To hell with living her life day-to-day confined within the Audience Chamber. To hell with being kept like a dove inside her cage. Nadine was certainly not Rhea, and she wanted the whole Church to understand that immediately. And so she made it very clear that she would roam Garreg Mach as she pleased, just as she had done during her years as the Professor.

Seteth, of course, tried to rein her in—chide her for her rambunctiousness. But when he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears, he gave in. Just so long as Nadine wasn't causing harm to herself or the Church, he would let her have her way… it would lessen the headache for the both of them, at least.

Today was one of those perfect days. It wasn't too sunny, so the air held a refreshing coolness to it. And yet it wasn't overtly cloudy to dampen one's mood. It allured Nadine into slowing her steps as she made her way from the Audience Chamber to the cathedral. Atop the bridge, she found herself pausing to take in the view. Below, the steep slopes of the rocky valley beneath yawned open with a maw decorated with pointed evergreens and silky fog.

Would be great to just swoop across it all on a pegasus, was the thought that always crossed her mind at such a view. Then, she slid her hand away from the railing and continued towards the cathedral.

It was midday, and so the grand nave of the Garreg Mach cathedral was mostly vacant. But once working hours were over, people would find their feet pointed towards the monastery for evening prayers… either there, or the nearest tavern.

Her footsteps, even as soft as they were, still echoed across the open like ripples across water. With the enthronement having ended nearly a month ago, the nave was back to its normal layout. Across the large, empty space, Nadine spotted a small, solitary figure knelt right before the altar of Seiros.

Even from where she stood, she could tell that it was a little boy—he couldn't have been over ten years old. His simple robes told Nadine that he was a neophyte to the Church, though she hadn't seen him before. His mentor should've been nearby, though with a sweeping glance, Nadine saw no one else around that could've passed for a master mage.

She found herself drawn to the boy. Echoing steps brought her closer to where he knelt with his head bowed in reverence. When she was only a few paces away, the boy heard her approach and looked up from his clasped hands. Indeed, he was young—perhaps younger than her guess of ten years. His hair was of a light, lavender hue and pulled back into a small ponytail. The boy regarded her for a second. Then, his eyes widened with realization. The boy quickly scurried to his feet. "Your Holiness!" he addressed, swooping down in an overdone bow.

"There's no need for such formality, child." Goddess, I sounded exactly like Lady Rhea just then. "It's just interesting to see someone so young praying on their own." Nadine lowered herself onto one knee. "Are you from one of the surrounding villages?"

"No, your Holiness."

"That so? Did you travel far to come here?"

"Master Zephyr and I are from the Eastern Church."

Nadine lifted her head in a slow, single nod. "Ah." Admittedly, she had forgotten on more than one occasion that the Eastern Church even existed, given their minuscule influence on… well, anything. "So your master's name is Zephyr. What's yours?"

"Cefiro, your Holiness."

"Cefiro, huh? Well, nice to meet you, Cefiro." Nadine stuck out a hand. The little boy stared hesitantly at it. Then, so as to not refuse the Archbishop, he cautiously shook it. "Can I tell you a little secret?"

"I… I guess, your Holiness."

"Well, here's the thing…" Nadine leaned a little closer as her voice dipped down to a whisper. "I don't really like the name 'your Holiness.' Makes me sound like some old fuddy-duddy. I feel like if I get called that too many times, I'll start growing the beard to match." Nadine lifted her hand and pantomimed the stroking of a grand beard. The childishness within Cefiro compelled him to giggle at the archbishop's silly gesture. Then, his discipline kicked in and he quickly straightened his face.

"I'm supposed to call you 'your Holiness.'"

"Yeah, but you don't have to if I say you don't. Your Holiness has a name, too. It's Nadine. See…" She lowered herself onto the floor, crisscrossing her legs into a sitting position. "I was born a commoner. I lived most of my life as one. I guess what I'm trying to say is that although I'm the archbishop, I don't feel like one. Nor do I don't want to feel like one. I still want people to know me by my name… and not tack a 'Lady' in front of it either." Nadine exaggerated a disgusted face. Again, a boyish smile fell on Cefiro's face. "Is that okay with you, Cefiro?"

"Yes, your Holi—… yes."

"Good. If you prefer to still call me 'your Holiness' in front of people, you go right ahead. But you and I, we've made a pact of friendship now, haven't we?"

"Really?"

"You bet." Nadine reached forward and ruffled Cefiro's hair. "Alright, kiddo. I'll let you finish your prayers. It's been fun talking to you."

"You too, your Holin—your… uh, Nadine!"

"Eh, we're getting there," Nadine remarked lightheartedly. She pushed herself back to her feet. As she walked back towards the pews, she gave Cefiro another backwards glance.

"You certainly have a way with children," a nearby priestess praised. Nadine offered her a small smile.

"There's something about him," she noted. "I don't know what it is, but there's potential in that boy."

The room was heavy with the unbearable fog of dissent. There wasn't a single occupant there without anger in his heart—anger at the state of the capital, and anger towards the king that was at fault for such foolishness. The fog was unbearable indeed, sticking to the skin of everyone there like a parasite.

"Ever since Fhirdiad returned to the hands of the Kingdom, the place has gotten handed to the dogs," one man said. The others grumbled in agreement, words they had dared not say in public.

"Look at our neighbors—used to be dignified folk. And now you got people like the Duscur moving in. Thought the army trampled them way back when, but I guess it's hard to squash all the roaches when they scatter. Next thing you know, they'll be soiling our women and breeding their filth into our children."

"And the king's right hand is one of 'em, too. Goddess, it makes me sick how much he bends over for them. Especially since those dogs killed his father."

"The war must've really fucked him in the head. So I guess now Fódlan has a crazy king on its throne."

"Son of a bitch. Son—of—a—bitch."

All the while, a man had been sitting with his feet propped up on the table, leaning so that the chair underneath him stood only on its two rear legs.

"So here's an idea." Suddenly, he dropped forward and let the front legs hit the floor with a heavy thud. "Why don't we do something about it?"

"Like what?"

"Let me explain."

"Oi, Raz, what's this about? You're not usually one for ideas." The other men guffawed. Raz, on the other hand, seemed eerily unresponsive to the jest and leaned forward. He jabbed a finger down on the table.

"Listen here—we're going to take this city that the king holds so dear, and we're going to make him watch it burn right before his eyes. We're going to take everything he's tried to build up, and turn it against him."

"Fucking hell, Raz, where did all this come from?"

"It's like you said—I'm sick of this. I've waited too long. We're going to cause chaos so powerful and unrelenting, it'll eat the king alive."

"Yeah but… how are we gonna do that?"

"I've got a plan. And… well, this little secret weapon right here." He lifted his hand, holding the pebble-sized object in plain view for everyone there to see.

Dimitri was far too tired to be receiving bad news, although he did his best to hide that fact from the others. His fingers were pinched tightly over the bridge of his nose as he listened to the captain's report. Another shire just outside of Fhirdiad was experiencing a sudden, violent outburst among its residents. Goddess, that was one of the territories with a prominent Duscur minority. Could it even be called a coincidence?

When the captain finished his report, Dimitri's hand lowered from his face. "And why," the king enunciated slowly, "has Count Virtres not made any efforts to quell the violence?"

"Well," the captain replied uneasily, "I believe… that he does not want to appear to be helping the Duscur."

It was an answer that Dimitri had been expecting. Still, he couldn't stop the disappointed sigh from escaping his lips. Next to him, Dedue had not moved aside to cross his arms.

"A woman was found dead. A Faerghus woman," the captain continued. "According to the shirefolk, she had a history of being quite, well, vocal about the Duscur living there. Not in the least bit pleasant. Then she turned up dead and… well, the people made assumptions."

"And so the blame is thrown. History just loves repeating itself."

"Your Majesty, if I may speak?"

"Please do, Dedue."

"It is true that the Duscur value their pride," Dedue stated. "And grudges are not something they release so willingly. However, they are not fools—being very aware of the sensitive position they are currently in. They know that being able to live close to and among people who have despised them for over a decade means they will be watched very closely. Any little slip up could destroy this newborn hope for equality—and that, the Duscur value even more than pride. Perhaps you may think me biased, but that is simply how I see it."

"I hear your point," the captain replied. "Yet human emotions are very powerful. Anger can compel a man to go against even his highest virtues."

"Captain, Dedue—let us not simply stand around and make assumptions as well. Tell me, has Count Virtres launched any sort of investigation?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"I cannot say I'm surprised. Very well—if Count Virtres will not take matters into his own hands, then Fhirdiad will have to once again. Captain, by order of the king, you will deploy a squadron of your knights to keep the peace within the shire. And Captain…" Dimitri leaned forward, his hardened gaze focused squarely on the man. "I do not want any of its people treated unfairly by your men. Is that understood?"

"Understood, your Majesty."

"Excellent. Oh—and one more thing." Dimitri leaned back in his seat. "Dedue will be going with you." Both men looked startled as they turned towards their king. Dimitri looked at each of them in turn with his unwavering gaze. "You heard what I said."

"Yes. Of course, your Majesty." The captain dipped into a regal bow, and then quickly departed from the room.

Only Dedue was left looking unsure. "Your Majesty… Is this wise? You have already sent several men out of the capital to quell these skirmishes."

"These people need help, and if I am the only one willing to offer it, then I shall."

"That, I understand. But you have your own safety to consider. At least let me remain here."

"There is no need to be anxious, Dedue. I could not see it happening, but should Fhirdiad suffer any attack, we've still enough men—highly skilled warriors—to defend it. Now I need you to go out to the shire in Virtres territory. Injustice is being wrought out there, and it would put my mind at ease to know that I've sent a good man out there. I know you will not let me down."

Dedue dipped his head down. "No," he said. "I will not."

Although the shire was far out into the countryside, the knightly steeds were of fine stock and would reduce the travel time to just under two hours. Most of the journey was spent in silence. However, as they encroached upon the shire's borders, the captain began confiding quietly in Dedue.

"I know you want to believe in the innocence of your people," the captain said. "Believe me—I am not trying to villainize the Duscur, but do you honestly believe they are entirely not at fault?"

"It is impossible to say."

"Fair answer. However, let me ask you this—should we find the culprits, whether they be of Faerghus of Duscur—."

"Then I will do everything I can to see that justice is served."

"I see."

"Now I must ask you something, Captain. Do you distrust me?"

"I like to think myself a man of decent perspective," the captain replied. "My opinions of you are based less on your origin of birth and more on the person you are. I will say that your sense of duty, as well as your devotion to the king, is admirable."

"… Thank you."

"It must not have been an easy life, growing up in the capital. I dare say the people in this shire will be comparable to those in your past. Be prepared for that." The captain turned his head to the men riding behind him. "The same goes for you all. The shirefolk will not be happy to see us—that much I know. I will remind you of the direct order from the king: treat everyone fairly."

Sturdy, curt affirmations came from the rest of the knights.

Before them, the trees finally parted to give way and the sight of the shire's village came to view. In contrast to Fhirdiad's towering structures, the cottages were humble and low to the ground. Several trails of smoke snaked their way from the thatched rooftops. All looked quiet from where they were, though they knew better.

Dedue wondered what awaited them there.

The main road cut right through the village like a dividing line. It was clear to see which side each populace lived on—pristine walls and intact roofs seemed to favor one side over the other. But both, especially the homes closest to the main road, showed signs of the reported skirmishes—the blackened stains of torched buildings were like wounds.

"We've enough men to split up," the captain strategized. "Best to look around and get a preliminary feel of just what kind of mess we've gotten ourselves into. I do not think the people here would be so foolish as to attack the king's knights, but we best stay on our guard." He looked at Dedue. "I hope you will not take offense, but I don't believe you'll be well received on that side. Given that we have been sent here to hold the peace, I hope you'll understand that we must do all we can to avoid any more altercations."

"I have no problem with that, Captain."

"Very good. Best of luck, then. You men, with me!"

The captain took his half of the knights and disappeared into the belly of the villages. The remainder stayed on the main road, hesitant to cross into their side of town. "So what now?" a knight asked. "We ride around town? Look for more dead bodies? Ask if anyone has seen anything?"

"For the time being, yes. At least until we can start piecing together what happened here," Dedue replied, pulling Cerro towards the direction of the Duscur-populated half and spurring him on.

"Seems like we're just grasping at straws to me, but what do I know?" another knight mumbled. "We're also here to keep the peace—that part is simple."

The streets were already empty—the violence had driven them to hide inside. Dedue found himself woefully noticing that torched buildings and broken windows were a lot more prevalent here. Dark maroon stains dotted the earth, and slightly off the road, there was a slaughtered cow that looked as though it had met its unfortunate end by getting caught up in the fighting. A wide, vacant eye pointed towards the passing men, coated with buzzing flies. The deep gashes that cleaved open windows of its flesh were squirming with white maggots.

"Goddess…" a knight uttered softly.

There were a few souls left out on the streets, although at the sight of the mounted knights approaching, they were quick to head for the nearest doors. Dedue saw fear—real, tangible fear—in their eyes as mothers pulled their children into houses and men kept worried watch over their households from the windows. They see the king's men and they do not expect to be fairly judged, Dedue thought. Perhaps it is an apt reaction.

Deep down, it hurt him to see his people like this. And then he wondered if he even had the right to empathize with them.

Up until now the village had seemed to hold its breath with an unbearable silence. Then Dedue realized he could hear something—a rhythmic creaking. It came from the porch of a home just up ahead where an old woman, wrapped a heavy, woven shawl, sat in her rocking chair. A long smoking pipe was held gingerly in her wizened hand. In comparison to her neighbors, she didn't seem the least bit bothered by the sight of the knights. She remained where she sat, watching them underneath a wrinkled, fuzzy brow while skinny legs pushed off the ground. The rocking chair crowed like an old bird.

They were just about to pass her porch when suddenly she spoke up. Her voice, possessing an odd strength that belied her age, bore a heavy Duscur accent.

"How curious," she said. "And what brought you here?"

One of the knights answered her. "We are here by order of King Dimitri!" he announced. "Sent to prevent further violence from occurring within—!"

"No, no, not you," the old woman interrupted with a dismissive swat of her bony hand. Then, with it, she pointed. "I was talking to the handsome one."

Helmets turned to follow the direction of the withered finger. Dedue looked too, but there was no one beside him. A shrill holler of laughter brought all of their attention back on the old woman. When Dedue finally met her eyes, she said, "Yes, you there! Ha! I've never seen a man act so bashful! Even I can see your flush from here." She ended her words with another gleeful cackle. The tip of the smoking pipe found her lips, and she paused just long enough to take a heavy pull from it. "Well? What brings you here, then?" As she spoke, smoke spilled from her lips.

"We are here," Dedue answered, "by order of the king."

"No, no!" the old woman suddenly spat. She turned her head away, again swatting her hand like she was trying to ward away some unpleasant odor. "You're like a puppet with the king's hand up your arse! Ah…" She rose onto her bowed legs and began shuffling to the door of her home. "If you're going to give me nothing but a puppet's answer, I'm heading in. I'll find more satisfactory company with my cup of tea."

The door shut behind her with a loud thud. One of the knights looked quizzically at Dedue. "What a batty old crone," he remarked. "But the only one here who hasn't fled at the sight of us."

"We should keep going," Dedue suggested. He turned Cerro around. "Lest we end up with nothing worthwhile to report to the captain." Behind him, another knight mumbled, "Only called him handsome? Truly batty, indeed."

They continued on, though they were met with the same luck as before encountering the old woman. The people of Duscur hurried out of their sight as though they were reapers. Before long, hope was becoming harder to cling to.

"Ah, it's no use!" a knight said. "We could ride up and down these streets and still come up with naught—at least our patrolling's keeping people indoors and out of riots. Did a hell of a lot more than that Count Virtres ever has. I supposed all we can do is make sure the streets stay this way."

"Why don't we start knocking on doors? If these folks don't want to hang around for us, we'll go to them."

"And do you really think they'll open the door for us?"

"They have to… don't they?"

"Only if they're willing to talk, and I sure didn't get the impression they were so keen." The knight suddenly turned to Dedue. "But they'll talk to you."

"Pardon?" To be honest, even though he had been expecting this, it didn't make him dread it any less.

"Aye, take that old hag back there. She seemed raring to talk to you, so long as you don't give her a… what did she call it? Ah, a puppet's answer."

"I…"

"It's about as good a chance as we've got. At worst, you'll have wasted a bit of your time, and I'll owe you a drink at the next pub we hit."

"I don't drink."

"Your next meal then—whatever."

Dedue sighed. The lack of progress had them all just a little frustrated. To be honest, talking with the old woman didn't seem like a bad idea. Even if she couldn't shed any light on the murder, they could still have plenty to talk about. The way she spoke and dressed—it all brought back distant, fuzzy memories of his homeland.

"Very well. I'll go back and speak with her."

"Glad to hear it. We'll keep patrolling the streets—maybe find a lead or two of our own."

With that, Dedue and Cerro pulled away from the rest of the group. He returned to the house, dismounted, and walked onto the porch. Dedue passed the rocking chair and caught the faint, spicy smoke that still lingered in the air. Lifting a hand, he knocked.

What followed was a long pause. Then the door opened just a crack. Two eyes under a furry brow peeked out at him. "Ah." The door widened. "You took longer than I expected." The old woman turned and shuffled further inside. "Come in, come in. Oh—wipe your feet when you do. I don't want you tracking mud and horse shit over my rugs."

Dedue stepped in, doing as the woman told him. When he lifted his eyes to behold the room around him, he froze. His mind, like a bird, took off—flying back to over a decade ago. Patterned rugs all over the floor… he had always tried his best not to soil them, as Mother had made them all by hand. His sister's toys lay scattered all across the floor, most of them hand-me-downs from when he used to be her age…

A shrilly whistle tore him from his thoughts, and his family disappeared. The old woman took the shrieking kettle off the fire. She brought it to the table and poured the boiling water into a small, clay teapot. As she poured, she spoke.

"So a Duscur boy finds his place with the king."

Startled, Dedue realized that she was speaking in their native tongue. It was a language he had not heard in a lifetime. The words touched him like a mother's caress.

So he responded the same. "Yes. He saved me, so I owe him my life."

"Ha! Your time with him has you fading, it seems. You speak Duscur with a slight accent now."

"Do I?"

Instead of responding, the old woman lifted the teapot and gave it a gentle swirl. From where he stood, Dedue examined her. Age had shrunken her down—she barely came up to his waist. She had discarded the shawl worn before, and underneath was a simple beige dress. Her frizzy ashen hair was braided, and the thick cord curled over her shoulder. Gold earrings in a fanning, feathery design stretched her earlobes down. "Have you fallen in love with the door? I did not invite you inside so that you might loiter by it." Dedue realized that there were already two cups on the table.

"O-of course. Your hospitality is most kind."

"But your manners are not. You haven't even asked me my name." With a light scoff, the old woman added, "It's always the good-looking men that have their heads filled with stones, isn't it?"

"Oh—my apologies. My name is Dedue. And you are…?" he asked as he sat down at the table.

"Vega."

"Vega?"

"Madame Vega!" the woman suddenly barked, lifting her hand as though she were going to give him a wallop. Dedue flinched.

The old woman hooted with laughter, lowering her hand. Gods, help me, Dedue silently prayed.

She was still chortling as she took the teapot and filled the two cups. Immediately, the pungent fragrance of spices filled the air. Madame Vega offered one of the cups to Dedue. "I asked you what brought you here," she said, "and you gave me an answer that had been placed inside your mouth. No!" she suddenly snapped when she saw that Dedue was about to reply. "Not yet. It's always the good-looking men with patience as thin as lace, isn't it? Take a sip first—wash those recited lines down, and then give me a true answer. Your answer."

Dedue lifted the cup closer to his face. The steam carried the scent of the tea to him—he could tell that the brew was heavy in cinnamon and cardamom. Ginger, too, lingered in the background notes.

He took a sip. It was nice—just how he remembered. His sister had always preferred hers with milk and a little bit of palm sugar, but he always took his straight from the teapot. He could almost hear the sound of her little spoon scraping against the bottom of her cup as she stirred in the sugar.

"No matter what happens, we never truly lose home, do we?"

"No," Dedue answered.

"Well then?"

He hesitated, and then said, "I really was sent by the king. We heard reports of skirmishes happening within this village incited against the Duscur. Even then, I… I did not want to come here."

"Not even to help your own?"

"That is the thing. Although I will always treasure my homeland, I cannot say that I still feel like I belong with its people anymore. The circumstances of my life have placed me in between Fódlan and Duscur—to a spot where I cannot touch either. The people of Fódlan call me a dog. The people of Duscur call me a coward."

"Bah!" Madame Vega suddenly spat. "People will call you a lot of ugly things—they have, and they will. People have called me things. Nasty, nasty things. But you know what? You'll not find a shred of care in this old woman! I've survived this long despite all that, and I imagine you will too. So if you want to cry about feeling left out, don't expect a handkerchief from me."

"I was not asking for your sympathy," Dedue said. "You wanted me to tell you what brought me here, and you wanted an honest answer. That is what I have given you. Now I've something to ask you."

Madame Vega harrumphed. "Don't you start playing tough," she chided. "So you have something to ask? Well, then ask."

It was nearly sundown when Dedue rendezvoused with the rest of the knights. The sky was burning a brilliant orange. "There you are. We were just thinking about fetching you. The captain is likely to be waiting for us back at the main road." And to the main road, they directed their horses. "Well? Did the crone tell you anything?"

"She did," Dedue answered. His gaze lowered down to the Duscur tassel that was pinned to his scarf.

"So she knows something about the Faerghus woman's murder?"

"Yes." Dedue looked back up. "And I will need to speak with the captain. She says that she saw what happened."