"Dedue's…dead?" Ashe whispered.

Felix looked down, refusing to make eye contact. "It wasn't…no, I could have pulled my strike if I hadn't been so focused on Dimitri."

To his right at the table, Ingrid similarly looked down. She and Dimitri had been something at the academy, and in the time before his capture. Felix didn't pretend to know much about it—she'd changed after he'd disappeared. More reticent among friends, more reckless in battle.

Sylvain, opposite her, said nothing. They each sat on one side of the square table in a private room at the top of Castle Blaiddyd, Sylvain's most trusted guards watching the door.

"Dead," Ashe repeated, dumbfounded. "I…not even a chance to say goodbye."

The guilt that had been sundering his insides pulsed. Felix closed his eyes. The past could not be changed. He'd come this far. He'd go further.

"I don't know where Dimitri is," Felix said, bringing attention back to him. "It's likely he'll try to hunt me down. His voice…the way he spoke to me after, it was…" Intense? Violent? "Driven."

Sylvain nodded. He kept his cool well, but Felix hadn't been married to him for so long so as to miss the subtle twitch of his lips or the way his foot lightly tapped the ground. It'd shaken him too, he could tell.

"Our friend's dead," Ashe muttered, wiping some tears away. "Another turned against one of us. Felix…"

"This is the way it is," Felix said. He tried to muster that same anger that had fueled him for years and years, but he felt empty. Goddess, he felt like a candle at wick's end. His ardor had burned through him. "We have to push on."

"Are you sure you have no idea where he is?" Ingrid finally croaked.

Felix glanced at her and shook his head. She bit her lip. "I could turn him back. I know it." For all her words, she didn't sound convinced.

Sothis, what a sorry lot they were. Felix, Ashe, all of them. How had it come to this? None of them were recognizable. All of them, specters of who they used to be. Beaten and torn apart by this war and the events leading up to it.

Sylvain, in quiet contemplation. Normally he'd be trying to cheer everyone up, trying to start some sort of argument with Felix to detract from the serious. Instead, he was deep in thought of how to save their country now.

Ashe, so exhausted he could barely muster tears. He'd looked up to Dimitri. The former king had kept his head high publicly despite his parents' fates. Ashe, having gone through similar, could only respect that. But hearing about him now, only a few tears were shed. Whatever heart Ashe had, the world was doing it's best to beat it out of him.

And Ingrid, who had once been a knight paragon. Now, she looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. To travel, maybe, but mostly to be away from war.

A country of holy knights, that's what Faerghus was. Felix had been brought up on all the same stories, about how knights were an honorable sort who protected the weak.

Maybe that was true. Felix had been disillusioned to it all. But he remembered all three of them, proud of that heritage. Proud of being from the land of chosen knights.

War was cruel, sucking away that passion. Now, Felix couldn't help but look over a graveyard of his friends' dreams and desires.

Was he like that too? Had there been a dream he held to like they had? Or was the Felix he was now the one he always had been?

"We have to move forward," Felix found himself saying. "We can't let this deter us, not when we march on Rowe so soon."

Three sets of eyes flashed to him, surprised, hopeful, and discouraged.

"Sylvain is our de facto king," he continued. "Nothing's changed."

"Nothing's changed?" Ingrid seethed. "You murdered Dedue and turned our king against us!"

There it was, what he'd been expecting. Anger, once the shock rolled away. "The man you loved is dead, Ingrid. You saw that before he left. Don't buy into delusions."

"You don't know that!" she insisted.

"I do, I saw him," Felix said. He stared into her soul, pleading in his own way. The woman who might have been his sister-in-law had the world been different, he knew she was smart. She'd come around. "We have to rally around what we have if we're to win."

"The Alliance," Sylvain began, "has the Empire on the defensive. I agree with Felix, this is the best time to press our advantage."

Ingrid turned to him. "Aren't you bothered by this?"

"By Dedue? Yes," Sylvain said, emotion barely held back. "As for Dimitri, I'd given up on him long ago."

Her voice choked with rage as she rounded on Ashe, the last. "And you?"

Ashe stared at the table. "I don't know what to think," he admitted. "I rarely do anymore." Something flickered across his expression and Ashe closed his eyes. "I do know that we need to save this country. We have to retake Rowe."

Sylvain nodded. "I should have expected this would end there. In Arianrhod."

"How?" Ingrid damn near wailed. "How can you just give up on him? We should be looking for him! We should be doing something!"

"What?" Sylvain asked, his patience slipping. "What would you have us do? Look for a king who doesn't want to be king? People need us now, Ingrid. The sooner this way ends, the more lives are saved. Isn't that what a knight would do?"

It was a low blow, but it did cause her to fall silent.

"We have to stand together," Sylvain pled. "If we're fractured, we'll never retake Rowe. We're destitute as it is."

A country of holy knights, Felix thought to himself. Had they ever been that? A king who didn't care for his people, a father who tried to kill a leader, brother who turned on brother, all of it. Maybe this country was as much a lie as Rodrigue's affection for him.

"Ingrid," Ashe tried, "we need your help."

She'd crumpled in her chair, as if suckerpunched. "Fine," she breathed. "Do what you will. I'll follow orders."

Dedue had been the one chance of convincing Dimitri. Once Ingrid realized that, she'd set her ire towards Felix.

Hopefully, that would be after Rowe.

He couldn't move his legs.

Holst had tried as he might, but everything below his waist had lost feeling. Paralyzed, one of the healers had called it. He'd gotten quiet after that. Mercedes had taken a look at him and given the same diagnosis, with a pained face.

An influx of visitors had poured in, celebrating his consciousness. He'd tried to join them, but everything felt bleak after the news. Not even his sister could bring his smile to full splendor.

So there he lay in bed while preparations for battle began. Holst understood, it was just an inconvenient time for visiting him. That didn't make it feel any less lonely.

A day after waking, he'd been given company. A man, tall and unassuming with a shock of green hair, occupied a bed next to his. He'd be someone important enough to be hidden away with Holst, though he'd never known the man before.

"Me?" he'd said when Holst inquired his name. "I am Saint Indech. I believe that is what you call me these days."

Holst did his best not to roll his eyes. Excellent, someone with delusions.

Company was company. Holst started talking with the man.

"He called you Cichol. You and Flayn, you're older than you look, aren't you?"

Seteth swore under his breath, wishing to be anywhere but here. Indech had never been the most tactful of them, but to openly refer to him like that?

Dusty old turtle probably didn't even know the name he was using now, Seteth grumbled to himself. But that didn't mean he had to forgive him for blowing his cover.

Anna was smart enough to look into it. Most would dismiss what Indech said as the ramblings of a crazy man. As they should! To think a man could live for a thousand years and beyond? It was lunacy.

She'd finally cornered him in her tent, looking for answers, as he'd been looking for Flayn. And he'd almost expected it, her intelligence was something that drew him to her. But now he sat in a chair, cut on that double edged sword by the woman in red.

She continued. "You used the Spear of Assal. You have a position high in the Church. You were the Archbishop's confidant. It'd make a lot of sense."

He sighed. "You're quite the investigator, aren't you?"

A smile flickered across her face. "Wasn't hard to ask around, get some answers. Seems like everyone had pieces of the puzzle, just not the full picture."

"How'd you figure out Flayn's role in it?" he asked.

"You're protective of her," Anna said, giving him a look. "More protective than a brother. Closer to a parent."

And she would know. Damn. He watched years of lies crumble, lies the protected him and Flayn. They'd been all that stood between Agarthans and them.

Lying more would be a disservice to her. "I suppose you've earned the truth. I'm…Saint Cichol."

Chills trickled down his back, words he hadn't said in centuries. He reached up to rub his eyes before realizing he hadn't, that the phantom pain of his arm had done so. Sighing, he used his other arm.

"How old are you?" Anna asked, pulling up another chair.

"This is my eleventh century," Seteth murmured. "I stopped counting any more specific than that a long time ago."

"Eleven…" Anna whispered. "Goddess, I mean I figured, but…"

"I'll answer your questions, but will you promise me something?" Seteth pled. "Don't tell anyone, please. I…I'm not that person anymore."

"Why would I tell anyone?" Anna asked, confused.

Seteth stopped. "Isn't that why you went to such lengths?"

"Who would even believe me?" She shook her head. "I was curious, but not for that reason. I always thought there was more to you, so I just wanted to know."

He started to smile, shaky at first, but it grew wide. "Goddess," he said. "Thank you, Anna."

"I do have a question, though," Anna said, biting her lip. "About my daughter."

"About Riley?" he said, his turn to be confused. "What would I know about her?"

Anna looked down. "She has…had my Crest. I want to know where my Crest came from."

She had a Crest? Seteth hadn't known that. "If I can help, I will."

"My family called it the Crest of Ernest. I wanted to know if you knew who Ernest was," Anna asked.

"Ernest?" Seteth said, furrowing his brow. "I've never heard the name."

Anna snorted. "Well, back at square one. I'm just trying to figure out why my daughter had to die." Her words were clipped, angry.

"I'm sorry," Seteth tried.

"No, it's not you I'm angry with." Anna sighed. "Pardon me, I'm just trying to handle a lot."

"You're taking this revelation remarkably well, if it helps," Seteth said with a comforting smile.

"Oh, does it seem like I am?" Anna laughed. "Trust me, the second I walk out of this tent, my brain is going to collapse on itself. I hadn't let myself believe any of it until you validated it…" She paused, and look at him with a smile. "Thank you for telling me the truth. Your secret's safe with me."

"After this war, I have records at Garreg Mach that could have some indication about Ernest," Seteth offered. "It would not be out of the realm of possibility that I might have just forgotten about him."

"I'd like that," Anna murmured.

"It…it will not bring your daughter back," Seteth said.

"I know," she said. "Gotta have something to keep me going, though. No revolution and revenge to plot anymore, just a mystery left to solve."

"If you'd like, I'll help in any way I can," he offered. "Even beyond my personal records."

"Archbishop's got the time for that?" she said, a light note of teasing in her voice.

"I'd like to find a replacement after the war," he admitted. "Someone as old as I should not be leading the Church. There should be new perspectives that drive change, not my antiquated self."

"Huh," Anna said. "Guess we'll both be looking for a bit of purpose after this war."

"Indeed," he said, surprised he'd actually told her that. He hadn't even told Flayn yet.

Anna seemed to sense it. "Don't worry, I can keep that secret too."

He smiled, happy to have a confidant in her.

Merceus was a speck in the distance. They'd arrive in a matter of days for the fight of their lives.

Mercedes leaned into Dorothea, watching the sun set as the army set up camp for the evening.

"You've been quiet, lately," Dorothea murmured, holding her tight. "Are you thinking of him?"

"Yes," she breathed, sighing. Her brother had been on her mind more and more as of late, their proximity to the Empire doing nothing to help.

"He's apparently in the north," Dorothea said, trying to calm her down. "We won't see him. Not here, at least."

"I know. I just worry."

"About?"

"Everything," Mercedes said dryly, drawing a laugh from her betrothed. "No, I just wonder if I have the heart to kill him, after what we learned in Hrym." After learning he'd saved her from her father.

"I know you're conflicted, but do you want my opinion?" Dorothea asked.

"Always."

"Kill him. If you don't have it in you to do so, I will. But I wouldn't mistake what happened over a decade ago to be more important than what happened to Annette." Dorothea looked away, afraid of judgement.

Mercedes reached up and took her hand. "That simple?"

"This is about more than just him, isn't it?" Dorothea asked.

She was right, of course. "The Goddess' teachings condemn killing. I've done plenty of that. In her eyes, I'm probably irredeemable. But killing family…"

"Fuck the Goddess," Dorothea said.

"Dorothea!" Mercedes said, aghast.

"No, I mean, fuck her rules," Dorothea said. "You are the most holy woman I know, even more than Marianne. You live your life doing good, helping people. If the Goddess looks down on you in spite of all that, that's not right."

"She wants us to be perfect," Mercedes said. "Or to aspire to be."

"You're perfect to me," Dorothea said, turning and pressing her forehead against Mercedes'. "You've made the world a better place, my world a better place. I don't want to disparage your religion, but I just hate seeing you look down on yourself when you're already incredible."

"Dorothea…"

"You're enough, my love," Dorothea said. "You're allowed to be human, to make mistakes, to be selfish. You're enough. You don't need to push yourself so far and hard."

"Even if it means killing my brother?" Mercedes whispered.

Dorothea gave her a sad look. "I don't know as much about the Goddess as you, but if killing someone saves more lives, then I think that's the right choice. War is…well, I don't think anyone comes out of a war blameless. We're all sinners, here. But I think we're doing the right thing."

"I'll…think about it."

Dorothea kissed her forehead. "It's your decision, love."

His arms wrapped around her, a comfort she hadn't in a long time.

"I'm relieved you're safe," Yuri whispered while holding her.

Bernadetta closed her eyes. It'd been so long since she'd seen them. Well over a year, at least. "I'm sorry," she murmured, words for them alone outside of camp where they stood. "Sorry for losing my cover."

"You did more than enough," Yuri said, shaking their head. "Without you, we'd have no chance of taking Merceus."

"That dire?" Bernadetta asked, surprised. "I thought the Alliance was in a better spot."

"Not with Bergliez at the fort," Yuri said. "He's far too dangerous." Bernadetta flinched, and Yuri pulled back. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, turning away. "Just…I had to leave a friend behind there."

Yuri's eyes clouded with sympathy. "I can arrange to have them taken prisoner…"

"Somehow, I don't think that will help," Bernadetta said, miserable. "I think he's dead."

Yuri embraced her again, the hug gentler this time. "No more," they said. "We'll stop this. You won't lose any more friends, Bernadetta. I swear it."

"Thank you," she whispered back, both of them knowing that wouldn't likely be true.

Byleth watched from the entrance to his tent. He hadn't noticed her, continuing to switch the bowstrings between his bow and Failnaught.

It'd come to this, she realized. They'd all promised not to use Relics. Not that she ever listened, thinking it fine with how long she'd used it before. Plus, Catherine had never suffered any effects.

But now, with their largest battle nigh, sacrifices were made. Shamir had brought the Relic for Claude, and he'd accepted it with grim thanks.

Maybe things would have been different if they used Relics from the beginning, she wondered. Maybe Judith would be alive. Or Annette.

"Claude," she said, finally announcing herself.

He perked up, a smile dancing across his face. "Oh good, you're here. I had meant to find you earlier and got distracted." He set down the bow, leaning it against his cot.

"You did?" she asked, walking in.

"Yeah, Yuri said you and they were going to pair together for the battle," Claude said. "He was evasive, so I wanted to ask you why."

"Hunting Myson," Byleth said, allowing him to distract her from the reason she was here. "I haven't forgotten about getting vengeance for my father. Nor has Yuri, for their own reasons."

Claude's face was grim. "I understand. You two find him and tear him apart."

Byleth nodded, grateful he didn't try to talk her out of it. He had his own reasons for wanting Myson dead, nearly killed by the man at Garreg Mach when he wore Aelfric's face. "We will," she promised.

"Now, was that so hard, Yuri?" Claude muttered with half a smile. "They play their cards close to the chest, even still."

"Hard to trust when you were betrayed by someone," Byleth said, shrugging.

Claude nodded, understanding. "I know. I hope they trust me eventually." Idly running a finger down the bowstring on Failnaught, Claude asked, "So what did you come by for? Just to see me?" She didn't miss the hopeful lilt in his voice.

Any other time, he'd be right. "There's something…" she murmured, looking away.

His face grew concerned, but he said nothing, being patient. Byleth continued. "I've noticed something about myself. Did Hilda ever tell you how I wasn't burned by fire at Varley?"

"I heard from several people," Claude said, nodding. "I dismissed it as confusion on the battlefield. Are you saying that happened?"

"Yes, but that's not the issue." Byleth grabbed the sleeve of her shirt and paused, taking a breath. Then she pulled it up, exposing pale skin. "At first, I thought it was hallucinations. Withdrawal from alcohol, or something. But…"

She turned her arm up, exposing the bottom of her arm. Steely-silver scales lined her inner arm. "Claude," she said, emotion thick in her voice. "I don't know what's happening to me."

He grabbed her arm gently, pulling it closer. With a careful touch, he brushed fingers against them. "They're scales," he whispered, an emotion she'd never heard in his voice present. Confusion mixed with fear.

"They showed up this morning," Byleth rambled, terrified. "I…before, they'd disappear after touching fire. But they aren't now. I can't—they won't—"

Forgoing her arm, he embraced her. "Shh," he said, pushing aside his fear. "We'll figure this out. Do you know when it started?"

"Rhea," Byleth said. "I stopped being burned after I woke up by her skeleton." She closed her eyes. "She…did something to me."

She felt Claude go stiff. If she could have seen his face, all she'd have seen was undiluted rage.

"That witch," was all he managed to say, his voice quaking. Taking a breath and regaining control, he continued, though no less angry. "After everything she put you through, she still doesn't leave you alone?"

"Claude, I'm scared," Byleth whispered, holding him for dear life. Her face was buried in his shoulder, tears not falling, but threatening.

He pulled back so he could see her face, though they still held each other. "Byleth," he said, voice just as quiet. "I will never let anything happen to you. I'd tear the sky down itself to save you. I vow, I promise, I swear, I will not let that woman win. We're going to figure this out, By. Together. Me, you, anyone else you tell." He kissed her forehead. "Do you understand? You're not alone in this, By."

Byleth looked at him, seeing him differently. The way he looked at her gave her no doubt that every word was meant. In his arms, she felt safe, like the words he said would come true by nature of being said by him.

Maybe it was the rampant emotional confusion. Maybe it was the feelings bubbling up inside of her. Maybe it'd been inevitable all along. Or maybe it was just the right time at long last.

She leaned forward, snaring his lips with hers into a kiss.

A storm brewed at Merceus.

High in the sky, above the fort, clouds swirled. One of Victor's mages estimated they were in for one of the rainy season's brutal tempests. Lightning crackled and sizzled, flashing angrily in the sky above. Thunder followed its wake; its rage just as powerful. In tandem, they were a concert of wrath. A storm such as this had not been seen in Adrestia in nearly ten years. The last one of its caliber had descended from the heavens on high when Victor von Bergliez had turned back the Dagda-Brigid war in 1175.

That was not the storm that brewed at Merceus.

Victor von Bergliez' footsteps were louder than that thunder, quicker than that lightning. His face was contorted with rage untamable. It was raw, feral, untethered. His greataxe was in hand as he passed through the swaths of soldiers in the fort. They yielded to him, those wearing his black and gold armor of his house falling in behind him. The veterans whispered amongst themselves, telling newer soldiers of the last time Victor had worn this expression.

It had been when he had stalked across the beaches of Ochs, through a sundered graveyard of Brigid ships washed ashore. Victor killed the Prince of Brigid there, crushing his skull with his hands after the deaths of well over half of his army. It wholly ended the war, his bold ploy scaring the Brigid and Dagda forces away and opening the doors for negotiations. Tales of how Count Bergliez put his soldier's lives first echoed through the Empire, earning him the moniker 'Count of War'.

Veterans from the time were far and few between. But the few who had seen Victor that day walked closest to him, ready to give their lives for their lord. When their siblings-in-arms had fallen, Victor had ended the war himself. Such trust that had been cultivated in its wake built the unbreakable bond that his army was known for; their loyalty directed solely to him.

He stood outside the Agarthans' barracks and shouted. "Myson!" His voice was accompanied by thunder, though mother nature's wrath was quieter than the Count's.

His soldiers, the hundred who stood behind him, all had hands on their weapons. Blood was close to being shed; they could feel it in the air. Not even Mother Sothis herself could have deescalated the situation.

The man in question emerged. Myson, forgoing his usual robes, wore a black breastplate with ornate pauldrons. His arms were bare, exposing how his artificial hand connected to his flesh. Long, veins of darkness flowed up his arm like scars left from lightning. His black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, icy eyes boring into Victor.

"Victor," he murmured, not at all surprised by his presence. "To what do I owe the pleasure on the eve of battle?"

"Myson," Victor spat. "Where is my son?"

"Oh?" Myson said, a glimmer of a smirk playing across his face. "And what would I know of that?"

"Where is my son, Myson?" Victor shouted, slamming the butt of his greataxe to the ground.

"Such aggression," Myson hissed. "The Emperor surely would not take kindly to this."

"I lost my parents years ago," Victor muttered, voice steadily raising in volume. "I lost my wife before the war. I lost my brother at Garreg Mach. I lost my oldest son in Faerghus. All that is left to me of my kin is Caspar, Myson, so I ask you one more time, where is my son?" He brought his axe up, the crescent blade pointed at Myson's neck.

Imperials drew weapons, and Victor's soldiers tensed. Myson looked at the blade, unfazed, and said, "Don't get any ideas. You're not the hero in this story, Victor. You're just in the way."

"Spare me your drivel," Victor snapped, a tremor of anger passing through his steady arm. "Tell me why my son was seen entering your barracks and not leaving?"

Myson's lips curled into a smile. From his black hand, Dark energy coalesced. It was a bolt of Dark lightning in his hand, forced into a stagnant shape through sheer force of will, the shape of a sword. Smile growing, he whistled. "Come out, my children. It seems Victor wishes to play."

Stepping out from the barracks, walked ten figures, one by one. Each bore a faux-Relic, black as Myson's hand. Their eyes were focused, but unseeing, as if in a trance.

All but the man at the front, the tenth. His son, who held the same axe he always used.

"Caspar," Victor whispered, hoarse.

His son did not acknowledge him.

Myson gestured with the land that didn't hold the lightning-sword. "See, Victor? Your son is fine."

"What did you do to him?" Victor asked, horror giving way to his rage once again.

The Agarthan shook his head with a laugh. "I don't think that's the question you should be asking, Victor."

The screams began. Piercing human wails emanated from the barracks.

"The Emperor gave me a task," Myson called out over them, nearly shouting, "to make her an army. And that is what I have done."

Humans, or at least what used to be, emerged from the barracks, inky black veins and contorted feral expressions on all of them.

"Soldiers!" Victor shouted. "Kill the traitors!"

And so did Merceus tear itself apart.

Author Notes: THEY DID IT THEY FINALLY DID THE THING. SMOOCH TIME HERE WE COME. Ha, remember when this fic was supposed to be forty chapters haha neither do I anyway it's Claudeleth o'clock.

Editing Notes:
9/24/2021: Minor grammatical adjustments.
2/16/2022: Minor grammatical adjustments.