Chapter 15: Unprompted

"Cyril, take this."

Before he could finish turning around, Byleth's hand was already extended towards him, a piece of paper gripped between their fingers. Night had already fallen, and the candlelight cut harshly across Byleth's face. Without meaning to, Cyril jolted back.

"I didn't know you guys came back already," Cyril said, willing his heart to settle back into place.

"We arrived just after dinner."

"How'd kingdom business go this time?"

Cyril thought he saw a twitch in Byleth's face. A grimace? Or a sudden itch? If Claude was here, he'd certainly be able to give an interpretation, but he wasn't and Cyril was left with nothing but guesses.

"We finished the mission," Byleth said slowly. They rustled the paper in their hand. "Someone asked me to give this to you."

"Oh, right." Cyril took the paper from Byleth's fingers. Words were scribbled across the paper from top to bottom, neat and sharp, each letter connected by a thin spiderthread of ink. He did his best to keep his face as expressionless as Byleth's as he looked back up at them, hoping desperately that Byleth wasn't expecting a specific response to whatever was written on the paper. "Thanks professor."

Byleth nodded and Cyril held back a sigh of relief. "I'd also like to talk to you about your study focuses," they continued. "You aim to be a wyvern rider, correct?"

Cyril gave a hum of affirmation as he stuffed the paper into his pocket. "Is...something wrong with that?"

Byleth shook their head. "You are aware that the qualifications for it require axe proficiency, correct?"

"Yeah? I might not look it, but I'm pretty good with an axe too, professor!"

"I believe you. Hilda is also focusing on axes. She informed me that you are not comfortable with her. With the class so small, it is unavoidable that you may be paired with her during training."

A grimace forced itself onto his face before he could stop himself and refused his attempts to smooth the expression from his features. He supposed he should've expected this—the Gonerils' ancestral weapon was an axe. Of course Hilda would continue that tradition.

Training with Hilda wouldn't be that bad. He knew that. For her part, Hilda had kept her word. She did not pretend to ignore his existence like Lorenz, but she only spoke to him when necessary and was careful to stay out of his way otherwise. But it seemed that wasn't enough to ease the iron grip that his memories of the Gonerils held.

Byleth pursed their lips. "We can hold separate sessions—"

"No! Ya don't have to go through the trouble for me," Cyril said quickly. It wouldn't be that bad. It couldn't be that bad.

He didn't want to be petrified by the mere presence of a Goneril for the rest of his life. They would keep coming to this academy, and he doubted all of them would be as accommodating as Hilda.

"I'll be fine," Cyril repeated when Byleth remained silent. "Besides, Claude's training in axes too, right?"

"Yes," they said, eyes widening the barest perceptible bit. "How did you know?"

Cyril stiffened, realizing that Claude had in fact, never suggested he would. Cyril had assumed he would.

There was no province in Almyra where the bow was not embraced, but each province had their own specialties that distinguished them. For Khidr, it was the axe, which meant that to the people of Fodlan, Almyra's specialties were the axe and bow.

It was suspicious enough that Claude would be flagrantly training in both, but add to that a wyvern and the fact that a known Almyran would be doing the same. Wouldn't it be too much?

Byleth was waiting for an answer. Cyril swallowed, not wanting to accidentally shove Claude's already precarious cover off the edge. "He mentioned it to me during sky watch. Said he liked flying and wanted to get certified as a wyvern rider."

"I see," Byleth said. As usual, Cyril gleaned nothing from that response. "Raphael will be training in axes as well. If you are fine with it, then the four of you will be training together."

"I'm fine with it."

They nodded once again. "It's good I was able to find you. You can be difficult to track down."

"Huh? What're ya talking about? I'm always around!"

This time, Byleth's lips twitched, and for the first time, Cyril was able to read the expression. Amusement.

"Of course you are, Cyril. I'll see you in class tomorrow. Sleep soon."

Sleep. At the mention of it, Cyril yawned. He shook himself and continued to sweep the floors. He could sleep once he finished sweeping the second floor of the monastery, and not before then.

The candles burned low, students slowly trickled out to retire to their rooms, workers came to replace the candles, and the new candles melted away.

At last, only the library was left.

Several books were strewn about the library, and although he could not see another presence, he could hear someone turning pages. Cyril narrowed his eyes. Of the ones who stayed at the library long past reasonable hours, Lysithea always kept books next to her in a neat stack and Lindhart would always put his books away unless he had fallen asleep on top of the ones he didn't. Which meant…

"Claude!" he shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll put them back in a bit," a voice called back.

Cyril followed the voice up the stairs onto the second floor of the library. His frown only deepened when he saw the obscene pile that Claude had gathered around him at the top. Claude's foot tapped absently on a step, threatening to tip over several that he had balanced next to it.

"Watch it!" Cyril said, picking the stack up and moving it to the stack next to where Claude sat on the top flight of the stairs.

"Sure thing, Cyril," Claude said without looking up at all.

Cyril leaned over to see what Claude was so engrossed by. He could not understand the words, but the picture on the page was very clearly the odd new sword that Byleth had acquired after the Rite of Rebirth. "Reading up about the professor's sword?"

"It's called the Sword of the Creator," Claude said, flipping back to a page that displayed a lance before going back to the sword. "And...I guess you could call it the professor's sword. For now. It's a wonder that Rhea allowed them to keep it, especially with what happened with the lance—well, I guess Rhea must have some sort of connection to Teach."

"The professor's real nice!" Cyril said, eager to back up Lady Rhea.

Claude glanced up from his book. "Won you over too, eh?"

"...do you dislike the professor?"

"I never said that," Claude replied with a smile. "Still, what a windfall for Teach. A Relic weapon like that is hard to come by. Even if it turns out to be less than a blessing, just to have it to study..."

"Don't the Riegans have one too?" Cyril asked. "I heard the Gonerils talk about theirs all the time. You're the heir, so—"

"The Relics are the weapons used to guard the border," Claude said, eyes growing colder with each word. "You really think my grandfather would let an Almyran near it? I haven't even been allowed to look at it."

Cyril blinked. "B-but didn't he choose you as his heir?"

Claude's icy smile fissured into an even wider crack. "I think my grandfather is still hoping this is all a horrible nightmare and that Godfrey secretly had a bastard child that's willing to come forward. He was desperate enough for me to force his hand, but if there's another heir, I'm sure he would leap at the chance."

"Oh." He wasn't sure what he expected. It was only natural for the people of Fodlan to hate Almyrans. He wondered why he thought the ties of blood would be enough to overcome it.

Claude shut the book and turned to pick up another from the mess beside him. "What's this?" Instead, he picked up a folded piece of paper.

A familiar looking piece of paper. Cyril felt his pockets.

Empty.

"Dear Cyril," Claude read. "I have often seen you working from afar and been filled with admiration. Your devotion and hard work—" Claude's eyes widened. "—is exceedingly adorable. Cyril! You got a love letter!"

Cyril had known that from the first ten words, and still he failed to stop Claude because the embarrassment had bound his limbs and rooted him in place like a plant. He could feel the heat in his face, even if he couldn't see the redness in his cheeks.

"Oh, this letter is adorable," Claude said gleefully, reading it without shame. "You never told me you've been flirting with people at the monastery."

"I don't flirt!" Cyril cried, embarrassment finally so great that it pushed him out of the shackles it had made. His mind spun wildly as he tried to recall who could've written him a love letter of all things. If he had known this was its contents, he would've asked the professor about who had requested its delivery.

"Guess not. Huh. They even say they've never spoken to you. Secret admirer. Oh, that's sweet."

Cyril snatched the paper from Claude's hand. "S-stop reading it!"

"Well I can't read it now." Claude held his hands up, the picture of innocence. "But the sweet words have been etched into my heart."

Cyril let out a cry of frustration. "I'm telling ya! I don't know who this is! I...I never even talked to this person." With the embarrassment ebbing, confusion took its place instead. "I never even tried to make them like me. So why…"

The amusement on Claude's face stiffened. "...well, it just means they like who you are, even without you doing anything in particular. That's...good." His words were awkward, as if he were in wonder about it all himself.

Cyril looked at the paper in his hands. The love letter. He wondered if he would be as shocked by something like this if he were in Almyra. "...hey, Claude. How'd your parents meet?"

"Huh?" Claude blinked away his stiffness. "Uhh, well they met during the war. Pretty sure my father almost stuck an axe in her neck, and she almost put an arrow in his eye."

"What?" Cyril gawked. "How'd they get married?"

"A lot of things happened," Claude replied, smiling. A real one this time. "And now they're madly in love with each other. Just because you start as enemies, doesn't mean you're doomed to remain enemies forever."

It was hard to believe. And yet…

After a moment, Cyril shoved the letter back into his pocket.

"Aww, keeping it close to you!" Claude teased.

Cyril flushed. "Shut up."

He had no plans to find out who sent it, but it was a nice sentiment to receive. A nice hope to hold onto.