. “I like a spot of erotic torture as much as the next girl, but that’s not what I’m looking for tonight. I’ve been asked to make contact with a Mistress Hresvelg, and unless I miss my guess, that’s not you.”

Hubert began to blush, incandescent against his pale skin. Edelgard felt her own flush crawling farther up her neck, to her ears. Hubert attempted a reply, but all that emerged from his mouth were indistinct, choked sounds. Yuri smiled, cat-like, and crooned, “Oh, poor phantom. Too busy haunting the doorstep to actually ask someone about the ribbon code?”

Hubert, brick red by now, hunched over his whiskey glass and drank deeply. Poor Hubert—caught out in his ignorance of the local customs, and caught lurking at the threshold of the Polished Bronze, when he so prided himself on his spycraft. Small wonder that ribbon had drawn such a reaction; its meaning was shockingly lewd.

“Sorry, Mistress Hresvelg,” said Yuri, without much sincerity. “I shouldn’t have mocked your servant like that. It’s only that they looked so easy to tease.”

Edelgard blinked in surprise at the form of address. She remembered that Hubert had chosen not to wear a key. Instead of making the obvious inference that Hubert was a man, Yuri had hedged their bets with the neuter form of servant and third-person pronoun. Come to think of it, they had used the neuter form of phantom when addressing Hubert earlier. She oughtn’t have been surprised, given the context, but this was all still rather new to her.

She decided to preserve what remained of Hubert’s dignity by proceeding as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Who sent you to speak to me, and what is their message?”

Yuri reached into their shoulder-bag and withdrew a small ear-trumpet. Edelgard did not understand until she took it from them. It resonated with the gestalt of an enchanted object: she was standing beneath a low stone ceiling, and she reached up and shattered it; beyond it was a sulfurous yellow sky, and she broke through that, too; beyond the sky was another sky brilliant with a million stars, and when she broke through that—

What a dizzying gestalt. She would feel terribly trapped, if she had to feel that every time she held Hubert’s hand.

“For your ear only,” said Yuri. They winked at Hubert. “Thank you for the entertainment. I’ll see you soon.” With that, they drained the last of their drink and sashayed out of the bar.

Hubert drank more whiskey, glared at the ear-trumpet, and said ominously, “This had better be worth the trouble.”

Edelgard held up the ear-trumpet to her ear as if she were hard-of-hearing. A voice said, “Mistress Hresvelg, this is Bishop Aelfric Dahlman. I was once a close friend of Mr. and Ms. Jeralt and Sitri Eisner. I am most upset to hear what the Pope has planned for my old friends’ daughter, and I suspect that as the leader of her House, you feel the same way. I hope to discuss with you how we might assist Miss Eisner in her time of need. I shall meet you in the Black Eagles common room an hour past midnight on the 14th of Pegasus Moon. Dress for travel.”

“Hubert. Listen to this.” Edelgard passed him the ear-trumpet.

He held the ear-trumpet a moment to assess the gestalt, then listened. His eyes turned up at the corners. He reached for her hand, and they pulled a magical veil around themselves, easy as breath.

“An ally within the Church is exactly the lead we could use right now,” said Edelgard.

“And if this turns out to be a trap,” Hubert said silkily, hefting the ear-trumpet in his free hand, “this clever object will serve as excellent blackmail against the Bishop.”

The Apostolic Palace, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 13 Pegasus Moon, 1180

When the courier came to Hanneman’s apartment in Garreg Mach that morning, he ought to have sent him away with a letter of resignation instead of a promise to meet Pope Rhea promptly. This time, she had gone too far. But she had also gone too far when she’d sent the Black Eagles to put down Lord Gaspard, and he hadn’t resigned then. He thought of his ciphered notes, of his prototypes that still didn’t work, and knew he would not resign now.

He rounded up his students, who had already been roused by the summons. They were all subdued this morning, even perky Annette and irrepressible Sylvain, who seemed to have hit the drink after the spectacle in St. Macuil’s Square the previous night. Hanneman did not reprove him; he himself had gone home and poured out a glass of pear brandy after learning that his colleague would become a human sacrifice to the Goddess.

“Professor,” said Annette, wringing the hem of her skirt in her hands, “do you know what this is about?”

“I am sorry, Mistress Dominic,” said Hanneman. “We shall all find out together, I suppose.”

Pope Rhea awaited them in her audience hall. “Welcome, students. I am so happy to see you rise to this occasion.” She smiled beatifically. “Miss Eisner’s upcoming sacrifice is an awe-inspiring demonstration of faith in the Goddess. It shall be an auspicious day for all of Fodlan. But with all the terrible events that have transpired this school year, I fear that there may be some who wish to cast their shadows on this shining occasion. The Papal Guard will hold a perimeter around Seiros City and patrol the streets of Garreg Mach, but there are not as many left to watch over the Apostolic Palace as I would like. I would like you, the Blue Lions, to take on some of the patrols for the week of the great summoning.”

Hanneman bowed, smiling mildly through the bile at the back of his throat, as he had so many times since taking on his position at the academy. “It would be our honor, Your Holiness. Master Blaiddyd and I shall coordinate patrols with Captain St Seiros.” Hanneman did not like Catherine St Seiros, and she disliked him equally, perhaps because each sensed the falseness of the other’s identity. Nonetheless, they could behave civilly enough to fulfill their duties.

“Do not fear, Your Holiness,” said Dimitri. “We shall ensure that no more tragedy befalls Seiros City.”

“Thank you all,” said Pope Rhea, inclining her head. “Keep watch, and keep the faithful safe.”

Hanneman eyed Dimitri as they left the hall, and decided that the boy truly believed that Byleth had chosen to make this “sacrifice.” Hanneman knew the woman better than that. Perhaps he was a coward to remain silent. But the prototypes locked in a safe in his laboratory promised something greater than himself and his guilt, greater even than Byleth’s life, as precious as that was.

If Hanneman could bestow a Crest upon any mage, then none would ever have to be helpless at the hands of the Crested again. In the memory of his sister Gertrude, dead in the birthing bed too young, in honor of his nephew Siegfried, who fled crestless and mirror-gazing from the tyranny of his loathsome father, he would keep his silence. And his hope.

Chapter Text

Warehouse District, Garreg Mach, Harpstring Moon, 1180

Stakeout missions were boring, but they were better than the blood and mud of distant battlefields. When there had been a little fading sunlight, Sylvain had entertained himself by speculating about women who passed by below them on the street, coming up with more and more outrageous hypotheticals to try to get a rise out of Felix. When the glow of the gas lamps eclipsed the sunset, Sylvain said, “What kind of thieves want to steal a bunch of bricks and wood planks anyway?”

“Does it matter?” Felix said.

“Don’t you want to know what kind of people we’re about to fight?”

Down the street, the light of a gas lamp reflected off a mirror in a window, angled to direct its glow toward Sylvain and Felix. “Ashe and Dedue saw them,” said Felix. He turned and shouted to the other side of the crumbling old tenement where they’d camped for the stakeout. “Ingrid! Boar! Get over here!”

Sylvain saw the cart in House Burgundy livery, pulled by draft horses and piled high with bricks and wooden planks, just like the last shipment these thieves had stolen. He was curious about their modus operandi. The usual kind of thief went for jewels, gold, watches, anything easy to carry off and fence. But he didn’t see anything unusual on the street; Ashe and Dedue must have caught something he couldn’t see. Their gestalt was suited for that kind of thing.

Ingrid and Dimitri came rushing over. “Where are they?” Dimitri demanded. “What has happened?”

Dimitri spoke so loudly that Sylvain didn’t even hear a sound when the cart-driver slumped insensate in the shadows between two street lamps. He only saw the draft horses stop, then snort and stamp in alarm. When he squinted, he saw the cart-driver bowed forward as if passing out drunk. There was no arrow.

“They’re mages,” said Sylvain, though he dearly wished it were otherwise. Sure enough, two people emerged from the shadows to move the cart-driver to the street and take his place. They were cloaked and wore black masks, but they looked to be women, one with dark hands visible past her sleeves, one pale. The dark-skinned woman took the horses’ reins, and the other pressed two white fingers to her wrist.

Several things happened at once.

An arrow flew from the window where Ashe and Dedue had flashed their mirror signal. It hit the pale woman in the upper arm. A wall of white fog coalesced along the side of the street where Ashe, Dedue, Sylvain, and the others were holed up—probably Mercedes and Annette at work, providing cover. Sylvain’s left hand was enclosed by another: Ingrid’s, by the size. Then another. Another. Four left hands, piled on top of each other, leaving their right hands free.

It was funny, really. Sylvain couldn’t be shepherded because of his Crest. But he didn’t want to cast magic with this group of people right now, and he had to do it anyway. So in the end, what good did his Crest do for him? Let him wield a lance that had ruined Miklan and made his own skin shiver and crawl? What a farce.

When the four of them were kids, they used to cast with Glenn, and together they had a gestalt of a group of knights riding to glory, banners snapping, bugles calling. They hadn’t been nearly as good as a real coven, but their magic had worked well enough together. But the Tragedy of Duscur changed all that.

The gestalt was still knights riding to battle, but there was nothing glorious about it. It was a confusion of mud, blood, and the screams of the horses as the enemy pikemen drove their points home. There might have been banners, still, but there was so much deadly magic boiling in the air that their colors were no longer distinguishable.

And that was only the beginning. The four of them were barely compatible at this point, and Sylvain’s hand itched all over from the magical contact, almost painful but not quite. It didn’t take long for Dimitri’s control over his Crest to slip, and the sheer devastation of the gestalt to worsen, thick with the stench of death. Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid were used to this by now, and pushed back with their own Crests, bringing back a little more of the horses and their riders, the swinging swords, the ebb and flow of battle, making the gestalt more than just a bloodbath.

Sylvain gritted his teeth. It was like this every time. Dimitri never learned. Sylvain had tried to teach him how to control his Crest, at first. But Sylvain had given up, just like he gave up on everything.

Trying to steer this gestalt together was like trying to ride a horse with a bad attitude, except that he also was the horse with the bad attitude. Destructive power crackled between the four of them like lightning. Sylvain looked out the window at the cart and tried to aim, but everyone else was doing that too, sweating through the itch and the constant push-pull of compensation for Dimitri’s lack of control…

BOOM!

The cart-horses screamed, and the smell of charred meat rose from the street, a horrible real-life echo of the gestalt. Sylvain blinked and saw a smoking black scar of devastation across the street in front of the cart. The cart-horses were scalded and bleeding, mad with pain. Ingrid was going to be so upset. They could have spared the horses, with better aim.

The women carefully freed the horses from the cart. They bolted off who knew where. “Again,” snarled Dimitri, and they built up that terrible crackling energy around their left hands, rising, rising—

There was a terrible blinding flash, like every firework in the world had exploded in the street, combined with a kaleidoscope of confusing sounds: dogs barking, babies crying, a hundred pigeons cooing at once. Sylvain squeezed his eyes shut and hissed in pain, impossible lights dancing behind his closed eyelids. It was impossible to aim anything under these conditions. He could feel Dimitri pulling the gestalt toward taking another shot anyway, but Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid pulled the magic back.

“Your Highness, we need a break for our eyes to recover,” said Ingrid. “Hopefully the other Lions will be able to do something in the meantime.”

Dimitri growled in wordless frustration, but dropped his hand. Sylvain let go, relieved, and waited for the fizzing lights in his vision to die down. When his field of vision had mostly cleared, he looked out the window again. The cart was surrounded by fog and shadow now, hemming it in. Two more masked mages had appeared in the street, one slender and average height, the other a huge man who could give even Dedue a run for his money. They were moving the injured woman toward the cover of fog, but the fog kept opening and clearing wherever they went. Finally, they gave up and started tending to the arrow wound, casting together.

It all happened very quickly. An arrow flew toward the mages from above—Dedue and Ashe again, being more useful than the four noble scions put together. The big guy broke away from the gestalt. His sleeves were long and covered his hands, but something inside his sleeves glowed, and with a sharp swipe of one arm, the arrow burned to nothing in midair.

“Oh shit,” said Sylvain. “The big guy has a Hero’s Relic!” Panic crawled up his throat. They were thieves. Commoners. The thing that had happened to Miklan was going to happen to the big mage, too, and Sylvain would have to watch. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t. This was all going to hell. “Where’s Professor Kolding? We have to tell him to get the Papal Guard! There’s going to be a demonic beast on the loose in Garreg Mach!”

“The professor is with Martritz and Dominic,” said Ingrid. “Sylvain, what do you mean—”

“The big guy burned up an arrow by himself,” Felix bit out. “I saw it. Sylvain’s right. Some other idiot got his hands on Hero’s Relic.”

“I don’t have Areadhbar.” Dimitri clenched his fists. “We can’t let a common thief run around loose with a relic!”

“He won’t be a common thief for long,” Sylvain said desperately. Pope Rhea made him promise not to talk about this, but he had to say it. “Hero’s Relics turn crestless people into demonic beasts when they try to use them. I saw it happen to my brother. This guy could blow any second. Come on, let’s go!”

Finally, they moved. Down at street level, they crossed the street through the concealing fog ahead of the cart. Through the magical fog, Sylvain heard shouts, arrows flying, and the cart beginning to roll. Sylvain braced himself for the crunch of bone and sinew and the roar of a demonic beast, but it still did not come. Ingrid shot Sylvain a pitying look that scalded him. “Sylvain, Felix, maybe you should go ahead and find the professor. We’ll stay here and stand ready for… whatever happens with the relic.”

Sylvain and Felix exchanged a look. They could read it in each other’s faces: they both hated the idea of leaving Ingrid to deal with Dimitri, but she was right that they didn’t need four people to deliver a message to Hanneman. They held hands in case they needed to cast a protective spell and ran for the empty warehouse where Mercedes, Annette, and Hanneman were hiding out.

The view from the warehouse at ground level was totally wiped by the fog, but Hanneman, Mercedes, and Annette were all linked in a gestalt, looking through the small windows from behind the cover of empty crates as if it all made perfect sense. “They’re getting away!” said Annette. “They cast something on the cart—”

“If we can keep the two ladies occupied,” said Hanneman, “then perhaps young Ubert can get in a shot at the ones with the cart—”

“Professor!” Sylvain said, just barely keeping himself from screaming. “Professor, you gotta go get the Guard. The big one has a Hero’s Relic!”

Sylvain figured Hanneman would already know what Hero’s Relics could do, and judging by the way he broke away from the gestalt and strode up to Sylvain, he’d been right. “How do you know?”

“Right after that flash-bang spell, I saw him burn up Ubert’s arrows by himself.”

“The situation has become far more dangerous than we were led to expect,” said Hanneman. “You were right to come to me. Students, we must withdraw to the nearest Papal Guard station. The five of us shall form up a gestalt and maintain the fog as cover for our retreat.”

As they left the warehouse, all joined by their hands in the middle, they saw the cart disappearing into the fog, pulled by the two mages as if it were filled with air instead of rocks and wood. They were holding hands. The big one was still human.

Perhaps it was a matter of exposure, like a poison. It built up in the blood until it reached toxic levels and brought worse than death in its wake. If Miklan had used the relic only once, if he’d picked it up and then put it down in time, he would have survived. Either that, or a Crested noble had run away with a relic to become a thief on the streets of Garreg Mach.

If Sylvain weren’t such a coward, he would do it, too.

The Adrestian Tea Room, Nobles’ Quarter, Garreg Mach, 13 Pegasus Moon, 1180

Over Hubert’s protests, Edelgard had insisted on telling the Black Eagles that they were going to meet one of those who slither in the dark. We need to be transparent with them, or they’ll never trust us, she had said. Just as Hubert had predicted, Ferdinand had gone into dramatics about the two of them going to meet Thales alone, even though they had done so countless times before.

Edelgard and Hubert had assuaged the Black Eagles’ fears by promising to bring Jeritza with them, as Thales was already accustomed to his occasional appearance at their meetings. All three of them had switched over from mage-gloves to full gloves and dressed their finest for a rendezvous at the Adrestian Tea Room.

Thales had rented out a private room at the back. He was waiting with a teapot and three cups. Like the lord he pretended to be, he stood and bowed in the presence of his duke. “I took the liberty of ordering Hresvelg Blend. I thought you might miss it.” His eyes flicked coldly toward Jeritza. “I did not ask you to bring the Death Knight.”

“He was part of yesterday’s operation,” said Edelgard. “You wanted a full report, did you not?”

“Thorough as always, my keen blade,” Thales said, making Hubert’s teeth itch. “I shall request a fourth cup, then.”

Thales sat in the fleur-de-lis upholstered booth facing the door where the servants came in. The three of them knew how to arrange themselves to his satisfaction. Hubert sat beside Thales in the booth, Edelgard opposite Thales in a chair, Jeritza opposite Hubert. Edelgard and Jeritza kept themselves spaced well apart, so no part of them could easily touch.

Hubert and Edelgard had discussed beforehand how much to tell Thales. They had to give him the Crest stones, of course, but since no one had known how many there would be, they retained one of each type for their own investigation. Jeritza could give his usual succinct account of what had happened on his side of the operation. However, they could not inform Thales of Byleth’s strange abilities. Instead, when they got to that part of the tale, Hubert said, “Our tutor, Miss Eisner, warned us that there were people tailing us through Seiros City, attempting to kill us. She protected us, and was crucial to the success of the operation, but she was detained by Rhea before we could debrief with her. Do you have anything to tell us about who might have interfered with our mission?”

He stared at Thales levelly. He knew very well that the only people who could have known about and interfered with yesterday’s heist were Thales’s fellow maggots. The question was whether Thales would admit it.

Thales’s lip curled. “There is a… faction among my people that is dissatisfied with my rule. If you ever encounter a witch named Cornelia or her lackeys, you are to kill them on sight, understood?” He took a long drink of tea. “And if you hope to ally with her to take me down instead, know that her objections to me have nothing to do with ethics. She would love to get her hands on you, Edelgard, and find out exactly how I did what I did.” He smiled coldly. “You’re far better off being a good girl and listening to your uncle.”

Hubert rushed to spare Edelgard the indignity of responding to such a taunt. “We are planning an even more audacious heist on the Church, building on our previous success. Can you ensure there will be no more interference from this rogue faction? We can ill afford it.”

Thales raised his eyebrows. “A more audacious heist? A heist more important than returning to Enbarr to declare war?”

“The war can wait two weeks,” said Edelgard. “That’s all the time we need. Miss Eisner took our side, against all odds, and helped us steal the Crest stones. Pope Rhea wants to use Miss Eisner as a human sacrifice to resurrect the goddess—a devastating outcome, should it be successful. We intend to steal Byleth Eisner before the ritual and bring her back to Enbarr with us.”

Thales looked thoughtful, and sipped his tea. “Audacious and devious. Like a blade in the dark. That’s my Edelgard. Very well, then. We shall arrange for your extraction from Seiros City on the 28th. And I shall do my best to distract Cornelia.”

Hubert silently bristled, but also knew relief that Thales did not object to their plan. He hummed softly, as if pleased at Thales’s approval.

“Our business is concluded,” Thales said, although not all the tea was yet drunk. Hubert did not mind leaving his cup half-full. They left him behind. As they emerged into the clean, bright flagstone street, Hubert and Jeritza both froze, both seized by the same instinct, and Edelgard stopped a moment later. Hubert stripped his gloves off and scanned the area. There were several cafes along this street. He examined the patrons through the windows, seeking out anything unusual.

Jeritza made a wordless noise and moved toward one of the cafes. Hubert and Edelgard hastened to catch up. When Hubert followed Jeritza’s fixed gaze, he saw two young women seated at a table in the window, holding hands under the table as they ate tarts. They both had long black hair, dark eyes, and pale skin, but there was something familiar in their builds and the shapes of their faces.

They strode into the cafe. Hubert loomed over the two women and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Arnault, Miss Macneary.”

The two women exchanged a startled look and let go of each other’s hands. Their appearances reverted to normal. “Sorry, Hubie,” said Dorothea, only a touch remorseful. “We were all too worried not to keep an eye on you.”

“How were you knowing it was us?” Petra asked Hubert.

Hubert inclined his head toward Jeritza, who said, “You move like yourselves.” Dorothea was taken aback, but Petra only frowned thoughtfully and nodded.

“You really should keep your distance from Thales,” said Edelgard. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“He’s not going to be trouble, is he?” said Dorothea, biting her lip.

“Oh, he’ll be trouble all right,” said Edelgard. “But not for the purposes of this mission, no.”

Black Eagles College, St. Cichol’s Military Academy, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 14 Pegasus Moon, 1180

Beside her, Edelgard could feel Hubert vibrating with readiness to commit violence.

Bishop Aelfric Dahlman stood in the Black Eagles common room an hour past midnight. All of the Black Eagles were awake and dressed to meet him. “Welcome, Your Excellency,” Hubert said with icy courtesy. “What is your business with my lady tonight?”

“I didn’t expect an entire welcoming party,” the bishop said. He was very plain compared to the rest of the high-ranking clergy, with unadorned hair and plain dark robes, and Edelgard could not help but approve, despite her wariness of anyone with the Church.

“I trust my Eagles,” said Edelgard. “Whatever you have to say to me, you may say to them as well.”

“Very well, Your Highness,” said Bishop Aelfric. “Many years ago, I was a close friend of Mr. and Mrs. Jeralt and Sitri Eisner, Miss Byleth Eisner’s parents. Mrs. Eisner has been with the goddess for over twenty years now, but it has been a joy to learn that something of her still lives in this world.” The bishop cast his eyes down to the red carpet. “Especially with the recent loss of Mr. Eisner, I am… concerned about recent events. I must ask you, as her students: do you believe that Miss Eisner chose to participate in this ritual of her own free will? Did she tell you of this decision beforehand? Her frame of mind? Anything?”

“No way!” Bernadetta cried in a fit of passion. “She wouldn’t! Um… I mean, no way, Your Excellency!”

“She cares about us,” said Dorothea. “She wouldn’t just abandon us without saying a word. She never said anything about wanting to sacrifice her life for the goddess. She never even prayed in the cathedral!”

“Despite all the portentous events surrounding her,” said Ferdinand, “she is not a devout woman. In fact, she hardly seemed to know the Church existed when she first arrived in Seiros City. She certainly did not express a desire to offer herself as a human sacrifice for the goddess.”

Bishop Aelfric sighed and shook his head. “I had feared that Her Holiness took advantage of Miss Eisner’s shock and bereavement over her father’s death to talk her into choosing a path she would not have otherwise chosen. But it seems the situation may be even more dire than that. I mean to intercede with Her Holiness in any way that I can. I have some inkling of the nature of the ritual she means to perform with Miss Eisner.”

“You do? What can you tell us about it?” said Edelgard, her whole body prickling with alertness. Yesterday, she and Hubert had asked Ferdinand, the most devout among them, and Linhardt, the most scholarly, if they knew of any Church rites that involved human sacrifice. Ferdinand had vigorously denied that any such rite existed, his lips curling with distaste, and Linhardt had affirmed that they had never encountered human sacrifice in their studies of holy texts, unless you count punishing unbelievers, but I’m pretty sure that’s different, they had said.

“It will be easier if I show you,” said Bishop Aelfric. “I have access to a library of forbidden texts, which has the information. I admit I am at something of a loss as to how to use it. My only plan at this time is to beg Her Holiness to reconsider, and I fear that may not be enough. If another solution occurs to you in your study of the text, I would implore you to let me know.”

Edelgard gave Hubert a look that meant, is this a trap?

Hubert gave her a look back that meant, quite possibly, and said, “Before we follow you wherever we are going, know that the enchanted ear-trumpet you passed us is with one of my agents. If we do not return within a set time period, my agent has been instructed to give the evidence of your insubordination to the Papal Guard.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Therefore, I sincerely hope for your sake that you intend to return us to Black Eagles College alive and well.”

Bishop Aelfric stared, then blinked. “Ah. Of course. The Hresvelg heir is under the protection of a Vestra. I ought to have remembered. Well, Master Vestra, I am about to provide you with even more leverage against me in the form of the location of the Shadow Library. Hopefully neither of us have misplaced our trust. Follow me, young masters and mistresses.”

“One moment, Bishop Dahlman,” said Edelgard. “A bishop may wander Seiros City by night without consequence, but we must have a care.” She rotated the problem in her mind. She wasn’t sure what a gestalt of all eight of them would do, and not all combinations of Eagles would be able to perform stealth magic. But a stealth spell that could cover all eight of them and also move wherever they went was a powerful casting, and needed as many people involved as possible.

“Petra and Bernadetta with us?” Edelgard said to Hubert. She didn’t like to ask him to cast with a Crested mage, but she would be in the gestalt too, and there had never been a problem with him and Jeritza in the same gestalt with her, despite his Crest of Lamine.

Hubert nodded without hesitation. Edelgard found herself proud of him. Bernadetta deserved his trust, but she knew it could not be easy for him to give.

“M-me?” Bernadetta squeaked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Edelgard. “We need to stay hidden as we move through Seiros City.”

“I guess I am good at hiding,” Bernadetta said, stepping cautiously toward Edelgard and Hubert.

“Gather around,” said Hubert. “The tighter the group we make, the easier we will be to hide.”

Hubert and Edelgard held hands. Petra took Edelgard’s free hand, and Bernadetta took Hubert’s. The gestalt was a group of shadows in a sewing circle. Edelgard had never been in a sewing circle before, but in the gestalt, it felt familiar. The shadows held blazing white needles, which they plunged into their hearts, pulling forth threads of shadow-stuff, then plunged the bright needles into each other, stitching their hearts together. It ought to have been disturbing, perhaps, but there was no pain or fear in it, only surety and a feeling of connection. It was easy to weave into a tight net of protection over the Black Eagles.

“I can’t see much,” said Aelfric, “so I will assume you’re covered. Let us not waste the night.”

As they moved unnoticed through the dim gas light of Seiros City at night, Edelgard wished they could have brought Jeritza with them. It was thrilling to have gained all of the Black Eagles at her side, but Jeritza’s silent presence beside her was comforting in its familiarity. Of course, she would have had to be foolish indeed to reveal to a bishop of the Church that she was harboring a fugitive from the Papal Guard, so instead, Jeritza was insurance, ready to act if they disappeared with Bishop Aelfric for too long.

Aelfric guided them to the holy mausoleum, forlornly surrounded by scaffolding after its desecration and their desperate fight there. He stepped through a gap in a crumbling wall into darkness. The group hesitated at the wall until Aelfric lit a lantern and held it high, showing that there was a tunnel there. The gap in the wall was too small for a group, so Edelgard let go of Petra and Hubert’s hands, and the gestalt ebbed away. Ferdinand reached a hand out to Linhardt and said, “Shall we light the way?” Linhardt crooked two mage-gloved fingers around two of Ferdinand’s, and they were surrounded by a gentle, glowing cloud, as if the dust-motes caught in a sunbeam had absorbed that light and absconded like a swarm of tiny insects. Edelgard wondered if she was capable of contributing to magic like that. Perhaps if she gave Ferdinand a chance, they could.

Edelgard was immediately glad that they had Ferdinand and Linhardt’s merry, soft-edged light in addition to Aelfric’s lantern. As they turned from this tunnel into another, she was reminded a little of the dungeons where she’d suffered, and the dreamlike glow around Ferdinand and Linhardt obscured the resemblance. Still, she turned in her mind the problem of which groups of Eagles would be able to shore up a crumbling ceiling, for the tunnels looked none too stable. Petra and Caspar, perhaps? Would two magicians be enough?

Eventually, the tunnel walls and floor transitioned to a more stable-looking brick. Up ahead was more torchlight, and an armored soldier keeping watch. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, but as they came closer, that hand rose in a cheerful wave. “Bishop Dahlman!” cried the guard. “Always a pleasure to have you visit! Who are your guests tonight?”

“Well met, Abysskeeper,” said Aelfric. “My guest of honor is Mistress Hresvelg, heir to the Adrestian dukedom, accompanied by her classmates. Are the Ashen Wolves awake?”

“You asked them to be,” the Abysskeeper said cheerfully. “You know they’d never want to disappoint you, Bishop. What do day and night mean down here, anyway?”

Edelgard soon saw what the Abysskeeper meant. Up ahead were hallways lit with torches, and people in simple, heavily-patched clothing moved about them as if it were not two hours past midnight. Her head swam with the implications. Did people live in this place?

Hubert leaned down and murmured in her ear, “I believe these must be the people who guard the tunnels under Seiros City,” and she knew he was right. She just hadn’t imagined that the guardians of the tunnels were guarding their homes.

Bishop Aelfric paused at a library filled with volumes. It was not quite the size of the library at St. Cichol’s Academy, but it was substantial. Edelgard saw Linhardt’s eyes widen. “This is the Shadow Library,” said Aelfric. “This is where we keep all texts deemed heretical by the Grand Inquisitor. The truth of the ritual Pope Rhea means to carry out may be hidden in this library. You are free to explore it. However, I hope you will take the time to meet the Ashen Wolves first.”

“Who are the Ashen Wolves?” said Edelgard.

“Abyss,” said Bishop Aelfric, gesturing at their surroundings, “is a refuge for those who have nowhere else to go. Heretics, exiles, debtors, anyone who cannot find a place in Fódlan, can find one here. I ensure that Abyss remains safe, sheltered, and fed, to the best of my ability. The Ashen Wolves are a coven of young, talented magicians who ought to have gone to St. Cichol’s, if such an opportunity existed for people like them. I have tried to support them in their education, though I know I cannot provide nearly as much as a real college at the academy. You have already met the Wolves’ leader, Mister Yuri Leclerc.”

So the Church kept a dungeon under Seiros City for undesirables. Edelgard ought not to have been surprised, but still she reeled. She had seen children passing by in the corridor. How many people had spent their whole lives never able to see the sun because this rotten system had deemed them unworthy? Edelgard was seized with the sudden wild urge to hold Hubert’s hand, even though there was no spell for them to cast. But she was no child that she could turn to such comforts. Instead, she did what she had learned to do in the dungeons of the ducal palace in Enbarr: hermetically seal herself off, become nothing but a set of eyes and ears floating in space, taking it all in. Her mouth automatically spoke the right courtesies. “We would be happy to meet them, Your Excellency.”

As they walked away, Caspar called into the Shadow Library, “Catch you later, Lin!” Ah. Linhardt had already gone off to peruse the Shadow Library. Unsurprising. She would have to remember to come back and check on them. Doubtless they would find something interesting there, but whether they would find something useful was an entirely different matter.

Bishop Aelfric led them through the corridors, stopping to receive greetings, petitions, and outpourings of thanks from the Abyss residents. It seemed he really did his best by the inmates of Abyss, though he was still no better than a kindly prison warden in the end. They saw ramshackle dining halls, merchant stalls, and homes made of wood and packed earth. When they passed some sort of immense, strange-looking altar, Petra stopped in her tracks, staring at it in wonder.

“This is for the Dagdan god of fate,” she said. “There are never holy places for other gods in Fódlan.” She scanned the wildly varied offerings at the altar, and pointed out a shape sketched out in gray ash. “This is for the Flame Spirit of Brigid!”

Bishop Aelfric smiled slightly. “Like I said. Abyss is a refuge where heretics may practice freely. It is the only place of its kind in Fódlan.”

Petra’s excitement faded, and her skin went ashen. The realization hit Edelgard a moment after: if Petra were no longer a hostage of Adrestia, and could not return to Brigid, she would almost certainly end up here, never to raise her eyes to the Sky Spirit again. Edelgard felt more determined than ever to ensure that such a fate would never befall her friend.

Dorothea threw an arm over Petra’s shoulders and glared at the bishop. Petra only stared sadly at the symbol writ in ash, perhaps wondering which lost soul down here had made it.

Hubert’s hand clasped hers suddenly, with such a grip force that she immediately knew it was a matter of swift violence, and turned their gestalt that way with a flash of bright knife from sheath. Many times before he had noticed danger in advance, and she entrusted their power to his direction.

She turned in the direction of the magic, and saw two figures kneeling at the massive altar.

The throats bared to their invisible blades belonged to a very pale woman with orange hair, and an equally pale girl with purple hair covering one eye, much like Hubert. They had carefully unrolled a very old scroll covered in strange, blocky letters Edelgard could not read.

“Which master do you serve?” Hubert hissed.

The woman glared back at him with equal hatred. The girl just spluttered, “W-what?”

Ferdinand was in high color. “Hubert! This is no way to treat a—”

“Which master do you serve?” Hubert repeated, slow as a snake constricting its prey. “Is it Cornelia, or is it Thales?”

“Mom?” said the girl, pitchy and nervous. “What’s he talking about?”

The woman said, “I’ll explain later, Shez.” To Hubert, she said coldly, “We have nothing to do with either of those people.”

Hubert scoffed. “You truly think you can convince me you’re human.” He learned toward the scroll. His eyes flicked down to the text, then back up to the woman. “As if I can’t recognize the sacred script of Those Who Slither in the Dark.”

A roar filled Edelgard’s ears. This wasn’t a real mother-daughter pair. They had been taken. Thank goodness Hubert observed every detail of their secret enemy. They rarely got so much advance warning that someone was not who they seemed.

“Hubie,” Dorothea said, an edge creeping into her voice. Of course to her it seemed as if Hubert were accosting random worshippers. “I need you to explain what’s going on right n—”

Suddenly, a commotion echoed down the corridors of Abyss. There were screams, crashes, and many footsteps running. The Black Eagles immediately went on the alert. Moments later, a dense swarm of people rushed toward their end of Abyss. Hubert snarled and lunged toward their targets, but they were almost instantly lost in the confusion of panicked people. Edelgard squeezed his hand to restrain him; there was no point trying to find them again right now.

Bishop Aelfric managed to stop a woman in a tattered dress and veil. “Tell me what is happening.”

“There’s some kind of attack,” said the woman, wringing her hands in her skirts. “The Ashen Wolves are fighting it off.”

“Then we’ll help them,” said Edelgard. Anyone who would attack a ghetto full of desperate refugees was an enemy, as far as she was concerned, and in any case it was obvious that they would need to earn the trust of Abyss. With such an extensive tunnel network, all of the Black Eagles would be able to move through Seiros City undetected—but first, they needed to be allowed access.

They struggled against the tide of people fleeing the conflict. It was a shame that Linhardt had stayed behind in the Shadow Library, for the only mage-pair among the Black Eagles as attuned to one another as Edelgard and Hubert were Linhardt and Caspar. Edelgard had no doubt they would investigate the source of the commotion, but there was no telling how long it would take them to catch up.

Once the waves of fleeing people had thinned, they found the battle raging in a large, arena-like space. The invaders were all too familiar, with their long black beaked masks, though Edelgard did not know whether they slithered in the dark under Cornelia’s orders or Thales’s. They wielded their uncanny weapons: long batons humming with electrical force, which Hubert called “thunder staves,” and a ranged weapon that fired metal projectiles with explosive force, though it required a time-consuming reload every six shots, which Hubert called a “hand cannon.”

There were four defenders of Abyss, fluidly fighting alone, in different pairs, or as a quartet as the situation demanded. Edelgard recognized Yuri in a knee-length skirt, waistcoat, and long cape, wearing a watch-chain hung with a silver key even though they were far indeed from the Polished Bronze. There was a huge man, taller than Hubert, wearing fearsome gauntlets and a daring grin. The ceiling of the arena was somehow high enough to accommodate two women riding a black pegasus that Edelgard suspected was making Hubert secretly sick with envy. The women amplified the downbeats of the pegasus’s wings with their magic, bowling the attackers over with the downdrafts, sending the projectiles from their hand cannons off course. Down on the ground, Yuri and his—her, by the silver key—large comrade whirled balletic through the fray, connecting and disconnecting like dance partners.

And they could disconnect, if they chose, for they both wielded Hero’s Relics.

When an attacker lined up their hand cannon for a shot, if the large man waved his gauntleted hand just as the cannon fired, he could make smoke and dust explode out of the hand cannon instead of metal, ruining the weapon. Meanwhile, decorative plates on Yuri’s hands glowed and twitched eerily as she moved with impossible speed, her long knife striking like a snake. When their hands met for fleeting moments, they flew up and apart from each other like repelling magnets, turning the momentum in each direction into deadly force.

The Black Eagles formed up. They were thrown off their stride without Byleth and Linhardt, but their group found new shapes in their new circumstances. Ferdinand paired off with Petra, Caspar with Dorothea, and Bernadetta joined Edelgard and Hubert. Edelgard did not waste time wondering what their gestalt would be like; she simply took Hubert’s right hand as Bernadetta took his left, and made it happen.

Without Petra’s influence, there was no familiar sewing circle. There was only a white needle, bright like a star, which she held in one hand, while her other hand threaded the needle with a long, slender, endless shadow. She carefully chose her mark on the dark cloth, then plunged the needle through.

As Hubert sensed the direction their magic was going, he let go of their hands and moved behind them. Edelgard moved closer to Bernadetta, unstrapped the ax from her back, and shrugged off her jacket, exposing the cutout she habitually left in the back of her blouses for this very purpose. She felt his touch at her bare back, then saw him press two fingers to the back of Bernadetta’s neck as she readied her bow. Edelgard focused, and threaded the needle, pushed through—

Bernadetta nocked an arrow and fired at a cannon-wielder aiming their next shot at the pegasus. The arrow seemed to sprout from their forearm, and they dropped the hand-cannon, screaming. That got the attackers’ attention, as did the immense, resonant war cry that thundered out from Dorothea and Caspar. Petra had been magically boosted up onto a rising circle of stone floor, and fired down arrows from that vantage point. Edelgard held a defensive stance with her ax to protect Bernadetta, and felt Hubert adjust behind her to maintain contact with her back. There was a feeling in the air around them as if they were deep in a swamp, the air thick enough to taste at the back of her throat—

The projectiles usually fired impossibly fast from the hand cannons; it was what made them so dangerous. But when a shot came for Edelgard and Bernadetta, it hit the bubble of strangely thickened air around them, and slowed to the speed of an arrow, which Bernadetta pivoted on one foot to dodge. And when more attackers came for them with thunder staves, the crackling tips of their staves also slowed, so Edelgard could knock them aside with her ax. The Ashen Wolves darted about on the ground and in the air, and Dorothea, Caspar, and Ferdinand supported them, but Edelgard, Bernadetta, and Hubert were the last line of defense for anyone trying to get deeper into Abyss: they might be able to get this far, but no further.

“For Adrestia!” Edelgard cried, and felt Hubert’s hand move with her as she jumped for an overhead ax blow. She cut her attacker’s hand clean off, leaving the hand and stave on the floor. She hoped Hubert would be able to collect it later; he had a keen interest in learning how those who slither in the dark powered their strange inventions.

Caspar, who was nearer to hand than Edelgard had realized, said, “Huh. These guys really aren’t your friends, are they?”

Edelgard didn’t bother to respond. Her words swearing that she abhorred their actions had had little impact on Caspar’s judgment of her; apparently, her actions spoke to him more loudly.

“Lin! There you are!” cried Caspar, and they joined hands. Their magic was excellent at achieving efficient movement, and their signature fighting style together was something to behold. They jumped into the air slowly, like dandelion clocks in a breeze, then came down on opponents from overhead with immense speed, Caspar screaming “DEATH FROM ABOVE!” as he punched down with a gauntleted hand.

With the addition of the Black Eagles to the fray, the Ashen Wolves were able to beat the attackers back and back toward the tunnels by which they had entered. “Don’t let them break away from the fight!” cried Yuri. “We need to find out how they got down here in the first place!”

Edelgard had some idea of how they had done it, given the precision of the maps she had been supplied, but Yuri had a point. She pivoted to hand-in-hand contact with Hubert and Bernadetta, and they moved as swiftly as they could down one of the tunnels where those who slithered were retreating. One of the invaders reached for something round on their belt, pulled a needle out of one end of the oblong sphere, and threw the thing behind them as they retreated. Hubert halted in his tracks, wary of the object, and Edelgard stopped moments later, their hands wrenched apart by their difference in momentum.

Then the thing, whatever it was, exploded.

The Leicester Garden, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, Verdant Rain Moon, 1180

Bernie loved the gardens of Seiros City at night this time of year. Peace and quiet reigned. Crickets hummed and fireflies lit the gardens in all their different patterns. Bernie walked around and challenged herself to see how many plants she could still identify to species by moonlight alone. She used more of her senses to help, crushing leaves beneath her nose, feeling their shapes in her hands.

There was another silhouette moving around the Leicester Garden tonight. Bernie knew by the shape and height that it was Hubert. After a rocky beginning, she now trusted that if she didn’t make the first move, he would leave her be. It was nice to have that sense of security, but tonight, she did want to make the first move.

She struck out toward him across the manicured lawn. He paused by St. Cethleann’s Pool with its burbling central fountain, and bowed when she came near. “Good evening, Mistress Varley,” he said, sounding surprised and maybe a little pleased.

“Hello, M-Master Vestra.” Bernie stumbled over the address. She wanted to be less formal with him, the way she was starting to be with the other Black Eagles, but he was so formal with everyone all the time that it felt rude not to match him. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“My errands tonight are not urgent,” said Hubert. “I can afford to delay them a while.”

“It won’t take long,” said Bernie. “I just wanted to apologize. For earlier in class. I shouldn’t have asked you to cast with me.”

Hubert shook his head. “You have nothing to apologize for. It was a magic class. It is only natural to seek out a mage-partner.”

“I still shouldn’t have asked you,” Bernie said in a small voice. “You looked upset when I did. I won’t ask again! Bernie’s bad at magic and no good at this kind of thing, so… you should cast with someone better! You deserve it.”

Hubert’s brows drew together. He seemed… pained. “Mistress Varley, there is no fault in your magic. That is not the reason why I declined.”

“But you cast with Dorothea and Caspar now, and at the beginning you’d only cast with Edelgard, so why—” It caught up with Bernie, then. If Hubert said no because she was bad at magic, then why did he always say no to Linhardt, too? Linhardt knew more about magic than anybody. And Ferdinand was good at everything. But there was another difference, something Dorothea and Caspar had in common with Hubert. “You don’t like Crests, do you.”

Hubert looked out over the moonlit pool, avoiding her gaze. “There is nothing wrong with Crests in themselves. They are nothing more than an accident of birth, in the end. It is the role they play in this world that I abhor.”

Bernie looked out over the pool, too. She could just barely make out the shadows of koi beneath the water. In a small voice, she said, “I’ve been shepherded, you know. I guess that’s pretty pathetic, since I had a Crest and I could have fought back. But I didn’t know that. No one ever told me that my Crest let me fight back. Not until Professor Kolding said so in that first class.” It had filled her with shame and horror to learn that. Every single time her father had shepherded her, she could have made him stop. But he’d taught her so well to be a good little noble daughter that she’d just sat there like a lamb for the butcher’s knife.

Hubert’s gaze shifted sharply back toward her. “You are not pathetic, Mistress Varley. I have never thought so. I am glad that you now have the power to resist such tyranny.” He took a deep, deep breath, then stripped off his glove and held out his hand. “Allow me to prove it to you.”

Bernie hesitated. She didn’t want to disappoint Hubert. He usually cast with Edelgard, after all, and there was no way she could measure up. Maybe it had been a stupid idea to ask him to cast together after all. She ought to say no.

But then she looked into his eyes, and she saw fear. No, terror. Bernie often saw anger and disgust in people’s eyes when it wasn’t really there. She knew that about herself. But fear? That she could recognize, right on target, every time, because she saw it in the mirror every day. Hubert, who might be the scariest person Bernie had ever met, was terrified. Of her.

Bernie had never really thought about the fact that she had the power to shepherd people, the way her father had done to her. She had taken enough magic lessons at St. Cichol’s to know it was true, in an abstract kind of way. But it had never felt true until that moment when Hubert looked at her with abject fear—but held out his hand to her anyway.

Never in her life had Bernie been faced with someone who was more scared of her than she was of them. She found it made her feel… tender. It was like caring for sick plants in the greenhouse, finding spots of blight and spraying herbal infusions to keep the pests away. She felt such a sweet and heavy responsibility for the ailing little plant spirits she held in her hands until they got better and thrived on their own. In this unprecedented moment, Hubert was a wounded fly-trap, and she had to treat him with the care he deserved.

Her hands were streaked with green, from leaves she’d crushed earlier to identify by smell. Still, she clasped his outstretched hand between two of hers. “Hey,” she said softly, looking up at him. “It’ll be okay. I promise.” Then she focused on his long, bony hand between hers.

The shadows in the garden were thick enough to grab in her hands. She pulled them toward herself, and they ran between her fingers, like rivers, like skeins of black yarn. She weaved them around herself with deft fingers, wrapping herself in a cool, heavy cloak made of shadow that made her feel larger, grander, the queen of the night in which she dwelled.

“What do you want to do?” Bernie whispered. With magic, you didn’t have to say that kind of thing out loud; you could feel in the gestalt what the other mages wanted to do. But right now, she thought it would be better to say it.

“Nothing,” said Hubert softly. “Let us simply hold it in our hands a while. I will let it go when I am ready to depart.”

Abyss, Seiros City, Garreg Mach, 14 Pegasus Moon, 1180

Hubert woke in utter darkness, ears still ringing from the explosion. He gasped, “Lady Edelgard!”

“Sorry.” It was the small, miserable voice of Bernadetta. “It’s just me.” The sound of rustling and fumbling. “Bernie brought a matchbook, though!”

Hubert’s skin crawled with anxiety. His lady was formidable, but such a weapon as this could put even her in jeopardy. “I am glad you are here, Mistress Bernadetta.”

A few abortive strikes of a match, then flame. Hubert and Bernadetta were in a small pocket of air, surrounded by rubble. She was propped up against a rock, while he lay on the floor, his belongings flung from his pockets in a halo of debris around him. Hubert hoped the flickering light of the match protected her from seeing too much of what he carried with him. There were knives, and poisons, and the shameful matter of the three colors of key he carried with him. “Do you see a compass?” he said, slowly peeling himself off the floor.

“Y-yes! Though um, I don’t know if that’s going to help right now.” She held it up.

“Lady Edelgard and Master Hrym and I enchanted it to always point toward her,” Hubert explained. He did not know what it would do if she died; perhaps the compass needle’s north was her corpse. He gathered up his belongings and resolved not to share his morbid imaginings with Bernadetta.

“Oh. Wow. Well, it points this way,” she said, pointing at a looming wall of rubble Hubert did not dare attempt to move by hand. Bernadetta looked at the stones, then at Hubert, her match burned down to almost nothing in her hand. “Are you ready?” she whispered.

Hubert wanted to assert that he was no longer afraid of casting with her, but that would be just as false as if she insisted she had entirely mastered her fear of Hubert. She deserved better than lies, so he simply said, “For Lady Edelgard,” and reached for her hand as her match burned out.

The gestalt was mostly the same now as it had been that peaceful night in the garden: a feeling of reaching for the shadows and weaving them into a cloak—though this time, there was also a feeling as if the shadows might be reaching back.

Clad in that veil of shadow, Hubert and Bernadetta stepped toward the fall of rubble—and through it, as if they were made of water, flowing through and around the rock. It was a horrible feeling, like the boundaries of his body were dissolving, but Hubert pressed on, Bernadetta’s hand still somehow in his.

The moment they emerged into air, they dropped each other’s hands with a gasp. It was still pitch dark, but when Hubert heard a tiny, pained sound, he knew instantly who was there. No sound was more deeply inscribed in his heart than that of his lady in pain.

“Lady Edelgard!” he cried, dropping to his knees. He felt around for her, and felt the slip of her hair through his fingers.

“Hubert,” whispered Edelgard, hoarse with surprise. “You came.”

Hubert’s heart clenched. He knew why she was surprised. The last time she had lain in the dark wishing he would come to help her, he had not.

A match struck. A light flared above them. “Bernie came too! I know that isn’t much, but…”

Hubert saw in the match-light that Edelgard appeared unhurt—but being trapped in the dark, alone, underground, would hurt her in ways no match would reveal. “It means the world, Bernadetta,” she said quietly, and tried to sit up.

Hubert hastened to assist her. “Do not rush yourself, my lady.”

Edelgard’s expression was stubborn. “There could be people trapped in this rubble. They could be running out of air. They can’t afford to wait.” She propped herself up on her elbows, halfway to sitting up. “You two scout ahead and find out who needs our assistance. By the time you return, I’ll be ready.”

Hubert’s very soul rebelled at the thought of leaving his lady behind in this place, but it was even more unthinkable to defy her orders to her face. “We will return soon, Lady Edelgard. Are you ready, Mistress Bernadetta?”

“Here,” said Bernadetta, passing Lady Edelgard her lit match and matchbox. “So you don’t have to wait in the dark.”

When Hubert took Bernadetta’s hand, he squeezed it in silent gratitude. Edelgard looked more at ease already with a flame in her hand.

They had to walk through the stone for longer this time, if it could even be called walking. It felt more like oozing through the fall of rock. Perhaps it was fitting for Hubert to become a slime in the dark, but he did not think Bernadetta ought to feel this way.

When they emerged into air, there was the faintest glow of light from a gap between the piled rubble and the cave ceiling. Hubert’s dark-adjusted eyes immediately caught on the figure of Ferdinand von Aegir, grunting with effort as he shifted rocks away from a prone figure on the floor.

“F-Ferdinand?!” Bernadetta gasped. “Who’s that on the ground?”

“Bernadetta!” Ferdinand carefully set down the rock he’d lifted, then turned around. “Oh, thank the goddess you are here. I require assistance. One of the mages who fought by our side—the one on the pegasus with Constance von Nuvelle—I do not know her name, but she is unconscious, and we must get her clear of this rubble.”

I stared at Ferdinand in utter disbelief. “You’ve been shifting the rubble by hand? On your own?”

“There was no one else,” Ferdinand said.

“There was the mage,” Hubert said, pointing at the prone woman, scarcely believing that he needed to point this out.

Ferdinand’s voice was hushed, almost resigned. “Is that truly what you think of me, Hubert? That I would shepherd an unconscious mage to facilitate my escape?”

“To facilitate her escape as well,” said Hubert. “Likely that is what Linhardt would do.” Linhardt shepherded people who were too injured to cast magic so they could heal them or remove them from danger.

“It is not what I would do,” said Ferdinand, and given the evidence before his eyes, Hubert for once could not argue.

“I can help you,” said Bernadetta, reaching out her hand to Ferdinand. Hubert watched them join hands, then weave a shield over the mage to protect her from any rubble that might fall on her as they shifted rocks away from her. He noticed the dark, slick shine of blood on Ferdinand’s hands, scraped raw from moving rocks. He truly preferred to bleed himself than to abuse his Crest, even in as perilous a circumstance as this.

Hubert was running out of reasons not to cast with Ferdinand. He was running out of reasons to hate him at all.

“HEY! ANYBODY THERE?”

Hubert’s head jerked up, drawn by the racket to the dimly lit gap between rock and ceiling, where the enthusiastic face of Caspar von Bergliez peered down at them.

“Pipe down,” Linhardt said, somewhere behind him. “You’ll set off another rockslide.”

Caspar looked back over his shoulder. “There’s a bunch of people here, Lin! We gotta help!” There was a pause, then Caspar and Linhardt went sailing face-first through the narrow gap, their free hands extended from their sides like bird’s wings. Caspar landed first, then caught Linhardt in his arms.

“I come bearing supplies,” said Linhardt. “Is that you, Ferdinand? Show me what—ugh, is that blood on your hand?”

“Bernadetta,” said Hubert. “We must go back for Lady Edelgard.”

Ferdinand and Linhardt were now surrounded by a diffuse glow of sunlit dust-motes. “You know where Edelgard is?” said Ferdinand, relieved. “When I saw you without her, I feared the worst. Is she well?”

“She will be once she is well clear of this disaster,” said Hubert.

“Ah,” said Linhardt, looking at the fallen mage. “And that must be Hapi. I received stern instructions from Yuri to bring her back safe.”

Hubert realized, to his absolute shock, that he trusted Ferdinand to ensure that Linhardt did not cross any lines in his efforts to save Hapi. If he went back now for Edelgard, he knew he was leaving Hapi in good hands.

Bernadetta seemed to understand his bewilderment. “He’s really not so bad,” she whispered. “Weird, huh?”

Hubert took her hand. They reached for the shadows, gathering, weaving, and tentatively, the shadows reached back.

All much the worse for wear, they gathered at the rickety bar in Abyss, except for Constance von Nuvelle, who was off fussing over her injured companion, Hapi. Edelgard had been surprised and dismayed to learn that her occasional childhood playmate had ended up here, and hoped to get a chance to talk to her soon.

Edelgard took the time to look around the bar and notice, because noticing the present moment meant she didn’t have to think about what she had just experienced. Here, many of the customers wore the ribbon and key code of the mirror world. There were also people from Brigid and Almyra and places she couldn’t recognize at all, openly dressed in utterly un-Fódlanish style, stitched together from whatever scraps of fabric they could find. Petra’s eyes rested on a 13 year old Brigidi girl drinking from a stein, then looked away, blinking rapidly.

Something had happened to Hubert in the cave-in. He sat protectively close to her, with a good view of the door, as expected. But besides his vigil over her, he kept sneaking startled glances at Bernadetta and Ferdinand, as if they’d grown new limbs since the last time he’d seen them. He fidgeted idly with something in his jacket; from her position just beside him, Edelgard heard them clink like keys.

Aelfric was weary, his robes dusty past the knee. Yuri was bandaged at neck and wrist, a black key dark on the watch-chain of his scuffed pale uniform. His companion, Balthus, wore a chest brace to stabilize a broken rib; his bruised head lolled slightly with a dose of laudanum.

Yuri took a long pull from a blonde ale. He set the battered mug down with a clink, then said, “I’ve consulted with Constance and Hapi, and we’re all in agreement. We’re ready to make a deal.”

Edelgard straightened in her chair. Yuri struck her as a person who would drive a hard bargain. She said, “I’m listening, Master Leclerc,” and hoped her chosen form of address would not offend.

He laughed. “Master Leclerc? I am no noble, Mistress Hresvelg. Just a beautiful rat living in the dark.”

“Mister Leclerc, then,” Edelgard corrected. “What are your terms?”

“I am faithful to the goddess,” said Yuri, in a simple flat tone that told Edelgard he meant it far more than any noble who might wax poetic about the saints. “But the Pope has gone off the rails with this stunt with Miss Eisner. Even if she did volunteer herself as a sacrifice, the Pope should never have allowed it. I admit I have a soft spot for Miss Eisner.”

“She beat me in a fight once,” Balthus slurred through the laudanum. “It was awesome.”

“Like I said. We support your efforts to free her. But you are not to harm any member of the clergy. The Papal Guard, I understand you’ll have to fight. But the clergy of the Church of Seiros are peaceful people who serve the goddess.” Yuri gestured at Aelfric.

Edelgard knew for a fact that this was not true of Pope Rhea. Her father, Duke Ionius, had entrusted that secret to her. But Yuri didn’t know that, and wouldn’t believe Edelgard if she told him. Fortunately, Edelgard had become accustomed to lying by now, however little she liked it. “You have my word,” she said, while thinking, I won’t harm the clergy, so long as they don’t harm us first.

“My other condition,” Yuri said, “is that you don’t hurt my people. Abyss has suffered enough. If I find some hothead in the Papal Guard down here because they followed you down a tunnel, I’m holding you responsible. Oh, and Phantom?” He used the neuter form of phantom again, and fixed his pale eyes on Hubert. “My people include Shez and their mother.” When Hubert stared back blankly, Yuri elaborated, “The mother and child who you hassled at the shrine. I’m going to be keeping a close eye on them to make sure they’re doing well.”

Hubert grit his teeth. His eyes burned. “This ‘Shez’ and… associate are from the same people who attacked Abyss. If you examine their possessions, you will find they have the same writing system as that of the invaders—”

“They didn’t put on masks and fling impossible magic at our home,” Yuri said fiercely, “so as far as I’m concerned, they are not the same people. This condition is not up for negotiation. I’ll protect my people, even if it means Miss Eisner dies.”

“Shez beat me in a fight once,” Balthus mumbled. “It was awesome.”

“Hubert,” Edelgard said sternly. “Let it go. We have more pressing concerns. Of course we don’t wish to harm your people, Mister Leclerc.” More than anything, she hoped her war against the Church might free them.

“Then keep your phantom on a tight leash, and you and your people may have safe passage through the tunnels of Abyss,” said Yuri.

Edelgard’s jaw clenched. She did not like to hear people talk about Hubert that way, but he would not thank her for standing up for his dignity in this moment. “What about the layout? None of us know where your tunnel entrances are, except the one Bishop Dahlman took us through tonight.”

“I can’t give you a full map,” Yuri said. “You understand. If you’re caught by the Papal Guard and you have it on you, it could cause problems for my people. What I can offer you is a chance to study a map and commit it to memory.”

Edelgard reflected a moment on who among the Black Eagles was most suited to the task, and said, “We’ll all have a look, but Petra and Hubert will take on the task of memorization.” Both had been forced to memorize a new language quickly, if under different circumstances. “It looks like we have a deal, Mister Leclerc.”

“Looks like we do,” Yuri said, extending a hand. Edelgard extended hers as well.

“What, you’re not even gonna spit on it?” Balthus said.

Yuri and Edelgard shot Balthus identical looks of horror. They did not spit on it. They shook hands.