Rousing from my dream – I immediately take note of a curious circumstance: my right arm is still fast asleep. A dull, round pressure seems to be weighing on my elbow and cutting off circulation from the crook of my arm on down. Before I can drag my attention to the cause of this uncomfortable sensation, however – my freshly-opened eyes find themselves fixated on the stained glass ceiling above me.

This otherwise nondescript architecture has brought old memories to the fore yet again.

There are more than a few Almyran hotels that are constructed and decorated in this style – but I had always figured those to be a local hit at best. The idea of there being one of these in Varley territory wouldn't be unheard of – as Almyrans likely stop here on their way towards Arundel, but… well, the coincidence is still worth noting, I think.

I burned a hotel like this to the ground once – in Almyran territory, I should clarify. At night.

My mind turns about the foggy contours of that campaign in my mind for a time – and I suddenly feel as if I should be somewhat guilty about that act – given that there were sixty or seventy noncombatants inside. Half of those were likely children. This will need further context, I suppose – so here goes:

In the wake of the gas attack on the Kupala lordship, Holst had been planning a… non traditional assault into Almyran territory for the next month that followed. The Locket was abuzz with activity – meant to be a diversionary tactic to mask his true objective. Only a select group of trustworthy mercenaries were allowed in on his plans for that campaign season.

Naturally, our company was atop Holst's shortlist, and he approached my father for this task. When the details of the operation came to light – particularly the fact that we'd be operating against civilian infrastructure – my father declined on behalf of the entire company, citing the fact that he was honorbound not to strike at non-military targets. I was willing to grant that as reasonable professional caveat – but Holst's reply to my father's protestation made logical enough sense, too:

"Almyrans jump from the womb and onto a wyvern."

This checked out with my experience, as child soldiers weren't unfamiliar among the ranks of the Almyrans – particularly when castles were besieged. That said, I also had sufficient fealty to my father to shake my head when Holst asked me along specifically.

At that point, however – my father encouraged me to make my own choice.

"You're not a kid anymore, kid." I was told – although I got the impression that he preferred for me not to not volunteer for such an endeavor. His expression seemed quite conflicted – and I had very little tolerance for that kind of emotion back then.

Recoiling from that emotion, and gravitating towards conviction, I volunteered for the mission. In the absence of proper authority or a clear chain of command coming from my father, I chose to default to Holst. Eight hours later, I was deputized as the expedition's adjutant – and given the authority to issue orders in the case of the Goneril's wounding or absence. There was little critique of this because Holst and I were apparently the only crest-bearers who volunteered. This was rather strange to me, though – as no one knew what my crest even was. Even now – four years later, I have no idea… or any idea about crests at all, really.

Still, I suppose I should've been honored – but honor as a feeling and not a series of maxims was uncharted territory for me at the time. Now… I think I get it. Ferdinand talks it about a lot in ways that generally make sense to me – brotherly comradeship and all that. I must admit that I've learned a great deal from my Ginger Lancer.

In any event, with a small band of picked troops, Holst and I crossed Fodlan's Throat from a nondescript pass used by local shepherds at a point far further North than the usual paths through the Locket. The locals referred to the pass as Ahaggar, but whatever that word once meant in the shepherd pidgin has since been lost to time.

After crossing an anonymous desert mountain with a summit that looked like it had been charred by an ancient brushfire, we marched through naught but desert for three days until we descended down into a treeless coastal plain. This plain – generously called that in recognition of its slightest difference from the barren desert before it – bordered a glittering coral reef and pristine, white beaches. Another day's march – West, I think – dropped us off right next to a seaside resort-town. This settlement held the name of "Sollum" on our stolen maps.

That evening, all three hundred of Holst's band rushed into this unprotected town and began to wreak retribution on every Almyran in sight. There are few good ways to describe the loot and pillage of a civilian center. It's all very chaotic, and not in a good way – or the way I prefer fighting, at least. Once-professional soldiers lose all discipline and set about gorging themselves on victuals, gold, and women.

Holst indulged in his fair share of food in such places – but he always mentioned that there was no fun in carrying off women. According to the rules of nobility, women required courtship and a proper chase. He also informed me that his sister was an acceptable target for me to court, but not chase – as if I knew what carrying, courting, or chasing women entailed. Now that I've met Hilda, I still can't say for sure. Back then, when I shrugged at his statement, the Elder Goneril couldn't help crowing to everyone in sight about how professional I was. Most of our compatriots that he told this to were drunk beyond all reason.

Leicester's Field Marshal let our comrades have the run of the village through the night and into the wee hours of the morning – at least until an Almyran relief column was spotted by an ersatz scouting party. A group of particularly grimy-looking fellows from House Acheron's contingent had apparently dragged some women off into the nearby desert to do whatever you do with a naked woman in a desert, and returned with the battered corpses of those girls and very fearful faces.

Initially, I thought themselves embarrassed because they had clearly butchered and mangled the bronze bodies of the aesthetic Almyran adolescents, but that was not the reason. This lack of remorse convinced me that the lessons my father gave me about shame were not universal.

Because I was not Leicestrian, or felt any strong feelings… or any feelings at all, I did not partake in the orgy of violence that followed, and merely sought out what Holst told me was the primary objective: the town hall. When Holst and I entered that town hall, we killed every civilian official cowering inside. Holst took his time chopping the mayor's limbs off one by one. The two of us finished this grisly work just before the relief column reached the town's outskirts. When we finally noticed the sizable mounted force pouring into the city streets from the town hall's belfry – the two of us quickly realized that there would be no escape for us unless we committed to a bit of rooftop parkour.

Holst – despite being a muscle-bound behemoth – is remarkably agile and light on his feet. Graceful, even.

That said, it's difficult to gracefully jump from rooftop to rooftop when some of those rooftops are on fire. Some of the troops, acting on their own volition, had set fire to town in an effort to cover their retreat. The wailing coming from many of the buildings we cleared also indicated that our comrades were barricading civilians inside – perhaps thinking that the relief troops would be forced to spend time freeing their countrymen in lieu of chasing down their foes.

A terrible idea, I should clarify – because Almyran foot soldiers rarely improvise or take initiative in that way. That sort of behavior is actively punished, in fact. Decisions are left to their princes.

As I mused on what a pointless gesture burning the town down was, Holst and I landed on top of a stained-glass rooftop, revealing a hotel below. I looked down and caught a quick glimpse at the families inside, slowly being hemmed into nearby flames around them and praying to the moon before their grisly deaths. One of the children noticed me, though, and pointed up as I crossed a part of the stained glass ceiling that let in the unfiltered moonlight.

This caused me to stop momentarily, and assess the boy. With the benefit of hindsight, he looked rather like a younger version of Claude – but I suppose that it couldn't be the Heir to House Riegan, as His Deceitfulness happens to be Leicestrian. The boy was far too young to be the Deer's Alpha Buck, anyway.

Still, I recall the anger in his eyes. Holst noticed him noticing too, and told me:

"Let 'em burn, Byllie. One less Princeling to fight when these bones start gettin' old."

How Holst knew the boy was royal was far beyond me – but he had been fighting the Almyrans for far longer than I had been. But… after seeing the Eagles and Deer murdered along the roadside… my mind can't help but turn that event over. There are some echoes of that day present here.

And I don't like that.

My arm was numb back then, too – but that's because there was the business end of a barbed arrow stuck inside the crook of it. A gift from the scrap in the town hall earlier – delivered by the only remaining town guard in the whole settlement. The arrowhead had severed the ulnar nerve, among other various ligatures and tendons packed in there – and the prospect of repairing it after Holst's expedition returned was a source of great annoyance for Fallstaff. Luckily, I was only seventeen and healed rather quickly. A similar wound to my father's meniscus later that year forced him to take to a horse.

That brings me to recall an enemy as well… Fallstaff, our former healer who is now an accomplice of those who want to harm my students. An individual who I will likely have to kill in order to fulfill my duty to protect the Eagles. A fellow who is Adrestian by way of birth – like me (technically, by way of Remire), and Edelgard, and the rest of the Eagles.

This acknowledgement leaves a certain weight hanging at my shoulders – but it's certainly not heavier than the dead weight on my arm right now.

That dead weight prompting pins and needles is a person, too.

But that person is someone I care for and wish to protect: Edelgard von Hresvelg.

My Student is asleep while seated in a chair beside the bed that I've just woken up in, her head resting uncomfortably on top of my arm. At some indeterminate point while I was off in dreamland – trying and failing to rescue Raphael – her tiny frame must have doubled over, knocked out in pure exhaustion.

So… the teacherly thing to do is get up and tuck her into bed, right?

I'm honestly not sure about all that – but my father did something similar when he was around – particularly before I joined the mercenary company. When I was a child, I had a habit of collapsing from exhaustion while training. When that occurred and I woke the following morning, without fail, I was always tucked into bed rather snugly.

In light of that, I slip my arm out – ever so gently – from below Edelgard's resting head, and then slide out of bed entirely. Then, recalling that My Student is quite light – I scoop her up under her knees, lift her from her chair and then place her very tenderly on the bed, lying on her back. Thankfully, none of these proceedings manage to rouse her. Another moment passes, and I'm able to bring the bedsheets up under her chin, and tuck them tightly at her sides. Taking a moment to inspect my work – I find myself impressed at my own efficiency.

If I might be so bold – my tucking-into-bed skill is certainly S-ranked.

As my gaze remains downcast, I find myself drawn to Restelgard's expression. It's rare to see an altogether unfurrowed brow on My Student's face, and I take some momentary pleasure in the fact that she's able to sleep so soundly. Earlier, during the Harpstring Moon, Edelgard claimed that she had trouble getting a full night's rest. At this moment, I think it worth noting that in all the times in which I've been around her, she seems to fall asleep just fine.

I wonder why that is, though…?

Realizing immediately that she'd never tell me, I return my attention to her current form, and find myself coming to a conclusion:

While my previous preference in the Edelgardian masquerade was Redelgard…

I think Restelgard is my favorite now.

She looks relaxed, moisturized – as the small trail of drool falling from the corner of her lip indicates… yet so naturally powerful – and very much in her lane, for lack of a better phrase.

And keeping her in that lane is my job as a teacher.

Not wanting to interrupt her rest any further with this staring of mine, I press the image of her drooling mouth into the depths of my mind and resolve to try and bring that to mind when I feel moody with her like I did the other day. Thinking about Edelgard like this will surely improve my tolerance of her when she does her Princess-ing things, right?

I still have no idea why I feel compelled to do all of this, though…

And that general sense of confusion carries me towards the room's door, where I grab my cloak from a coat rack before gently stepping out into the hotel hallway. I need to get some air – and perhaps to commit to some more serious analysis as to why I've been feeling like I have lately.


Unfortunately, I have no idea where I'm going – as the location and layout of this place is totally unfamiliar to me. It takes some twenty minutes of angular-but-also-circular wandering among narrow halls and shut doors before I finally happen upon the hotel's open-air central garden. Prominently featured in this space is a camel weighed down by saddlebags grazing on thistle. It's at this moment that I realize that the hotel is effectively a full-scale Alymran villa, and must assuredly cater to the whims of the traders who travel this route.

Rather reflexively, I approach the camel, but am stopped from progressing any further by a tug at my cloak and a vaguely familiar voice:

"...There's been a question that's been burning in the back of my mind since I witnessed that fight last night."

That slightly gravelly voice belongs to Lady Rusalka, who I turn to meet and take full stock of. She's sitting on a nearby stone bench, and it becomes awkwardly clear to me that I would've blown right past her had she not reached out – giving me the impression that my peripheral perception must still be a bit shaky from the blow to the head I took last night.

My eyes travel up from our point of contact: her long, thin, painted fingernails, up past her bejeweled wrists and arms covered by her only variation of clothing from yesterday evening: a woolen shawl. The Lady is still wearing her Satin dinner dress from last night – stained with red wine. Additionally, her expression of mild annoyance remains unchanged – accented by her jet black hair and hazel eyes.

Taking note of my lack of response with intense curiosity, she continues:

"...Do you normally kill all of your opponents with their own bones, or was that you just trying to impress someone?"

How else can I reply to that but with a shrug?

Lady Rusalka seems to take offense to this, however – as if I'm the one interrogating her unduly.

"There's no need to try and fool me with that silent treatment of yours – you were positively chatty while fussing over Princess last night. I saw everything from my little couch, you know."

"..."

Cometh my reply, hammered home with a completely blank stare. Perhaps giving her the Seteth treatment will shoo her away. This woman seems rather dangerous to strike up a conversation with for a whole host of reasons – although it's worth noting that I'm not actually all that conversational in the first place. Rusalka only thinks I am – I guess…?

What I am sure about is the fact that there's a lot of artifice with this woman. As I consider this, she presses on:

"...Well, at least chattier than you are right now. What's the story there, Professor?"

I supply another "..." for good measure, which seems to set her off-kilter a bit.

"Fine – fine! But you might at least express some gratitude to me for the room."

If that room allowed me to recover and Edelgard to get a rest, I suppose I owe her that.

"Thanks." I offer, as genuinely as I can with this unmoving face of mine.

Rusalka waits patiently for a follow-up that never comes, and after a minute or two of dead air, she attempts to re-start our conversation with:

"...Well, that's probably the best I can expect given the circumstances. Allow me to properly introduce myself, then – Dana von Rusalka, Lady of the Lordship of Rusalka."

Much like she did with Edelgard last night, she performs a full bow – echoing the bow that Hubert gave me on the twenty-third of Great Tree Moon upon our first introduction.

"Byleth Eisner." I reply.

I don't make any demonstration one way or the other, and this prompts a raised eyebrow from the noble.

"Consider me rather curious to see how someone as reticent as you delivers a lecture. But I suppose that I should ask my real question now, shouldn't I? It seems like you're running out of patience."

Realizing that Rusalka is probably the only person who can detail the events of last night – with Edelgard asleep and Bernie having a habit of stumbling over long sentences – I dial back my aloofness a bit.

"It's fine." I reply with a slightly extended arm.

Rusalka takes my inch and tries to make it a mile with:

"Oh…in that case… perhaps I could treat you to brunch…?"

No.

"I'll go with Edelgard and Bernie later." is the response I try, internalizing the fact that tact might get me a bit further than bluntness with Adrestian nobility.

I owe that acknowledgement to teaching my Adrestian noble students, of course.

And although Rusalka appears to be in her thirties – I'm willing to grant that she was a student once, too – wasn't she? Duke Varley mentioned that she attended the College in Morfis, like Maya – Raphael's brother. It's a common enough track for the magically sensitive who aren't allowed to attend the Magister's Academy in Fhirdiad for political or social reasons.

"While I don't mean to rain on your parade, you should know that one member of your little academic menage-a-trois has been left high and dry…" Rusalka says, cutting off my train of thought.

A lot of those words didn't make a lick of sense – but I can gather clues from context. One of my students is missing, in effect. And since I tucked Edelgard into bed not long ago, that means…

"...Bernadetta?"

Rusalka nods.

"Before the wheels up there start turning – might you allow me to explain myself – and the situation?"

"You have my attention." I reply.

The Leader of House Rusalka brings a painted finger to her chin.

"How familiar are you with Adrestian politics, Professor?"

Hoping that Rusalka will avoid all of the political song and dance and just tell me where the fuck Bernadetta has been carried off to, I reply with:

"I'm apolitical."

"Well, I suppose mercenaries have that luxury, don't they?" comes the very tangential reply.

Shaking my head in what must be completely hidden frustration, I utter:

"Get to the point."

Rusalka, oblivious to my plight, taps her finger against her lower lip, stained in magenta.

"Hmmm… how to express everything in so few words…"

If I was Edelgard right now, I'd surely be fidgeting.

"...Well, let's just say this: Duke Varley tends to vastly overestimate his own power and influence in the courts of Enbarr and abroad. And that overestimation has earned him the ire of Albinea, Adrestia's most important trade partner. That ire also extends to Lord Arundel, the current Imperial Regent. Make sense so far?"

Sure – but I don't give a shit about any of that, frankly.

"I don't care. Where is Bernadetta?" is what I reply with.

"I'm getting there…! You see, Lord Arundel recalled me from Albinea to personally petition Duke Varley. We need him to stop using prizes from the Brigidian war as slave labor. Our ally's religious head has some strong personal opinions about it – coming from that station himself. The Admirals there are threatening to embargo our exports unless the Duke complies."

If I were to just wrap my hands around Lady Rusalka's throat, she'd…

"You have ten seconds." I say after taking a step forward to close the distance.

Something about my rather placid expression and perfunctory comment seems to send the woman into a fearful state, however – and she follows up with:

"Ten seconds, r-right…! Well, Duke Varley stole off with Bernadetta back to Varley manor after siccing his knights on the Princess and I…!"

There was a scrap, I'm guessing. But Rusalka and Edelgard can both defend themselves – and apparently, they both defended me… which I'll need to thank them for after rescuing Bernie.

"Where is the manor?" I ask – already considering possible courses of action. The first that seems necessary is a scouting trip.

Much to my inexpressible surprise, however, Rusalka throws up a hand.

"Hold on one more moment! If you rush in there and fail, this will cause nothing short of a disaster in the Imperial Court. Can you imagine the Enbarr criers? Pit-Fighting Professor of the Princess Fumbles Negotiation in Varley Territory?"

…So?

"Gossip's not my concern. Protecting Bernadetta is." I explain.

With ambassadorial flair, my conversation partner clears her throat.

"We're of like mind, of course…! And luckily, I happen to have permission from Lord Arundel to… deal with the Duke Varley Problem."

I seriously doubt Rusalka gives a damn about Bernadetta's safety, but I'll chalk that up to her attempting to be diplomatic. There's also a new tidbit of information there that calls for clarification:

"What does that mean?"

The Diplomat immediately gets my meaning.

"Lord Arundel has sanctioned a hit on Duke Varley if he fails to meet Albinea's demands. If his wife or daughter will assent to freeing the Duchy's chattel slaves and signing a new treaty with the Albineans ensuring… fair trade silk production, then Old Man Varley can and should be replaced."

Trying to pin her down on what exactly she's trying to get from me – I ask:

"...You want me to assassinate Duke Varley?"

Rusalka nods.

"And you'll get paid – handsomely, too! Mercenaries like money, isn't that true…? I'm guessing you've already figured out that House Hresvelg isn't exactly flush with Gs in the way they used to be, no?"

…Didn't Edelgard flip Ignatz six figures for a painting? What is this woman on about? She continues on-ing about with:

"Your other student – the Varley Daughter, I mean… would inherit her father's title – and pending she complies with directions… Adrestia's balance of trade would be unmolested! The report would be simple: murdered by a Brigidian slave."

This all seems very fishy.

"Under most circumstances, I wouldn't have considered such a thing in the realm of possibility, but having someone like you who can… well, kill people so… adaptably…"

With this nonsensical comment by the Ambassador to Albinea, I realize that I've filled my cup of political discourse for the day and say:

"Run it by Edelgard when she wakes up."

This seems to crush Rusalka's soul.

"Hm… I had a fear that you would say that… I'm not exactly in a position to do that, you see…"

So – Edelgard would want to keep Bernie's dad alive, then? Is that what Rusalka's implying?

"Then I'll find another way." I note with a shrug.

At this Rusalka finally rises, and half-circles around me in order to cut off my advance towards the original object of my interest – the camel, still lazily grazing in the mid-morning sun.

"Listen, Professor – you know the Princess's father was the… victim, let's say with respect – of a palace coup by Lord Arundel, right? I don't think Lady Edelgard would really want to–"

The clacking of boots on stone is heard and interrupts the ambassador's plotting. Those boots belong to my Student, of course – doubtless coming to rescue me from this very political discussion that I'm being subjected to at the moment.

"Are you quite done making assumptions, Lady Rusalka?" she asks, very Princess-ly. For a change, it's nice to see her squint directed at someone else.

"Ah, Princess – how rude of me to not acknowledge your presence before this! I was caught up in a scintillating conversation with your Professor. Those Brigidian tattoos led me to believe that he's rather worldly, as I'm sure you already know."

I'm not worldly – I've just killed a lot of people. Still, that eerily familiar accusation of my supposed worldliness prompts another familiar question to escape from my own lips rather effortlessly:

"Edelgard, are you OK?" I ask

After a sudden fidget, Redelgard appears – as if on cue.

"O-of course, My Teacher… I merely have difficulty sleeping on my back, at times…" she manages, quite uncomfortably… perhaps because Lady Rusalka is present here.

It's at that point I recall the conversation we had during our picnic on the 29th of Great Tree Moon – Edelgard von Hresvelg is a side-sleeper.

"...I should have tucked you in on your side." I note – and would sound apologetic if I could.

This reply of mine just unmoors her further, however, and she blurts out:

"Y-you were the one who did that…?"

Before I can acknowledge this, however – I notice in my periphery that the Ambassador to Albinea appears to be attempting an escape from the two of us, slowly backing away from Edelgard now that My House Leader has been thoroughly distracted with all this bedroom talk.

Thankfully, Edelgard notices me noticing.

"Lady Rusalka." she utters with a cutting tone to it.

Rusalka throws up a hand – almost like a child attempting to hide a stolen cookie they ran off with.

"I thought it prudent to give the two of you a moment alone!" She offers quite smoothly, her words and body language creating a rather intriguing conflict. One that I think to take note of in the event of future interactions.

My Student shakes her head at this pathetic capitulation.

"That's… hardly necessary. Now, I wish to discuss the matter you thought to hide from me."

"It was not meant to hide, Princess – merely to be conscious of your position." comes Rusalka's riposte.

"For whatever it may be worth to a diplomat as debased as you appear to be– I am more than willing to put aside a foolish familial feud if it improves Adrestia."

Rusalka squirms at this expression of nationalism – a dangerous sentiment directed at a diplomat recently accused of double-dealing, I'd grant. She begins her answer to this rather meekly by stating:

"Be that as it may… I had thought to trouble your teacher with it in order to–"

And is cut off with a familiar quip – one that I've actually missed, lately:

"My Teacher defers to me."

What else can I do but nod and say:

"I do."

Thoroughly defeated, the ambassador returns to her seat on the bench. Crossing her left leg over her right leg in what looks like a fit of discomfit, she confirms in a self-pitying tone:

"It seems all the principles I had thought to stand on have eroded away."

…But this prompts me to ask a question: why is noble – who answers to Edelgard – still so reluctant to work with My Student even after a statement confirming her commitment to country? Hammering home the point, Edelgard begins to lecture Rusalka on her viewpoint:

"As it happens, I actually share the perspective of My Uncle in this particular matter – as Duke Varley's behavior endangers the Empire's economy. I would prefer us to not be dependent on a foreign power for our trade… but to do that, we must acknowledge circumstances as they are before correcting them."

It's hard to argue with a viewpoint like that – although the emphases make me think that if Edelgard had an opportunity to contest such a view, she would. Is it because of her Uncle? Because of the coup that Rusalka mentioned…?

I probably need to read another book – preferably about the Empire.

But before I can give that any more consideration, Rusalka replies with:

"That's about as educated as patriotism can be made to sound, Princess. Consider me both impressed and thankful."

Growing exhausted with all the political discussion – I decide to take initiative and note:

"We should scout out the manor before committing to a strategy."

And much to my surprise – Rusalka agrees.

"An excellent idea, Professor."

Edelgard, for her part – looks at me very intently and mouths a single word in a silent question:

Petra?

I nod – but if I could smirk, I'd smirk.

Because I'm really proud of her.


The Varley Estates can be roughly split into four quadrants. The entire Northwest and Northeast quadrant – covering miles instead of yards… and not exactly to scale with the southerly ones, are made up of a massive orchard of mulberry trees. Mulberry leaves, of course, are the sole diet of the Morfian silkworm, and Varley territory is the only locale in all of Adrestia with the correct climate and elevation to nurture these finicky trees to adulthood.

In the mid-afternoon heat, hundreds of Brigidian slaves have wandered out into this massive orchard to harvest specially marked branches for their greenery. Over the course of a single growing season, these trees can produce tens of thousands of leaves if pruned properly – and the plantation overseers, koboko in hand, see to that efficiency with precision strikes on the backs of the rail-thin Brigidians who stumble or slip.

When the workday completes, most of the workers retire to the shanty-town – really no larger than a hamlet – that occupies the Southeast quadrant of the estate. The mudbrick abodes there are built so closely they nearly rest atop one another, and are hemmed in by earthworks, watchtowers, and guards… likely Knights of Varley. That earthwork also extends towards the southwestern quadrant of the estate, where the Varley manor – more appropriately described as a motte and bailey with a mansion inside, resides.

Several dead bodies which have been lynched and hung from a diseased tree near the Southwestern entry-gate indicate what must be the punishment for continued laxity, or attempted escape. Curious that Duke Varley would post them by his own thoroughfare, however...

Seeing enough, I take off my field glasses and hand them to Edelgard.

"How many knights are present?" Rusalka asks as My Student affixes the magnifying lenses.

"Four hundred." I note, but that's more of a "give-or-take" number. It's also impossible to see what manner of household guards Duke Varley has within the manor house.

"Is that not… exceptionally high…? I had thought that Lord Arundel would have taken more for his expedition to the border…"

At this, Edelgard, Adrestian Expert, chimes in:

"The Regent is only allowed to mobilize one-fifth of the household troops from the Lords of the Realm. Only Emperors can draft entire household armies."

Rusalka shakes her head.

"Still, if that number holds – Varley has five times my own household. My majordomo only sent fifty knights."

After catching Rusalka's statement, My Student then suddenly takes off the field glasses and turns back towards the Lady of the Realm with a squint.

"...Well, might I suggest getting your own house in order…? You must be embarrassed at such a paltry number of Knights in your employ, are you not?"

"Harsh words, Princess…"

The Heir to an Empire presses forward with her critique – and while I'm sure it's a just one… we do need to rescue Bernadetta here…

"The Lordship of Rusalka, if I recall correctly, happens to have roughly three-hundred and eighty square miles in total area. Around three hundred square miles of that territory is arable farmland. Need I remind you that it is the obligation of every feudal Lord in Adrestia to furnish two knights per-arable-square-mile?"

Withering in the face of this new attack, Rusalka retorts weakly with:

"Even so, Princess – times have…"

"Last decade, that number was four knights per square mile, Lady Rusalka." comes the next chop from the axe-wielding Princess.

Feeling a momentary pang of sympathy for this person who is now the subject Testelgard, I opt to cut in and note:

"The slave quarter gatehouse is the most lightly defended."

Rusalka, in characteristically ambassadorial astuteness, jumps at the opportunity to change subjects.

"Oh? Would that not be the point that Duke Varley would be most inclined to protect?" she asks – and I might even believe that military strategy was an interest of hers, if I didn't know better.

Then, directing Edelgard's attention to the battlements with a finger, I answer:

"The battlements and defenses are directed inward."

The Heir to an Empire still seems to desire to rake Lady Rusalka over the coals, though – and after acknowledging this circumstance, turns back to her future vassal. Her future vassal – under a withering glare – manages to keep her attention on me, and reply with:

"Ah… It would appear to be constructed in that manner to prevent a revolt of the slaves… And since that wall faces Eastward… enemies would likely approach from the West…"

"Right." I confirm.

"Isn't that rather far away from the Varley mansion? How do you plan on covering that much ground without being discovered?" the older woman asks, in a last, desperate attempt to punt the future chat about feudatory obligations away.

At this question, though – I turn to a resolute-looking Edelgard, who to her credit, now realizes that it's her time to shine:

"Our stratagem will not require secrecy, Lady Rusalka – in point of fact, we are going for quite the opposite effect. Is that not correct, My Teacher?"

And I nod, because why wouldn't I?

Like I always say – she's brilliant.


Author's Note:

We've witnessed the triumphant return (anonymously) of PRT Reply King in the review section! I know that grammar and syntax anywhere.

And just like PRT has had a habit of doing – he's clearly reading some other fic and not mine. Just to reiterate: we have Yesman Byleth (so-called) doing the following:

-Telling Edelgard to fuck off almost immediately after saving her life in Remire.

-Pimp-slapping her eight days later for trying to turn the training ground into an execution pit. In front of her yes-man, no less. On Dimitri's behalf…!

-Gently encouraging Edelgard to re-evaluate her plan to advance on the Red Canyon because he has a high opinion of her burgeoning tactical ability. Prior to this, all the "planning" has been done by her actual Yesman, Hubert. Edelgard reacts to Byleth trusting her judgment so positively she scuttles the original ambush plan. Byleth chose to walk with her for this mission and was rewarded. The actual yes-man gets punished, and Edelgard even snaps at Hubie when he tries to actually follow the original plan of assassinating some of the key targets.

-Interfering with Metodey's attempt to murder Faerghus's noble heirs in Remire. He then flexxed on TWSITD by committing a grisly war-crime while in the Church's employ, which he got actively called out for in the report to Rhea.

-He threatened to fight three dragons and a relic weapon wielder because he didn't want Dimitri to be yelled at by Seteth. Dimitri, as El reminds us, is not Byleth's student. If anything – Billy actively simps for the Lion King.

-Telling her to fuck off again when he was in a bad mood earlier this moon! Can you ever imagine Hubert doing that? TWICE?

-Declining her request to not get involved with the Brigidian raid on Duke Varley's territory. I'm hoping that PRT is smart enough to figure out that both Edelgard and TWSITD are preparing for war next year, and having some big hedonistic noble dum-dum like Duke Varley draining your war-chest by gaslighting a trade partner not exactly conducive to that effort. Tangentially, one thing I always found interesting about TWSITD is that they chose not to liquidate and replace the rest of Adrestia's nobility after they had served their essential purpose: kneecapping Ionius. This arc is there to demonstrate that they could if they want to.

In every possible way, Byleth has been ACTIVELY UNDERMINING Edelgard and TWSITD. He just isn't in on the dramatic irony yet.

So, PRT – I'll flip it to you now:

How exactly would you like Byleth to stop yes-manning Edelgard? Would you like her to disclose the entire TWSITD plan in Garland Moon and start the Silver Snow route eleven months early? Is that it? Because you're sounding like an idiot right now if that's what you want.

Eagerly awaiting your reply. And try to keep it in English (or Fodlanese, Brigidian, Dagdan or Morfian) this time. Whatever pidgin you're using is a bit hard to grasp at times. Is that Ylissean or something?

And a big thank you to all the regular commenting crew. I'll have individualized replies next chapter. Couldn't leave PRT hanging, though.