On the second floor of the Reception Hall, down the opposite corridor from Garreg Mach's library, a small gathering room once used for private meetings with Archbishop Rhea had been retrofitted into a war room. The enclosed mossy-grey chamber survived the sacking of the Academy better than much of the campus; its most extensive damage being a few shattered mosaics overlooking the old classroom courtyard. Only one mosaic remained intact: The shining visage of a slight being with long, jade hair circumscribed by a golden ring depicting the 21 crests of Fódlan.
Pillars run along the north and south walls of the chamber, framing a rectangular mahogany table in the center with space for 18 people. The entire middle section was hollowed out, exposing a pair of dusty, maroon rugs underneath cackling chandeliers.
Three individuals with grassy-green hair take up half the spaces on the northern side of the table. Byleth sits closest to the door, leaning into the black cushioning of his ornate chair with a china teacup wafting its soothing heat against his lips. Flayn, dwarfed by her chair, pours a second cup from the set's kettle that was detailed with gold, floral patterns. She slides it to Seteth beside her, who is glaring at the door and tapping his foot.
"Please Brother, relax." The girl says as she gently places the kettle on its tray.
"I am plenty relaxed, Flayn." He all-but slams his hands on the edge of the table around the teacup, bringing its contents dangerously close to sloshing out on his paperwork. "I just find it awfully unprofessional for Gilbert to keep us waiting like this."
The administrator tries to get a better look out the door. He can see just a glimpse of Gilbert's greying orange hair in the hallway. "Wouldn't you agree, Byleth?"
Byleth is completely stone-faced as he contemplates this, staring absentmindedly down to the rug at his feet. He shrugs, closes his eyes, and takes a long sip of his tea.
Seteth scoffs and contemptuously reclines back. He briefly fiddles with the golden circlet on his forehead, making sure its ends remain buried beneath his wavy hair. Flayn slides the teacup closer to him.
"It was his daughter," Flayn offers him a smile while bobbing her drill-shaped ringlets back-and-forth. "Of course he took that personal meeting, Brother. You should know better than anyone."
The older man leers at her in his peripheral vision. Then he settles his hair more securely over his ears, the green waves frame his face.
"I suppose you're right, but that does not excuse their lack of brevity. It's like they think we have nothing better to do with the rest of our days." Seteth's academic snobbery shines through as he picks up his cup. "Annette could have waited as well. Pulling Gilbert away from a strategy meeting over something as ridiculous as a lost doll."
As he sips at the tea, Flayn gasps and rests her hands on the table, bristling.
"Brother!" She cries out before glancing at the door and lowering her voice. "You aren't eavesdropping, are you?"
"Don't misconstrue, my dear little sister." Seteth closes his eyes and sets the cup down. "It's hardly eavesdropping when the argument is loud enough to be heard from Almyra."
Byleth's silence falls apart as he huffs a restrained chuckle into his remaining tea. Seteth derives a fair amount of pleasure at this victory; a smirk curls at his lips while he strokes his goatee. Flayn looks between the two taller men with an exasperated sigh.
"You two are hopeless…"
The hushed sounds of conversation outside the room gives way to surprise as frantic footsteps echo through the hall and into the makeshift war room. All three of the green-haired individuals watch the door and wait. The sounds get louder.
From around the corner, Shamir bursts into the room — her raven hair disheveled and her outfit worse for the wear. She latches onto the doorframe to pull herself to a stop, and then uses it for balance.
"Seteth!"
As she looks into the chamber, two people look back with surprise. The third person, closest to her, seemed unfazed. Her eyes linger. "... Byleth?"
The Professor's cup clinks against its saucer. "I've gotten that reaction a lot lately. It's a pleasure to see you, Shamir."
It takes the purple-eyed woman a moment longer to adjust, but she nods. "I wish it were under better circumstances."
She pulls herself away from the door and approaches them, metal-tipped heels clopping against the stone floor. Gilbert and Annette follow her inside, but stand back to observe as Shamir rests her hands on the top rail of a chair at the table's head.
"Enbarr knows we're here," she bluntly proclaims.
Both Flayn and Annette gasp; Byleth and Gilbert glance at one another. Seteth pushes himself to his feet with both hands.
"Are you positive?"
"Beyond a shadow of a doubt." Shamir paces away from the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. "We were scouting the area and found an army amassing at the city gates. Managed to overhear a little, it seems certain individuals were not able to escape as quietly as they believed."
"A whole army?" Flayn remarks with a hoarse tone as she brings her hands to the top of her uniform, freeing them from the puffy arms of her dress. "Goodness…"
"We were discovered." Shamir swallows hard and looks to the floor. "Not all of us made it back. But even so, the Adrestian Empire should only be a day or two behind."
"My condolences," Gilbert mutters.
"I should help prepare!" Annette says with a rush of nervous energy as she makes for the exit. Byleth calls to the girl before she gets away.
"Gather a few magic users and meet me by the Greenhouse in an hour," the Professor instructs. "I have a special task for you, Annette."
He looks to Seteth, who acknowledges the thought.
The orange-haired girl perks up and nods eagerly. "Of course, Professor!"
The teal tail of Annette's mage robe trails behind as she leaves. Gilbert, much slower and more somber, follows after her.
"I'll ensure his Highness does not hear about this and run off to fight on his own."
Once Gilbert is gone, all attention turns to Seteth. He stands with a hand on his hip, stroking his beard. A ruffled brow emphasizes his perpetual scowl.
"Shamir." Though still weary from her journey, Shamir stands at attention — ready for anything. "Gather the faculty. If Byleth is serious about this little plan, it will require a coordinated effort."
The sniper salutes, and then strides back to the doorway more composed than when she arrived. Before making it all the way out, she lets her eyes catch Byleth's.
"It's good to see you too, Professor."
As Shamir leaves, Flayn turns in her seat to face Seteth directly, though her legs bump against the chair's arm. "What would you like us to do, Brother?"
He offers her no response. The young girl quickly gets uncomfortable at the pregnant pause, and clears her throat.
"Brother?"
Seteth begins to saunter behind the two, making his way to the door. His eyes are closed, and his arms are folded behind his back.
"I feel this crossroad is an apt time to be honest," he remarks with a deliberate slowness. "I've never been quite sure how much I can trust you..."
He stops and looks at Byleth over his shoulder. "Professor."
Flayn's forehead creases with worry. "I don't know how you could say—"
"Flayn, please." Seteth interrupts her, and the girl deflates. "Let me finish."
She nods. Byleth looks to her with concern before Seteth continues.
"I quickly came to find you were trustworthy at a personal level. Saving my dear sister from that horrid Death Knight taught me as much." He begins to walk again, letting his hands grasp idly behind his back while he thinks over his words. "But there were so many things I could not parse about your past. Even if you were a ward of the Church by the Archbishop's decree, it was hard not to be suspicious."
He stops near the door, framed by soft light from the other side, and turns to face Byleth. His expression is serious, practically dire.
"Rhea told me a lot before the Battle of Garreg Mach, five years ago. I learned just about everything." Byleth's eyes widen. "Enough so that I had the feeling we would see you again, despite your apparent demise."
"And here I am," Byleth confirms, sounding vexed.
"Indeed. Here you are." Seteth closes his eyes again. "Therefore I can tell you that my concerns, since almost the very beginning, have been baseless."
Byleth's whole demeanor shifts gears from being ready to counterattack, and he looks about as confused as Flayn.
"I'd like to apologize. You are a good man, Byleth Eisner. Even without the… Supplemental assistance." He turns around again. "I believe you will be a fine commander for not just the Knights of Seiros during this crusade, but for the entire Church in Rhea's absence."
The Professor glances at Flayn, who seems more assured as she grasps his arm.
"Should the Archbishop's trust in you prove to be misplaced, it is the faithful who will suffer most." Seteth continues. When Byleth looks to him, he finds the other man smiling over his shoulder. "I don't believe it has been. So, now seems the time I should pass along a certain… Family heirloom. A gift Rhea has left for you."
Seteth leaves the room, walking deliberately. He calls out so they could still hear. "Come along, would you Flayn? You've always had your mother's eye for accessories."
The girl's energy brightens at the compliment. She quickly scrambles to her feet and runs to catch up with Seteth.
Byleth lingers in his chair a moment longer, mulling over the last few minutes.
"Accessories?"
He stands, and has to shield his eyes as the mid-day glow burns the mosaic's pattern onto his skin.