Part 3: Peccatum Mortale (Mortal Sin), Chapter 1.
Content Warning: This chapter contains explicit violence.
Byleth only dismounted from her horse when she could push it no further into the screaming, sobbing crowd of civilians fleeing down the main road of the Oghma Mountains, all of them seeming to head the opposite way as Byleth and the vanguard units of the Black Eagles Strike Force. The noise, coming from a hundred dry throats forced into a single point along a lonely, dusty road on the side of the Oghma Mountains made it impossible to think coherently.
But the crowd, a bustling tide of hot, reeking bodies, was still in the way up the mountain, and Byleth gave Hubert a grim nod before she jerked her head at the small escort of heavy infantry that had followed them up the mountain path. Their time was short, and Byleth could not escape the feeling that she was falling into a trap that The Verrat was concocting some sinister scheme behind the scenes, and forcing a tide of fearful flesh against Byleth to slow her.
She stood behind the elite guards, feeling a pang of guilt as they raised the long spears and heavy shields they wielded, forcing the panicked crowd back as they pushed their way forward, clearing a small path for Byleth and her companions to pass through, one lined by shields of black iron.
Before the huddled mass of unwashed bodies, the stink was even worse than before, and Byleth forced herself to keep her head up and avoid the terrified faces of the crowd being forced back up the mountain, though the threat of brutal violence on the part of their bodyguard had silenced the throats of the assembled masses.
"We should cross over while we have time," Hubert called from ahead. "Come, Professor."
Byleth gave the scene behind her one last look before she followed the rest of the Black Eagles, and she felt a pang of regret to see their mounts, Dorte first among them, left behind at the foot of the mountain. But she knew in her heart that they could not bring the horses up the mountain with them.
"Make way!" a hoarse voice ahead, something so hoarse and inhuman Byleth could barely hear. "Pregnant woman!"
Byleth glanced over to Hubert, but he merely shook his head. "We have no time. They will part or we will make them, as regrettable an action that may be."
"Hubert," Byleth protested, but her sentence was cut short when the source of the call, two tall, burly men carrying a woman, obviously pregnant, smashed into the heavy line of heavy infantry, the combined bulk of the three bodies even forcing the grim line of Edelgard's personal bodyguard unit back a staggered step.
"Make way!" the voice screamed again, the madness evident in the man's bulging eyes, his free fist pounding against the shield of the soldier closest to him.
"Make silence," Hubert growled in turn. "Erwin, Otto, do your duty."
Before Byleth could protest, before she could even speak a single word or cover her eyes, the two members of the guard unit struck out at the man who had spoken, their long spears tearing through the man, one through his chest, the second through his throat, silencing him in but twin strikes.
But as Hubert had ordered, silence had been made. The man, even as he choked on his own blood, clawing at his throat, made no sound, and the crowd of stunned refugees had been made quiet, though Byleth heard a few muffled cries from the crowd, though they were muffled and few in number.
"The Empire has spoken," Hubert barked, his voice rising above the gathered crowd of rapt, terrified onlookers. "Make way or be put to death. There will be no further warnings."
As if on cue, like an actor on a stage play, the second man who had carried the pregnant woman screamed, dropping his charge and raising a giant fist, like a petulant god ready to crush his foes.
But his blow did not fall. Instead, an arrow whispered past the line of heavy shields, lodging itself in his throat, and the giant's blow wavered, the momentum of his swing casting him down to the ground even as his target changed from a iron shield to the arrow lodged in his neck.
Byleth let out a breath as Ashe stepped forward, his bow lowered, a vision of silver against a line of black iron.
The guards let him pass, and Byleth could only watch as he pulled the tail of the arrow free of his victim, sending a spurt of dark blood into the air.
"You have your silence," Ashe said to Hubert as he rose, slamming his heel into the dying man's neck, the crunch of bone audible under his heavy boot and the wet gurgle cut short. "Do not waste it."
Byleth was about to protest, to demand an answer to what Ashe had become, but the crowd around her had fallen to the side, with only the broken corpses on the road remaining in their way. Even the pregnant woman wept silently, a large, gloved hand put over her mouth and a dozen more holding her in place off to the side of the narrow passageway, as if she too would be put to the sword if she got in the way yet again.
Two lives, taken in cruelty, had purchased their passage up to Garreg Mach, and a hundred souls more would fear the sight of Hubert's wrath and Ashe's keen eye for as long as they lived.
"Move forward," Hubert barked, and the soldiers of the elite guard moved quickly, as fast as their long shields and heavy armour could take them, their steps like drums that Byleth struggled to keep up with, given that her stomach raged at the sight of innocent blood spilled, and the fact that even Ashe, soft, gentle Ashe, had spilled it without so much as a moment of regret.
But Byleth knew the empty taste of his rage. She had seen her father murdered, and nothing in the month after could divest her from wanting to rip Kronya's head from her shoulders, to see the light fade from the assassin's eyes and the life from her body.
It had been Solon who had used that rage to lure her to a trap. To lock her in the depth of Zaharas, never to be seen again, had Sothis not given herself to save her, a debt she could never repay.
She no longer had Sothis anymore, and The Verrat, her new foe, was nothing more than a name spoken in hushed whispers. She did not know his face, had never heard his voice, and yet he had done more to break the Black Eagles than Solon ever could.
And that scared her.
The line of huddled refugees behind the first group fell to the side in frighteningly quick order. The sight of fresh blood on the spears of Edelgard's black armoured elite had brought them to line, and faced with an unmoving wall of iron, they had parted like chaff from grain ahead a rampaging unit of heavy infantry.
It wasn't long before they finally reached the outskirts of Garreg Mach, and their every step slowed, for the streets were littered with the dead.
There must have been a thousand, all crushed underfoot or worse, the majority of their number the citizens of Garreg Mach, but even a cursory glance at the situation saw no less than a dozen soldiers among the dead, their weapons and shields crushed under the sheer weight of the dead.
"Tread carefully," Hubert called, his steps careful as he tried to navigate a small mountain of the dead, well ahead of the loose defensive cordon of Edelgard's guards, each stabilising themselves as best they could on top of the dead.
"Hubert!" Byleth called out, though she regretted opening her mouth as soon as the stench hit her, breaking her concentration as her stomach finally revolted and her knees buckled under her.
"What is it?" Hubert shouted back, and even through the sour, painful taste in her mouth, Byleth could hear the waver in his voice. "Professor!"
"We need to head to higher ground!" Yuri called. "We cannot tread through the dead like this!"
"Professor," Ashe's voice was soft, almost gentle, and Byleth blinked the tears from her eyes in time to feel a canteen pressed against her dry, cracked lips. "Clean water."
Byleth gave only a grunt of confirmation, and she drank a small, concentrated sip from the canteen, careful to preserve whatever water Ashe had left. It was enough, if only barely, for her to wash back the bile in her throat and force her mind to concentrate again.
"Higher ground," Byleth managed to gasp as she stumbled back to her feet again, leaning on Ashe for support.
"Follow me," Ashe replied, his own voice firm despite how awful the smell must have been. "Watch your step, Professor."
Byleth spared a glance to the other soldiers, the slim, athletic forms of Yuri and Shamir having already ascended to the tiled roofs of Garreg Mach, while the grim bodyguard of Edelgard were still in the process of climbing, their heavy armour a great detriment, but none of them would abandon their wargear in a city of the dead.
It was then that Byleth realised that Ashe had brought her to a spot where the bodies had receded somewhat, and she stumbled slightly as Ashe left her, dropping to one knee as he held his hands in front of him, ready to boost her to the top of a nearby building.
With one final look at the scene of the dead, Byleth took a slow, hesitant step onto Ashe's hand, but to her surprise, the wiry, slender man held firm, and she was able to plant her other boot into what had once been a simple wooden window frame, now little more than splintered wood and shattered glass.
There was little for her hands to grasp, however, apart from the tiles of the roof above her, and so Byleth closed her eyes before she leapt up, her hands barely catching onto the rough stone tiles, her legs hanging free in what felt like the void.
Ignoring the strain it put on her arms, Byleth dragged herself over the ledge, and she rolled onto her back on top of the roof, breathing heavily before she stabilised herself, turning back to reach for Ashe.
But it was not Ashe's pale green eyes that she caught, that stole her breath and her voice.
Lysithea, or what was left of her, was in the street, her light pink eyes bloodshot and her features beastial. And she stared right at Byleth, snarling without sound.
She had grown since Byleth last saw her. Or rather, mutated, for Lysithea was on all fours, like a feral beast, complete with her white hair matted with blood, though there was enough of her left to identify the sweet girl she had once been, though her pale form was drenched in dark red, the stolen lives of dozens.
She was skeletal, emancipated, with long, damaged claws extending from her hands and feet, with black scales, not unlike those of a dragon, bursting from her skin in a patchwork of glittering black diamonds, though her face remained human, or as human as she could be.
"Professor!" Ashe called, his voice unflinching and calm, as if he was calling at her from across a market, not a scene of carnage. "Garreg Mach needs you!"
Almost immediately, Byleth knew what Ashe meant, what he would do, and sorrow tore at her intestines, for she knew that she would never see Ashe again.
"No!" Byleth cried, rolling over, extending a hand down. "Ashe! Stop!"
"She hunts me!" Ashe shouted,his hand raised, though it was his sword at its end, his blood a glistening dark red that Byleth could see with a clarity she never wanted. "I will buy you time! Now go!"
Byleth had no more words left after that, and she tore the silver blade from Ashe's hand before she rolled back to the safety of the roof.
It was from the relative safety of the abandoned house's roof that Byleth watched Ashe break into a run, only firing a single arrow in the direction of Lysithea, still snarling and watching, but using whatever semblance of her willpower left to not attack those she once called friends.
But the challenge proved too great, the insult from Ashe, intentional or not, drew Lysithea in, and she bounded after him with a terrible roar.
Byleth wept bitter tears at the sight. Lysithea had been someone she had watched for two years. She had always desired to live a life of comfort for her family, and dreamed of a better world. But now she was lost, and soon, she would have the blood of another of Byleth's students on her claws.
And Ashe, the sweet boy who wanted nothing more than for a better world for his brothers and sisters. She saw it now. His final act was of sacrifice, but also a self-imposed punishment. He would give his life so she and the others could live, where once Hapi and Ingrid had done for him.
"Professor!" Hubert called. "We have some movement at the Officer's Academy! Survivors!"
For what she knew would be the last time, Byleth turned her back on two of her students. She would avenge them both, yes, she would tear The Verrat apart for what he had done. She would ensure their loved ones would know comfort for the rest of their days, that their dreams would one day come to pass.
But deep down, the void in her heart, cracked open when her father had died, claimed four more fragments. Ashe, Lysithea, Ingrid, her innocence, in a sense, that she was always doing the right thing.
Perhaps in time the wound would patch over, and Byleth would find peace with what she had done. But the scar would remain. That was certain.
AN: Chapter complete. Read, review, whatever.
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