A/N: Hey there! This chapter is a little bit on the short side because, like the title of the chapter says, it's an interlude before we move on to the White Clouds phase of the game. Starting next chapter, we'll start introducing the other kids. Hope you guys look forward to it!

As always, thanks for the new favs and follows! Reviews are very much welcomed :)

Edited: 04/12/22

[Black Fog]

Chapter 7: Interlude

Byleth glanced around idly, scanning her surroundings. Three mages to the left. Brigands to the right. An archer on top of the roof, aiming directly at her head. She raised her hand to her cloak thoughtlessly, shifting it up her neck, the cloak spreading out around her arms, flapping against the violent storm heading her way.

She jumped back swiftly, the thoron crash-landed underneath her feet, a few spots from where she previously stood. Landing on her knees, she grabbed the hilt of her sword. She cut through the fog of dust and dashed forward, bolting out of the gray smokescreen separating her and the brigands on the right.

With a light flick of her wrists, she made quick work of them, swerving through their ranks with the grace of a war-trained soldier.

"D-Damn you…" the brigand cursed his last words before death stole his breath away.

"How many of them left?" Jeralt spoke calmly behind her, idly dodging a fireball.

Byleth tilted her head to the left, an arrow whizzing right past her ears. "As long as they don't bring reinforcements, we'll be done in three minutes," she replied stoically as she lifted her hand up to parry the stray blade of an assassin.

She kneed him in the guts, sending him hurtling towards the open gap in the wall. The assassin collided into the dining table, snapping the wood neatly in half. Lord Ordelia winced from his position underneath the table, barely avoiding the jets of splinters, plaster, and wood.

"Careful," Jeralt scolded. "We can't let them harm the nobles."

"Sorry. That was my mistake," Byleth casually apologized, her sword slamming into the chest of a mage nearby.

"W-What in the heavens is going on here?!" There was a screeching sound ringing in her ears, and Byleth winced, her ears tuning in its direction.

A warlock dressed entirely in black was in front of the mansion, strolling out the front door. He wore the same creepy, crow-like mask they found decorating the statues around town. Byleth's gaze flickered in recognition, and she cast a look in Jeralt's direction. The meaning of the gaze wasn't lost on either of them, and they nodded in understanding.

Target founded.

Jeralt sent a signal behind his back, and Byleth immediately dashed through the crowd of mages blocking their path. Fireballs and thoron spells erupted from more mages, following the first. Byleth barrel-rolled smoothly against the ground, shoving herself flush behind an innocent tree, using it as a barrier as she crept closer to their leader.

"Don't let them get close to the building! Protect the facility at all cost!" Their leader screamed, pointing his shaking finger at Byleth's face.

But it was futile; compared to Byleth and Jeralt, the mages and brigands didn't stand a chance. Their ranks quickly collapsed to the ground in black heaps. Byleth and Jeralt sauntered forward, eyes gleaming in the dark with unrestrained bloodlust and menace. The leader clicked his tongue in annoyance, his feet sliding back unconsciously from their overwhelming aura.

"Where are the reinforcements?!" The leader yelled, bewildered. He shrank back as Jeralt and Byleth stalked closer, lifting their swords.

In that brief moment before the final confrontation, the air suddenly sizzled. Byleth's head jerked to the side, eyes widening as a beam of light suddenly shot out of the left of the mansion. Her warrior-like reflexes kicked in, and she tackled Jeralt down to the ground, sending him hurtling to the ground with a loud 'oomph.'

"What the—" The leader's words were cut off by the ringing explosion, his back colliding head first with the firestorm blasting through the front door behind him.

The world caught fire, a violent shockwave hurtling shattered concrete stone, concussive air, and flames across the front yard.

Byleth groaned loudly, her head thudding in pain. Jeralt shifted underneath her. He lightly pushed her off him, rubbing the back of his head with his spare hand. His eyes widened, taking in the scenery behind Byleth's back.

Dark-colored flames roared across the garden, trees perishing into thin air along with the metal gates, melting into oblivion.

Jeralt gaped. "What…What the fuck just happened?!"

"Uh, Lysithea?"

"Yes, Satiana?"

"You are one hell of a force to be reckoned with."

Half the mansion blew apart into smithereens. The staircase had completely crumbled into ashes. The basement barely survived the full brunt of the Hades spell. Combined with a meteor from Renard, the two practically obliterated the enemies in one clean blow, dragging the entire mansion down with them.

A bed crashed down from above their heads, snapping apart into several pieces, spraying wood against the ground. An awkward silence ensued as Renard whistled.

"Damn. That was amazing," Renard guffawed, hands on his hips as he proudly boasted. "We make a great team, kid."

Lysithea snapped her head towards Renard, sending a death glare his way. "Do NOT call me a kid, or I'll blast your head open with my next spell."

Renard whimpered, stepping back unconsciously as he held his hands in front of him in resignation. "O-Okay, I was just kidding, ki— I mean, Miss Lysithea," he emphasized this time.

Lysithea huffed in satisfaction, nodding. "Good."

Satiana chuckled dryly at the carnage in front of her eyes. "So much for my plans. Perhaps we should just consider blasting through the front door next time."

Eventually, the fog of dust covering their line of sight dissipated. The garden was a complete wreck. Dark flames slithered across the greenery, setting fire to bushes and trees. Statues were completely shattered, the head of the mage lying innocently on the ground below. A few bodies from underground had flown through the sky, caught in the blast, now hanging limply on top of a few tree branches. Combined with the casualty count from Jeralt and Byleth's attack, the garden looked more like a violated graveyard than anything.

"So, did we kill them all?" Renard questioned, surveying his surroundings.

"I think so?" Satiana shrugged. "It's not like anyone could have survived that blast unless they expected it."

"Yes, you are correct," Jeralt's thundering voice echoed through the empty lawns.

Satiana and Renard flinched at the alarming noise. Their hearts started thumping rapidly as they slowly turned around to face the demon storming towards them with a sinister look of anger on his face. The veins on his forehead popped out clearly against the shimmering moonlight. They gulped in unison, backing away slightly with a sheepish look on their faces.

Jeralt came to a halt in front of them, shooting them a murderous glare. "It would've been an impossible feat for anyone to escape that unscathed, whether they were friend or foe," Jeralt's brows twitched uncontrollably as he spoke through gritted teeth. "You were incredibly lucky, or else our heads would've been included in the death count."

"Uh, yeah, about that," Renard laughed awkwardly, eyes looking at anything but Jeralt's smoldering face. "Sorry, buddy! We kind of forgot about you guys up here…" he ended lamely.

"Really, you two should learn to be more careful with your…tactics," Byleth commented, appearing from behind Jeralt, her cloak half-burnt at the edges. Albeit the blank expression on her face, there was the way her eyes glimmered eerily in the moonlight that made Satiana shudder in response.

"Y-Yes ma'am," Satiana stammered out a response, nodding stiffly.

"Who…Who are you?" A grim voice sounded from behind Byleth.

Satiana blinked, peering over Byleth's shoulders. She spotted a lone warlock sitting on the ground. His mask was cracked on the beak. His cloak was burnt to a crisp; only the collar remained of the clothing, revealing the pale-white skin glowing underneath the moonlight. The tall witch-like hat on his head had completely ripped into pieces.

Her eyes darkened with realization.

Ah, so this guy is one of their leaders.

"That's not something for you to know, you beast," Satiana growled gravely. She pushed aside Byleth, who allowed her to move past without much struggle. Satiana strode across the lawn, the dark flames flickering around her shifting sideways to create a path leading towards the warlock.

The warlock shuddered, lifting his head to meet Satiana's eyes narrowed to death. Byleth and Jeralt fought like monsters — the warlock knew that from experience. But even without seeing the girl in front of him in battle, he knew that whatever monsters lay in wait, she was the most terrifying of all. Satiana's gaze lacerated him to the soul and demanded nothing less than raw honesty.

She pointed her sword at the beak of his mask. "Tell me," she demanded, the blade shifting closer to his skin, lowering to his neck. "Who are you? Where are the rest of your comrades? What are your goals?" She didn't leave room for him to breathe as she overpowered him with her menacing aura, pure bloodlust, and disgust towards the monster in front of her. "It's fine if you don't want to answer me. I'll squeeze every last drop out of you. I want to hear everything that you know."

The warlock shrank back in fear, but he held his composure. A resounding cackle slipped out from underneath the cracks of his mask. "We will return this world to mortal hands. For the sake of a new dawn, we must eliminate all remnants of that filthy race of beasts!"

None of his words made sense, and Satiana found her patience snapping. She stabbed her sword into the shoulders of the warlock and twisted the hilt, a blood-curdling scream shattering the quiet tension in the air. She scowled, plunging the blade deeper into the wound. There was no denying it anymore. Satiana wanted to kill him immediately.

Part of her wanted to give in to her deepest desires — to dole out a taste of all the pain and hatred that had been bubbling beneath her skin for the past ten years of her life. To slash that neck of that disgusting body. To torture him until he bled for years, longer than the amount of trauma he forced upon the children. But she remembered her promise with Jeralt, Renard, and Rodrigue — she swore to rein in the darkness inside of her.

For the sake of the greater good, they needed more information. It wasn't the time yet to kill this man.

"We're going to capture you and tear you apart from limb to limb until you confess every last one of your crimes," Satiana barked in his face before she yanked the sword out of his shoulder, fists clenched tightly around the hilt till her hands started bleeding from barely contained fury.

The warlock continued to laugh, the high-pitched tone of his voice sending chills down her spine. "Hah! Be my guest. I swear upon the name of Myson. I will never divulge any information to those who support those beasts like you! Torture me if you wish. That is…" he trailed off as the air suddenly grew heavy, sparks flying in the air. "If you can catch me!"

His hands started glowing red, and Satiana's eyes widened.

Shit…!

"Satiana!"

The sound of Renard screaming her name barely registered in her ears as the light blinded her.

Rodrigue sat in his study, tapping the tip of his pen lightly against the sheet of paper in front of him. It was only the first of many documents that required his signature in the endless piles of paperwork looming over his desk. It seemed like an easy decision — to sign his name or not. But things were never easy when it involved politics.

Especially politics that involved invasion and war.

The decision weighed heavily on his mind even though he had already resolved himself to sign the papers, approving Faerghus's decision to retaliate against Duscur.

There was no turning back after this moment. He was sending innocent people to their deaths. His mind understood it, but his heart could never. If only Lambert were still around, perhaps he could've chosen a different path. Maybe if he thought hard enough with that elite brain of his, he could come up with a better decision that would benefit Faerghus in the long run without harming the innocent.

But Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius was just one man fighting a lonely battle against himself and the ghost of his friend that followed around him like the plague. Lambert would never agree with his decision. But perhaps that kind-hearted soul of his was why he was dead — Rodrigue alive instead.

Forgive me, Lambert.

His hands trembled as he signed his name onto the paper. After finishing, he grabbed the piece of paper and shoved it underneath the pile, hoping never to see it again.

He reclined back into the chair, back slouching on the seat. He gazed absentmindedly up to the ceiling and heaved a heavy sigh in exhaustion.

The door to his study suddenly opened, the Fraldarius butler strolling in with a tray in his hands. Rodrigue immediately straightened his posture, folding his hands neatly on top of the table. He spotted the white envelope on top of the metal tray and frowned, feeling his stomach plummet.

"Is that a letter from our…helpers?" he vaguely spoke as if worried someone would be eavesdropping on them.

"Yes, it is from them," his butler stoically replied, bowing lightly before he placed the letter on the pile of documents on Rodrigue's desk. "Please, excuse me." The butler quietly excused himself, leaving out the open door with grace and another stiff bow.

The door shut tight, and Rodrigue immediately grabbed the letter, peeling the seal off with his knife.

It had been about three months since he last heard from Jeralt and his crew. They should've been searching for clues in the County of Ordelia. A part of him was hopeful — he had a hunch that they would return with positive results this time. The evidence he had received from House Hyrm was more than enough to threaten their position as nobles in the Empire. Of course, Faerghus had no right to delve into the Empire's affairs. But nevertheless, he could apply pressure on them as someone who knew their backhanded dealings with the Duke of Aegir and the other members of The Seven.

He just had to pray that whoever the next puppet head was, they would be an easy foe to subdue.

Rodrigue opened the contents of the letter and quickly skimmed through it. His frown deepened as he read past the first few lines. By the end of the letter, his heart felt heavy. A part of him was glad that they had succeeded in destroying one of the experiment facilities. However, it had come at the cost of many lives.

Rodrigue opened his drawers, searching for an empty sheet of paper. He pulled one out, grabbed his pen, and prepared to write a response.

But he froze mid-air.

He didn't know where to begin. He was delighted that they were all safe and sound. Their accomplishments were huge, and they deserved praise and reward. However, there was also that damning paper he just signed his name on.

Rodrigue sighed for the umpteenth time that day, burying his head into his hands.

How am I supposed to break the news to them?

Imperial Year 1177

Red Wolf Moon - Day 18

Dear Sir R,

Apologies for the late reply. As you know, we have been busy dealing with the extermination of human trafficking between the Hyrm territory and the Ordelia domain. As of now, we have destroyed one of their facilities underneath Lord Ordelia's mansion. Until the Empire sends a new puppet head to House Hyrm, we should not see any more movements between the two territories.

In case you are wondering, this reply came quite late because I was careless against the enemy. I was sent hurling into the air by a well-timed Swarm-Z spell and almost lost my sight because of it. Fortunately, I only suffered minor burns and a few broken limbs, but then again, I'm used to it by now. Hopefully, you are too.

Unfortunately, we let one of their higher-ranked members escape. He calls himself Myson, and he is a Warlock who uses dark magic.

In addition, House Ordelia has decided to swear fealty to Faerghus, or really, to you, sir. Of course, they are still a part of the Alliance on the papers. The heir to House Ordelia has decided to relinquish her claim to the noble house, which means House Ordelia will end with her generation. However, she plans to do this after improving the state of affairs within their County. Would you be so inclined to help them do so? If you are afraid of the Empire catching wind of your movements, we will gladly send them rations and gold in your stead, although we may have to find a different way into the Ordelia County that does not involve passing the Myrddin Bridge.

I hope this message finds you well. We have successfully stopped one of the Empire's schemes. You should be proud of us. By the way, thank you for the vacation. We will use it wisely and discretely to escape from the enemy's radar.

Sincerely,

Prisoner S

"You are a complete utter fool, you know that?"

"Yeah…I…know…that…!"

"Why didn't you dodge the damn spell?"

"Because…I was…blinded by…fury!"

"Then learn to rein in that goddamn darkness within you. Don't let it cloud your judgments. Also, pick up the pace!"

Satiana panted loudly, huffing for air. The muscles in her arms and legs felt like they were on fire as she scrambled up the hills. The tar-black clouds showed no signs of abating as they continued to spit down beads of water. The splashing puddles punctuated her march with discordant echoes as she ran up the slippery hills and steep slopes, Renard a few feet in front of her.

"Your stamina sucks, you know that?" Renard scolded as he picked up the pace, splashing water against their clothes.

Satiana scowled, biting her lips in annoyance. "I blame it on the fact that I haven't been fed well for the past ten years."

She felt her legs wobble, her balance slipping, and she yelped. She barely managed to keep herself on her feet. Renard paused in his steps, shooting a glare her way.

"Every time you slip, I'm increasing the amount of time you practice your sword swings by an hour," Renard declared, much to Satiana's chagrin.

"Are you trying to kill me? The rain makes it so easy for you to slip!" Satiana complained though she picked up her pace, following after Renard's tracks obediently.

After they finished their mission in the County of Ordelia, Jeralt and his crew departed for the Charon territory in Faerghus. Although Lysithea begged them to stay longer to protect the people of Ordelia from the Empire, Jeralt refused, saying they had urgent business in Faerghus to take care of. Half of it was a lie; they indeed had business in Faerghus, but it wasn't urgent. They just didn't have the heart to tell Lysithea they were technically considered fugitives in the Empire territory and that they couldn't risk the 'real enemy' figuring out who they were. There was too much to explain and too much at stake.

However, Lysithea was the one who cured Satiana's wounds with her healing magic, so it was only fitting for her to leave a few encouraging words for the poor girl. Satiana left a message for Lysithea, telling her to fight for her territory — to prepare for revenge against the bastards who ruined her life. She knew that Lysithea would be able to do it. Those vibrant pink eyes burned with such depth and brilliance within them. Despite facing such tragedy, Lysithea was more than ready to fight back.

And she did. It had been three months since they'd left Count Ordelia's territory, and they had already heard the news of how much Lysithea reformed their domain, even chasing away the remnants of the Empire within her territory.

That young girl, barely the age of ten, did it all by herself.

Satiana felt like she had lost somehow. She wanted to grow stronger. So strong that she would never have to face such a helpless situation ever again. So here she was, in the mountains next to Charon territory, training with Renard.

"Your pace is slowing again!"

"I know, I know! I'm trying, damn it!"

She ran fast. Faster and faster. So fast her weakness couldn't catch up with her. But she was unaware that what awaited at the end of her training session with Renard was devastating news from Rodrigue.

That night, she cried herself to sleep, her tears blending in with the sound of the rainstorm that enveloped Faerghus with dark, neverending clouds.

Imperial Year 1177

Ethereal Moon - Day 2

Dear S,

Forgive me for the extremely late reply. As you may have heard, Faerghus has now gone to war with Duscur. The nobles have been pressing us to exterminate the threat to Faerghus's stability. Although Margrave G. and I have been arguing against the decision in the round table conferences, it appears that we are unable to stop this senseless massacre.

I sincerely apologize. I have failed our promise to prevent another bloodshed. Regarding House Ordelia, I have been secretly sending them supplies through a different route, passing by the Leicester Alliance. Do not worry, I have my ways.

Once again, I am terribly stricken with grief. No words are enough to express the pain I feel as I write you this letter. You may resent me. It's only right for you to do so. I spoke as if I had the power to persuade the nobles, but here I am, a useless fool.

Again, I'm sorry. I don't know what else I can say.

I'm so sorry.

Sincerely,

R.

It was near the last month of the year. The Duscur Tragedy continued to claim innocent lives across the barren plains. House Kleiman had been awarded the title of Viscount in recognition of their success in subjugating the rest of Duscur's forces, allowing them to rule over Duscur as a feudal estate.

The winds had changed, no longer in Faerghus's favor. Though Jeralt and his crew had successfully sabotaged one of the enemy's experiment facilities, it was not enough to stop their process of destabilizing Fodlan through war. There was still far too much they didn't know. And with just Rodrigue and Jeralt working together, it would be impossible to search every nook and cranny of Fodlan.

They needed more authority to move freely. Not just the words of a duke — they needed the entirety of Faerghus to come together to defeat the real enemy under a King's command.

But the only heir to the throne was far too young to succeed. And as time passed by, the enemy would only grow stronger.

Perhaps it was due to the impatience, but every single member of Jeralt's crew was on edge lately. Byleth was as quiet as ever, while Renard took off during the night more often, sometimes disappearing for days to who knows where. Satiana locked herself shut in her room, leaving Jeralt to spend his days alone in their lodging.

Jeralt stared blankly at the ceiling from his seat in the living room. Alone in the cold room, he was only accompanied by the wind whispers that seemed to blow stronger than ever. The winter storm continued to devour the land of Faerghus, spreading anxiety as crops ran low.

The sound of wood creaking alerted Jeralt to his daughter, strolling absentmindedly down the stairs.

"How is she doing?" Jeralt asked, eyes filled to the brim with worry.

Byleth shook her head gravely. "Not good. She still refuses to speak to us except during missions."

Jeralt exhaled heavily, rubbing his face in his hands in exhaustion.

It wasn't as if he didn't understand Satiana's sentiments. He may act like he didn't care about politics, but Jeralt was a man of responsibility. Jeralt was never loyal to any particular nation in Fodlan and could care less about whatever happened between them. But this feud between the Empire, Faerghus, and the enemy that lurked in the dark threatened the peace in Fodlan.

He had grown attached to the people of Fodlan. He owed a lot of villagers and kind-hearted nobles who allowed him to roam through their land, protecting the weak from the strong. If possible, Jeralt didn't want to see them harmed.

But now, he had taken part in the decision to annihilate an entire race just because he was too powerless to make a difference in the grand scheme of things.

The guilt was gnawing at his soul. And if he, a man with many years of experience behind his back, was feeling a tremendous amount of guilt, what about a young child of barely fifteen?

Especially one with a pure, honest heart made out of glass.

"She'll be fine," Byleth suddenly spoke softly.

Jeralt glanced at Byleth, noticing the frown on her face.

"Satiana is a strong girl. She may feel hurt, betrayed, and helpless. But that guilt inside of her will make her take action again. She's not one to give up easily," Byleth continued.

A myriad of emotions whirled in Jeralt's eyes as he stared at Byleth with newfound awe. His lips twitched upwards, a smile making its way onto his face. "You've changed quite a bit, Byleth," Jeralt pointed out, his gaze soft and filled with pride.

Byleth blinked, cocking her head to the side in inquiry. "What do you mean?"

Jeralt laughed wholeheartedly, feeling a weight being lifted from his shoulders. "You feel more. Before, you simply completed missions like they were boring tasks. Nowadays, I sometimes see anger and sorrow in your eyes."

Byleth blankly stared back into Jeralt's honey, golden gaze. "Do I?"

"Even now, you're showing a flit of emotions I've never seen across your face before," Jeralt continued. "You may have a poker face that would make a brick wall jealous, but I'm starting to see some cracks in it."

"If I have changed, then it must be because of Satiana. Seeing her fight so hard for her life…for other people's lives…it makes me feel like…there's so much meaning to life," Byleth stammered uncharacteristically as she spoke. "That life is precious. That I want to fight for something so strongly like her too."

Jeralt chuckled. He walked over towards Byleth and lightly patted her head, caressing the hair strands with love and care. "You'll find it one day. Your reason to fight. I'm certain of it, Byleth."

Byleth gently closed her eyes, letting her father spoil her for once.

Imperial Year 1178

Garland Moon - Day 5

Dear Sir Rodrigue,

This is Jeralt. I don't know why you've been using codenames with Satiana. I made sure no one could intercept our messages anyway.

We are currently back in the Empire. I'm sure you already know this, but ever since the Insurrection of the Seven, the nobles in the Empire have all banded together. We have been probing into Duke Aegir's territory, but they are heavily guarded. It would be impossible for us to sneak in as we did with Viscount Hyrm. Unfortunately, their trail ends here. Unless you have spies within the Empire, it would be a prudent decision to retreat for now. I'm sure the enemies have already realized our existence. Ever since we destroyed one of their facilities, the people of the Empire have been extremely tense. There are guards and knights on the streets the entire day and night.

Unfortunately, our cooperation with you ends here for now. Until next time.

P.S. - Satiana isn't taking the news in Duscur well. However, she understands that it is not your fault. All three of us bear equal responsibility, after all.

Best Regards,

Jeralt Eisner

The day dawned crisp and clear. The clear blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds that drifted lazily in the gentle breeze. Satiana woke up to the sound of birds chirping, signaling the end of Faerghus's long winter.

She stretched her arms and legs on the bed, cracking her neck. The previously stiffened muscles relaxed under the warm glow of sunlight.

There was no more time for brooding. She had spent the entirety of winter wallowing in despair. But that was all the time she had given herself. One season to mourn for their loss. For her shortcomings. For her regrets.

Time doesn't understand remorse. It continues to tick on no matter how much one may wish for it to stop. That is why one must continue to move on. To never waste even a second.

She let the comfortable silence in her bedroom linger for a few more seconds before she suddenly chuckled to herself.

I probably look like shit, but they're waiting for me. I know they are.

She glanced towards the door, imagining the sound of Renard's boisterous laughter, Jeralt's scoldings, and Byleth's humming voice.

That's what they did to her. Blur her focus. Make her believe that somehow, someway, things will turn out all right. That she's not too far gone for forgiveness, and she can somehow make amends for her wrongs.

Survival was never pretty. It was a starved, limping creature dragging itself forward on broken limbs, leaving a trail of its own blood and tears behind. It was ugly, painful, pitiful, and disfigured. But it didn't have to stay that way. It had the ability to learn from the past, growing stronger and stronger. Shedding the ugliness along with tears of regret as it picked up fragments of warmth and care along the way, rebuilding its broken self.

Renard was the first to greet her when she finally emerged from the room of her own will. He took a glance at her and smiled warmly, knowing eyes filled to the brim with pride. "Welcome back, Satiana."

His words made her heart swell with warmth. She was no longer trapped in those cold, lonely cells. She wasn't the mindless puppet killing because she was ordered to. She now had a place she could call home: a place where she truly belonged.

And she had the ability to fight back. To not repeat the same mistakes. To change the future.

Let bygones be bygones. Focus on the present. And the coming future.

"I'm back!" Satiana proclaimed with a toothy grin, slamming her fists together in a show of spirit.

Imperial Year 1179

Wyvern Moon - Day 17

Dear Sir Jeralt,

This is Rodrigue. It has been a long while. Has it already been a year since we last passed messages? I have come to you with news from Faerghus. As Miss Satiana requested, we have been searching for connections between the Church and the Empire over the years. It has come to my attention that the Western Church has been secretly in contact with the Western coast of the Adrestian Empire.

Are you aware of the different offshoots of the Church of Seiros? The Western Church diverged from the beliefs and teachings of the Church of Seiros, establishing its own religion. Though it still worships the Goddess, it opposes the Central Branch and advocates for more extreme separation of class, race, and culture.

Does that not sound like the perfect scapegoat for the Tragedy of Duscur? Perhaps the Empire incited the Western Church to provide them with crest stones to use in their experiments, promising to destabilize Faerghus, who supports the Central Church.

I believe a trip to the Empire is once again necessary. Beware of the Arundel territory.

Sincerely,

Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius

"What do you have to say for yourself, Myson?" Thales snarled from his seat on the throne of Shambhala.

The high-ranked members of Those Who Slither in the Dark gathered in their conference room. Solon sat quietly in his seat, smirking at the shuddering mess prostrating himself on the floor. Myson had made a tremendous blunder with Ordelia County. He had failed to protect the facility, let its only survivor escape unscathed, and ultimately broke ties between House Hyrm and House Ordelia. Myson was his comrade, but at the same time, Solon didn't have much sympathy for the pathetic, old fool.

Failure was never an option.

"I-I have no excuses, my Lord," Myson stammered, bowing his head deeper, forehead against the cold, steel floor. "I have failed you. I…am prepared to accept any punishment."

The air sizzled with Thales's ire and menace, the suffocating air choking the air out of the occupants in the room. Thales slowly stood up from his seat. He sauntered over towards the trembling figure in the corner of the room.

"I'm dismissing you from your position as head of the experiments. Solon, you take charge instead," Thales commanded.

Solon smirked, bowing his head lightly with confidence. "As you wish, my Lord."

"W-Wait, but—" Myson started to protest, but Thales shot a warning glare in his direction. Myson's mouth went dry, his strength leaving him under the pressuring gaze. All demands withered and died. Just that single look of disgust was all it took for him to know that he had lost all of Thales's trust.

"Myson. Stand up," Thales ordered.

"Y-Yes, sir," Myson's legs quivered like a newborn puppy as he forced his legs to unlock themselves from the terrifying fear.

Thales pressed himself closer to Myson, harder, their chests touching as he glared directly into the poor man's eyes. Myson's stomach strained as he leaned away from the looming threat, but there was no escape from his leader's unreleased wrath. Thales grabbed Myson by the neck, squeezing tightly. Myson choked, sputtering and gasping desperately for air.

"I will give you one final chance, Myson. Go to the Western Church and take all their crest stones. Give them to Solon. Then, go to that Lonato's estate and finish the deal with him. You understand what I'm talking about, right?" Thales harshly whispered in an eerie manner. Then, his baritone voice lowered a notch. "Again, this is your last chance. Failure is not an option. If you fail to provoke Lonato into rebellion this time…you're finished."

"Y-Yes, sir," Myson let loose a pathetic squeak at the dark promise in Thales words.

"Hmph," Thales grunted in annoyance before he let go of his grip, sending Myson into a floundering fit on the ground.

Then, he turned to face the rest of the members sitting at the round table. "Take this as a warning. Do your jobs properly and no one will end up like this fool here."

All the members stood up and bowed their heads deeply towards their lord. "Yes sir," they chorused in harmony.

Thales dismissed the members of his faction with a wave of his hand, sending them off on their missions. As soon as the door to the conference room slammed shut, his fists crashed onto the table, splitting it right into two. His fists trembled as he cursed out loud at the skies above.

"Those damn Faerghus dogs…" he growled. "Let's see who'll have the last laugh in the end."

His haunting words echoed through the empty halls of Shambhala. The winds of Fodlan had changed direction again. A blessing to whom no one would know, except the almighty Goddess who quietly looked over her children from far above.

The night sky was ablaze with color — white, hot flames mingling in with the dark, purple fog, remnants of dark magic. Combined with the rampage of fireballs, bolganone spells, and meteors, the remaining land of Caldea quickly bled crimson red in the span of minutes after the army raided their territory. Pittacus and Chilon stood in the front, swiftly dealing with any soldiers or villagers guarding their flimsy home, sending them to the otherworld with a flick of their axe or spells.

"How boring," Pittacus chuckled, gloved hands glowing red as she hurled another fireball spell right into the gates of the royal castle. As expected of a poor country, their gates were not even built from sturdy metal or iron; the acrid smell of charred wood filled the air as the gate collapsed on itself.

"At this rate, we don't even need to release the beasts," Chilon scoffed, armor clinking as he rode confidently into castle grounds on his horse, slaughtering every knight and soldier along the way.

Pittacus sniffed, grimacing as she hid her nose behind her hands. "These soldiers are no better than animals. If only those Faerghus dogs were as incompetent as these fools, we wouldn't have to waste time experimenting on all those bastard children." She dug her heels into the stomach of a wailing man on the ground, grin pure shark as she watched him flail helplessly, ugly tears staining his face. "Hah! Dirty bastards!"

"Pittacus, stop wasting time on these mongrels. We have to get to the royal family before they escape," Chilon commanded as he sliced the head off an enemy commander, helmet and all. He scoffed, nose crinkling in disgust. "Perhaps we should let the beasts roam free. Ever since we lost a bunch of those children after the Duscur incident, we haven't been feeding them properly."

"Who cares about the beasts? We can always create more," Pittacus scoffed as the two strode side by side into the central chamber of the castle. "Did you not see all those little dolls lying on the streets? I know we're not one to talk, but Caldea's royal family is even more corrupted than the Empire. Cornelia would have a blast if she was here. They may be worthless children, but high-quality specimens for that twisted lady."

"I'll round them up later and send a notice to Cornelia. We can let our Lord deal with them. For now, we take over their spots," Chilon jerked his head towards the front and Pittacus peered over his shoulder.

The throne room did not look anything like what it claimed to be. Of course, half of it was because of the explosions from earlier. But even without the broken ceiling and crumbled pillars, the room was barely decorated, to begin with. Aside from the throne itself which was carved entirely from gold, everything else from the weather-worn carpets, the cobwebbed corridors, sculpted archways stained by mold or mildew, and dead clumps of grass peeking through the cobbled stonework screamed poverty.

Pittacus couldn't help but double down in laughter, cackling uncontrollably as she clutched her stomach. "Look at these dirty bastards! None of them know how to govern a country, nor are they even utilizing their remaining gold properly! They didn't even bother to renovate anything except the goddamn throne itself."

"Caldea has always been a poor and isolated country. They don't care about Fodlan or any of their neighbors. The royal family only cares about hoarding all that wealth they discovered from an abandoned mine somewhere, pretending to be rich as the rest of their people starve to death under their incompetent rule," Chilon commented, marching into the room.

He shifted his gaze sideways, noticing a small, clump of animal fur hiding behind a broken pillar. Without hesitation, he slammed his axe into the broken pillar, smashing the rest of it into ashes. A fat, old man, clad entirely in glistening red, fox fur screamed as he rolled along the ground. He landed headfirst into the wall, nose shattering with a resounding crack.

Pittacus snorted, hiding a snicker behind her thinly-veiled face. "Is that even a human being? He's just a pig playing dress-up, that one."

The golden tiara on his head fell to the ground in a clattering fit, sending loose jewels scattering onto the floor. The old man was a sobbing mess, blood staining his already marred features, oily skin glistening against the red flames surrounding his castle. The man squealed in horror as he dug his face into the floor, bowing on his knees, prostrating himself to the two enemies in front of him.

"I-I'm sorry!" he screeched, bawling. "I'll give you anything! J-Just spare my life, please!"

Pittacus stepped up to the man and slammed her heel into his back, laughing darkly. "Hah! Even a pig has more dignity than you do, you pathetic bastard of a ruler. I'm starting to pity those Caldea children out there."

Chilon snorted, rolling his eyes. "Don't say things you don't mean, Pittacus."

"Hey, I'm just showing a bit of condolence to you. After all, you're the one taking his place," Pittacus chuckled, digging her heels harder into the man's skin, earning a particularly high-pitched squeal as the man sobbed harder. "Hey, livestock. Listen carefully."

The old man lifted his face up to meet her eyes filled with disdain. She spat right on his face in disgust. "If you want to rule like a proper king, then all you have to do is follow our demands. You got that?"

"Y-Yes, master!" he screamed, curling his head beside her other foot, lapping at her heels with his snot-stained face in a show of absolute obedience. "I-I'll do anything you wish! Just please, don't kill meeeee!"

"You dirty vermin!" Pittacus snarled as she scratched her heels against his face with a sweeping kick, smashing through his skull in one fatal blow.

The man's body bounced across the carpets, the fur soaking in all of his dirty blood, staining the throne room red. Chilon walked up to Pittacus with a frown. "I thought we were going to ask him about his stash of gold first."

Pittacus shrugged nonchalantly, blowing a speck of dust off her gloved fingers. "I don't have enough patience to deal with this disgusting pig any longer. Besides, when you take over his persona, you'll gain access to his memories anyway."

Chilon sighed. He knelt down next to the maimed face, grimacing as he placed his palm against the bloodied mess. Closing his eyes, he muttered a spell from an ancient language. Pittacus watched with a bright grin on her face, eyes swirling with madness as the room shone vibrantly in blinding white.

As the beacon of light swirled around them, Pittacus began to hum cheerily, watching as Chilon's flesh began to turn pale yellow in color, his arms gaining muscles and fat as his face began to warp, gaining extra curves and droopy wrinkles. His armor eventually self-imploded, breaking into a million irreparable pieces as his body increased in volume and density, height shortening.

The light dissipated abruptly. Chilon no longer stood there clad in armor with an axe in hand.

"You should thank us later from the afterlife, old man," Pittacus whistled, bending down to rub the skeleton on the floor with her hands. It was all that remained of the foolish king, a pile of bones and ashes. "We'll take care of your land and riches for you. Caldea will go down in history as the land of the beasts, filled with roaming monsters and an elite group of warriors possessing two crests. Rejoice, fallen king, for even a foolish man like you has been given the opportunity to join us down the path to salvation."