Normally, the library would be silent in the dead of night. Curfew didn't extend to the library, but it wasn't often that students liked to spend their time for sleep elsewhere.

This night was different, just like the past few nights. Five figures sat around a table, noses buried in books with tomes stacked like castles around them.

"I hate reading," groaned Hilda as she snapped her book shut.

"No, you don't," Claude said without hesitation or looking up.

Hilda pouted. "Why couldn't I come when Marianne was here?"

Lorenz sipped at a cup of long cold tea, grimacing. "Because then you'd get nothing done."

Byleth chuckled as Hilda protested. She privately agreed with Lorenz. It was why when she scheduled them all for researching times, she made sure to create groups that would function.

Not that she'd had to convince them all of it. Claude had proposed studying Relics more after the mock battle and the rest of the class agreed. He'd shared some research he'd done in his own time and like the close house they'd become, the others jumped to help. Some were less suited to research and helped in other ways. Raphael took over chore duty and Mercedes took over dining hall duty to free up the bookworms.

Claude and Lorenz were almost constantly in the library with Hilda of all people following up. Despite her protests otherwise, she wasn't stupid.

Their fifth member, Ignatz, wasn't actually at the table at the moment. She looked around and saw him chatting with Tomas.

Dorothea had been with them as of an hour ago, but Byleth sent her to her room when she'd fallen asleep in her tome. Leonie had left hours before that to get in some practice with Shamir.

These students will work themselves to the bone for you. Do you see that?

Byleth did. She tried to pretend it wasn't so. How could anyone follow her so dutifully? It had to be Claude. He had charisma, the passion she did not.

The man in question leaned forward to rib Hilda further. When had she started to consider him a man and not a boy? The thought started Byleth. No longer did she sit with boys and girls, now she saw men and women. What had changed it?

And Claude himself, that smile on his face was real now. When had she been able to tell that? And when had it become to infectious that she started to smile too when she saw it?

Was it the mock battle? No, it was before that. Maybe it wasn't a specific point.

You are such a fool, you know that? For someone who sees so much, you are astonishingly blind.

Sothis was another matter.

After the mock battle, after she'd recovered from the fire, she confronted the girl in her head about the vision. She'd been reticent, unwilling to share much.

"They aren't your memories of the fire," Sothis had told her. "They're mine. I was awake in you and was there to remember it for you. I am the reason you fear fire so. For a baby to see and experience that at such a young age, it must have been terrifying."

Byleth hadn't know what to say to that. So she'd said nothing.

"It seems that even while I was dormant, I could see…" she had trailed off, and those were the last words Byleth heard from her for a week.

Until Sothis began to chirp away again in her head, whatever ailed her seemingly gone. But that time away had given Byleth time to think.

Fire.

So basic, so necessary. It was everywhere in the world. When she was younger, Byleth had been scared of campfires. Her father hadn't known how to react as it had been the winter. Someone who avoided campfires froze. So he'd held her, keeping her close to show her that the flames couldn't harm her.

She didn't mind campfires now. Or torches, or any of its mundane uses. That wasn't to say she was ready to sit close to a bonfire or hold the torch, but it was a progress in the grand scheme.

A nightmare had paid visit last night. It was one she'd grown accustomed to in her life, as one became used to a sword in the gut as a mercenary. Excruciating, but familiar.

She'd been tied to a stake as cloaked figures began to light her pyre. Byleth would burn alive, waking only when the flames reached her neck. But this time, it'd been Lysithea who dropped the torch onto the woodpile.

Mercedes had been furious when Byleth told her about how Lysithea attacked her in the mock battle, but Byleth calmed her down. Said it was just a way to play to advantages which she could hardly fault. But deep down, Byleth wondered if it was that or a vendetta. But a vendetta for what?

"For nothing," Claude had said when she finally mentioned it to him as they reviewed the mock battle one cold night as the first wisps of snow blew in from Faerghus. "Lysithea is a child, plain and simple. She wants to prove herself amidst people older, and in some cases, more skilled than her. You're an easy target to put down to gain Edelgard's approval."

The scorn in his voice shocked her. She voiced it.

"She hurts you, Teach. I see it, Mercedes sees it, we all do. It's one thing to turn traitor to your class like she did. That I could forgive, it's just school. But to use fire like she has to get to you, that I cannot abide." His knuckles had gone white as he clenched his hands. "If she ever does it again, you tell me, Hilda, or Lorenz. We'll take care of her for you."

Byleth didn't want to admit it, but it felt good to hear those words. To have someone aside from her father to look out for her.

And so therein came her newest resolution. Once the school year ended, she'd focus on getting over her fear. How, she had no idea. But there was drive in her soul, in her heart. If these students—no, these friends—were willing to go to such lengths for her, then she owed it to them to get better to be able to return the favor.

"Hey, everyone!"

Byleth snapped out of her daze, having been reading the same paragraph repeatedly for Goddess knew how long.

It was fifteen minutes.

Ignatz tended to hobble when he got excited. The crutch under his arm could barely keep up with his pace. On one hand, she was ecstatic that he was recovering so well. On the other, the poor man looked like he'd fall over when he moved too quickly.

He set down a small wooden case on the table. "Tomas just showed this to me, something from his personal collection," he babbled. "I mentioned to him we were studying the Relics after what happened at the battle and he suggested I might be interested in this as an artist."

"I'm not sure how art is going to help this," Lorenz replied, though he still looked intrigued.

Ignatz offered no reply, instead lifting the lid off the box. Inside was a deck of cards far older than Byleth had ever seen.

"It's an old fortune telling deck," Ignatz said. "The kind you might see at a carnival or fair."

"Shit," whispered Claude. He'd picked them up and looked at the first card.

It was a worn and faded image, but still visible. The paint had lost luster in its color, but it did not dull the ferocity in the image of the dragon. The beast was a deep red like an autumn sunset. The card was labeled, 'Creator'.

Hilda and Lorenz still looked confused. Claude began to share in Ignatz' excitement. "Old decks like these," he said, "were filled with various depictions of the Relics in order to tell fortunes. You'd have a set of the Relics, the Crests, and the holy stars, like the Blue Sea Star. Depending on what you drew, the dealer was supposed to tell your fortune."

"That's great and all, but how does that help us?" Hilda said. Beside her, Lorenz nodded in agreement.

"Look!" Claude cried. "You were the one who suggested the Relics felt alive, Hilda. Look at this art!"

As she thumbed through them, her eyes widened.

Each Relic card displayed a different one of the weapons. Freikugel. Failnaught. Thyrsus. Thunderbrand. Something called the Fetters of Dromi. But like the 'Creator' card, they had mythical animals.

Freikugel had a colossal bear, but the weapon was displayed in the leg of the huge animal.

Thyrsus an inflamed bird, the weapon its claw.

The Fetters of Dromi, the back of a crab's shell made entirely out of stone.

The Sword of the Creator, the great dragon's jaw.

"See?" Ignatz said eagerly. "I always thought that the Relics looked like they were made to look like bones. What if they aren't made to look like that, what if they actually are? Bones of animals and creatures that have gone extinct?"

"That could explain why they feel alive," Hilda realized. "Maybe these Crest Stones in them do something to make them still be alive."

"These creatures, they aren't any I've seen," Lorenz said. "Look at them. This bear is taller than the humans in the picture. This crab is wider than a tree. This dragon—"

"Looks like a demonic beast," Byleth said quietly, looking at the card in question.

The five of them fell silent. An implication hung over their heads.

"Maybe the animals aren't representative of where the Relics came from," Ignatz said slowly. "I mean, this art is old, but it isn't a thousand years old. What if it wasn't animals that the Relics came from, but Demonic Beasts?"

"And when people who don't have Crests hold one…" Byleth muttered.

"They turn into one," Claude said. "A failsafe on the weapons? Or maybe the Crest Stones hold some sort of power that corrupts?"

"My wetnurse told me a story once," Lorenz said. All heads turned to him. "It was a fiction, but this reminds me about it. The details are unimportant, but the hero drew his power from a rock, a gemstone of some sort. With it he could turn into a powerful creature. Dragons, lions, all manner of beasts. This seems a little too similar for coincidence."

"So when someone with a compatible Crest uses them, they become more powerful," Hilda said. "And if they have no Crest, they turn into a beast. Maybe it was some sort of bargain the Goddess made when she gave the Elites them?"

"One thing is for sure," Claude said darkly. "There's much more to these Relics than we could have thought. The gauntlets that Baron Ochs wore aren't in this deck. Instead, there's this Fetters of Dromi. I've never heard of it."

"Are there Relics that were hidden? Or more than Ten Elites?" Byleth asked.

"This one too," Hilda said, laying down another card. "Blutgang. I've never heard of it either."

"This deck already has more cards than most like it do," Claude said. "It could be missing more."

Ignatz removed several other cards as well. "Don't forget the other Crests in here. Noa, Aubin, Chevalier, Timotheos, Ernest, Maurice. Some of these I've heard of, but others…"

"For each of the Elites there was a Relic," Lorenz said, excitement creeping into his voice. "What if there's more Relics that have been lost? If we assume the Relic to Crest ratio is one to one, then there are more. Perhaps these gauntlets?"

"It would debunk Aelfric's theory of it being a manufactured Relic," Byleth said. "But we have no guarantee that theory holds water."

"The Church is hiding things, that much is clear," Claude said. "I guarantee they know these things, that they know what the answers are."

No one was in the library to hear them as they carried on. It was the dead of night and all students and faculty had long gone to sleep.

That is, except Tomas.

He watched them, a smile on his thin lips.

"It'll have to be a short lunch," Shamir said, agreeing. "I'm training the Deer in half an hour."

Catherine hid her frown. She'd been looking forward to spending time with Shamir after they'd cleared up that…tension between them.

Shamir's hand between her legs, breath hot on her neck as she worked Catherine ragged. Each movement of her fingers was another wave through the knight's body, another moan that she'd never known she could moan. Shamir's lips on her breast, kissing more gently than Catherine thought the woman capable, mouth trailing up to her lips for a kiss, teeth lightly biting her lips as she pulled back. The muttered words of Shamir when she thought Catherine wasn't listening as she recovered from an orgasm. You're beautiful.

"Your head is in the clouds."

"Huh?" Catherine sputtered.

Shamir rolled her eyes and Catherine was back to the present, plate of food in hand as they walked back to a table. She'd thought about that night a lot.

A lot.

Especially the part where she'd woken up and Shamir was gone. The part where she'd had a panic attack that she'd taken things too far with the woman she considered friend—no, the woman she loved—and that everything was falling apart just like Cassandra's life had.

Then came the note, calling it a mistake and begging for forgiveness, only one of which she meant. And then the palpable relief she felt when Shamir blew their night together off, but also the hurt in the pit of her stomach. The aching regret that told her if she had done something different, maybe she could be holding Shamir's hand right now. That maybe Shamir would look at her with that same smile and tell her again what no one had ever told her.

Beautiful.

Cassandra hadn't been beautiful. She'd been rambunctious. Chaotic. Masculine. And Catherine was the same way. Rhea had been the only one to pay her kindness, true kindness. That's what she thought. Then she met Shamir.

"You're staring," Shamir said, blunt as ever. She hadn't even looked up at Catherine, instead sipping something from a mug. Probably the Dagdan coffee she'd bribed one of the chefs to stock. The stuff tasted disgusting, in Catherine's opinion, but its aroma was unmistakably Shamir and that made it intoxicating.

"Sorry, just a bit distracted is all," Catherine tried to laugh off. It didn't really work.

A small part of her dared to hope that Shamir felt the same in the blissful moments before sleep took her, Shamir wrapped in her arms. But were that true, Shamir would still have been there in the morning.

And how she'd fantasized in that moment, how she'd pictured it. They'd whisper to each other, the way all lovers did in private after a climax, panting, clinging to nothing worldly aside from the adoration in the other's eyes. They'd lean closer and lock lips with a passion that dwarfed what they'd just shared, emblematic of their future lives together. Those whispers would carry the weight of a world—their world—in a single slip of breath. A whisper so quiet it could be forgotten by anyone, would be forgotten, but not by her. Never by her.

Catherine loved Shamir. She had for a long time. Their night together had just been the last latch on the box sprung free so that her feelings could be qualified. She loved the way Shamir looked out for her, how hard her trust was to earn and that Catherine had indeed earned it. She loved the curve of her jaw, the way she poked food she didn't like with a fork as if it'd vanish. Everything about her rang true in Catherine and there was no way she could measure up in comparison.

Cassandra never had the chance to find love, but Catherine could. Or perhaps she had the chance and it'd slipped away.

She blinked and Shamir was staring directly at her. Catherine gulped nervously.

Her partner sighed. "Look, if something's bothering you, I'm not gonna make you say it. Especially if it has nothing to do with me." Shamir narrowed her eyes. "But if it does, then you best come out and say it."

The words she wanted to say were on her lips and a mile away. So she said nothing.

Shamir sighed. "Fine. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. I'll be with the Deer."

The archer left her spot, leaving Catherine alone with a bowl of soup, untouched. She felt cold, colder than the meal in front of her.

She felt alone, like Cassandra had felt before the monastery.

"Shamir, wait!" Catherine damn near yelp as she took off after her.

Hilda could count on one hand how many places in the monastery she hadn't been. That number was reduced by one as she stood in Rhea's office, the Archbishop seated at her desk.

"Miss Goneril," the Archbishop greeted kindly. But while her voice conveyed the gentile aura of a mother, her eyes betrayed a hardened fervor of a warrior. No, a conqueror. "Thank you for coming. I know things have been busy for all the houses since the mock battle."

"Oh, it was no trouble," she said. Which was, of course, a lie. Her saliva was the consistency of sand as anxiety fried her nerve endings. Being called in front of the most powerful woman in the country? Sure, not a problem, thank you very much.

"My condolences on the mock battle. The Deer were putting up quite a fight before the beast arrived. It may have been a year for the Deer, in fact. I'm sure you were eager to impress your brother, no?"

Yuck, no. "Holst has his skills, I have mine." Hilda shrugged. "Winning and losing both suit me just fine in a practice bout. The goal was training and I feel I got that."

Rhea nodded. "Very mature of you, Hilda. I can see now how you stood up to the beast as it attacked. I forget sometimes that the students here often arrive as children and grow into adults within these very halls."

She knew where this was going. Lorenz had agreed when she'd gone to him for advice. He'd coached her, telling her to play the innocent damsel. He told her that was not only her best defense, but also a role she acted well. Part of her wanted to be offended that he thought that of her so quickly, and another part took note of how he'd said acted, as if she weren't fooling him.

"It was the professor that did all the work. I just had her back," Hilda smiled. "Byleth hardly needs my help, you know that. That's why you used her to take care of Lonato, because you could trust her to get things done."

That comment wasn't in Lorenz' plan. Oops. Well, the witch had it coming. Now to dig herself out of that hole.

The motherly exterior turned frigid in a blink. Rhea's lips thinned out of a smile. "Indeed, she is reliable. I can trust her to keep a secret, such as the true nature of the demonic beasts. A secret, that if I recall correctly, I told her and your house to keep."

Just as she and Lorenz had guessed. "Forgive me, Archbishop. I was just so scared of what had happened, I must have forgotten. What if the Baron had stood back up and attacked? I wanted everyone to know that the Baron was the enemy, that he had been the beast."

"And in your foolishness," Rhea ground out, "you have revealed a secret the Church has sought long and hard to protect."

"Why, though? It seems like it isn't safe to keep that hidden. That's like telling a child a hot pot won't burn them." She rested a finger on her chin and gazed off to the side, playing the ditz.

Rhea shook her head. "I do not expect you to understand, simply for you to know when not to speak of others' secrets. This is a transgression against the Church—"

"One which you will forgive, I'm sure, Lady Rhea," a new voice said.

Hilda glanced over her shoulder to see a tall man standing in the doorway. He had brown hair and a soft face. It reminded her of when she and Holst were exploring a local fair with their father. An elderly vendor had given her an apple and told her what a beautiful woman she'd grow up to be. It was a kindness in the eyes, Hilda decided.

"Oh, is that so, Aelfric?" Rhea didn't seem surprised at the man's arrive. In fact, she just looked more annoyed.

"Can you blame a woman for being scared?" Aelfric said, gesturing to Hilda. He began to pace around the room, slinking almost like a spider along the edge. "That was a beast of legend, the kind of which we have seldom seen in the past century. Survival is more important than a secret."

"Careful, Cardinal," seethed Rhea. It was as if she forgot Hilda was in the room. "Some secrets are more important than fear."

"I don't question that, your holiness," Aelfric said. "What I find concerning here is that the secret was revealed in the first place. Sending Professor Eisner's class to deal with a bandit who holds a Relic? Disaster was bound to strike."

Lorenz had suggested she try to learn what she could about the Relics. This was far more juicy. This was drama.

"I trust Byleth," Rhea said. "She is a dependable servant of the Church."

"If you trust in her so much, let's not discipline one of her favored pupils, shall we?" Aelfric stopped his pacing and looked at Hilda. "Miss Goneril, you understand that some secrets keep the world in order, do you not? Consider this one that keeps the nobles in power and the commoners safe. It isn't one we want to spread around."

"Aelfric," Rhea said, tone anything but kind. "I think you might be the one who needs to remember the need for secrecy."

He smiled. "As a Cardinal, I do believe that is my own purview to oversee. Some beliefs are just too antiquated to keep to."

"Miss Goneril, you are excused," Rhea said immediately. "The Cardinal and I need to have a chat."

He bowed. "If that is your wish, my lady. Allow me to see dear Hilda out and then I shall return." Without waiting for a response, he lifted his arm to shepherd Hilda out.

"Um," was all Hilda could say when they were far enough away, almost at the doors which would lead to Manuela and Hanneman's offices down the hall.

"Give Professor Eisner my regards," he said lightly. "And remember the things that were said in that room. I trust they might help your late night library sessions out some."

And with that, he departed.

What in the Goddess' name had that been? But she didn't stop to dwell, exiting to the staff hallway.

She needed to tell her house.

"You still pass on tea?" Seteth asked.

Jeralt nodded, removing a flask from his pocket and taking a swig. He set it down on Seteth's desk and smiled. "Never took to that boiled leaf water."

"Uncouth as ever," the man said with a smile. "I've missed that wit."

"Seems like I'll be at the monastery for a while, with Byleth taking to teaching so well," he said. "Plenty of opportunities to catch up."

Seteth reclined in his chair, exhibiting a relaxed expression he reserved for close friends and Flayn. "How is she taking to it, from your perspective?"

"Well. Rough around the edges, but you did drop her in the deep end," Jeralt said while shrugging. "Her Deer seem to like her."

He nodded. "I thought the same. I won't lie, I wasn't enthused at the idea of a rookie teaching the future leaders of the world. But consider me impressed, Jeralt. You raised a good daughter."

"With all my bad habits," he said, raising his flask for another swig.

The green haired man laughed. "I've actually stopped seeing her drink. She used to fill out requisitions for alcohol, but that has since stopped."

"Huh." Jeralt hadn't known about that. Byleth drank a lot, that he knew. But why had it changed? "I suppose that's one habit of mine she'd do better without."

"Then you don't know anything about it?" Seteth raised an eyebrow. "I always thought a father was an expert on their daughter's wellbeing."

"Hmph, not all fathers are you," Jeralt said with a wry grin. "My girl does her own thing, always has. Just like Sitri."

Seteth narrowed his eyes. "Jeralt, do recall my need to protect Flayn."

"Yeah, yeah." He waved a hand. "I ain't told anyone, don't you worry. I'd never harm a hair on that girl's head, intentionally or not. You've got nothing to fear from me."

The tea cup rested down on its saucer as Seteth relaxed. "I'm sure you can understand a father's worry."

"We've been friends for years, Seteth. I'd understand your worry were it about anything." Jeralt took another pull.

"Then in the name of friendship, allow me to apologize," Seteth said.

"For what?"

"For Lonato. For not stepping in when Rhea commanded Byleth to play executioner. For cutting you off from intervening. The role should have fallen to Catherine." Seteth's lips were locked in a sharp frown, the kind one wore when beating themselves up. "It wasn't right."

Jeralt chewed on his words. His daughter's face had been stony when it happened. Impassive, cold, reticent, whatever the proper word was. The point was that she clearly hadn't liked it.

"No, it wasn't. Why did you stop me?" Jeralt asked.

Seteth ran a hand through his hair, but didn't break eye contact. Jeralt respected that in a person. "I trust Rhea. I've served her for more years than you know. She's commanded me to do things I do not necessarily agree with, but understand why later. I assumed this to be another of those moments." He took a breath. "I was wrong. Whatever game she plays with your daughter, it is a cruel one."

He nodded. "I figured that had something to do with it. I'm not going to blame you for her actions."

"Understand that I still respect Rhea. She is an incredible woman with our best wishes at heart." Seteth sighed. "But everyone is fallible. I can sometimes forget that when it comes to those I care for."

"I've always respected you, Seteth. You're a good man. You and I both have our morals and stand by them," Jeralt said. He leaned forward with a wry grin. "But at the end of the day, we both want what's best for our daughters, right?"

Seteth smiled. "Indeed. I won't allow it to happen again, I promise you that."

"You better, I'm not in the habit of third chances," Jeralt said. The threat hung in the air and Seteth nodded, understanding it clearly.

"Sitri would be proud of the daughter you raised, Jeralt. You may have married her, but I knew her since she came to work at the monastery. She'd be so proud of Byleth."

Jeralt smiled. "I know."

Author Notes: I just wanna throw out there how proud I am to have such a wonderful set of readers. Seriously, I get so many engaging comments and discussions with this fic and have made new friends through it. It's wonderful. And each chapter, different people impress me by picking up hints that I anticipated to be so subtle that no one would see them. Like last chapter, kudos to the people who picked up that Ignatz hadn't told his parents about his injury. I fully expected no one to notice that, but you're all rising to the occasion of this fic. That means I can feel more confident in the choices I make, trusting you all the understand them. I couldn't ask for more. I've been writing fanfiction for over eight years now and see many different audiences for stories and I can say without a doubt that this is my favorite group of readers. For eight years I've never felt like I've been a 'good' writer, but these past two months or so have radically changed that conception for me.

There's a reason this fic gets updated so frequently when I'm working 60-70hr weeks. That reason is each of you. Seeing the excitement for each chapter is one of the best feelings I've had in my life.

Editing Notes:
4/15/2021: Minor grammatical adjustments.
8/26/2021: Minor grammatical adjustments.