(A/N: Happy Holidays to those who celebrate, those who do not, and a warm greeting to all regardless! Hopefully I'll be able to update more regularly before and after the new year. Stay safe, and my good wishes and tidings to you all! Sincerely, Kira.)

It doesn't go over any better the second time around, but Claude will savor the look of sheer disbelief and shock in Seteth's face for years to come.

This whole being the heir to a foreign throne might be my best scheme yet. He chuckles as he remembers the way Seteth tried to call his bluff and Flayn stiffened from head to toe as she recognized the proof he offered. Either way, hearing the sharp note in the girl's voice when she turned and backed his claim and Seteth's incredulous expression had been more fun than he'd been counting on.

It hadn't done a damn thing to make the man any less stubborn and bull-headed about the conversation they'd had immediately after. But it was still fun in the self-serving and self-gratifying way. They weren't being thrown out of the monastery, yet, but neither were they fully welcome either. He'd told Seteth he'd be back with the Professor, Rhea's appointed successor as he'd oh-so-kindly reminded the man, in a few hours to revisit their discussion.

Claude was just as stubborn as Seteth and hadn't gained his reputation as a strategic genius for nothing over the last few years.

You want the Archbishop back, I want the war ended. We both win if we just listen to one another and work things out. It was the listening that posed the biggest challenge so far. The compromise and following negotiations, as they had initially between the three of them, were going to be the biggest headache in the hours or days after.

He climbs the stairs to the Goddess Tower out of habit. Whenever he wanted to do any real thinking, he'd taken to going as high as possible to sit and think, to see beyond the rooftops and mortal vision to the bigger picture that lay beyond. His wyvern waited in the stables, happily munching on some gamey kitchen scraps that wouldn't do human stomachs any good, but made great fodder for the draconic beasts with guts of steel. Worst case scenario, he'd take Byleth and torch something insignificant but big enough to make them choose between pursuing them or salvaging the monastery.

What is he supposed to do from there? How will Seteth react to the information they have on the Empire's motivations and Edelgard's… everything? He already knows the man won't respond kindly to the notion he owes Edelgard and the rest of the Academy students apologies. He definitely doesn't see Rhea's advisor being anywhere near convinced that a greater enemy is at play and that Edelgard's been manipulated and fed a combination of truth and lies. Claude sighs as he scratches the back of his head.

Maybe I can twist Sir Jeralt's death a little? Make them responsible for failing to investigate Monica's disappearance and the change of behavior in several key members of the Church. Their inaction and refusal to get involved…

"Apple for your thoughts." Byleth's voice interrupts his fourth strategy simulation- this one complete with little bits of twigs and stone being lined up in formation in front of him since the last three relied solely on thinly veiled threats and careful manipulation of his suspicions regarding Flayn, Rhea, and Seteth's true origins- and Claude jumps at the sound of her voice. A swipe of his hand quickly erases the progress he's made as she approaches. He watches her eyes narrow, pupils thinning as they adjust from the shadows to the sunlight. She's so pale in comparison to his own deeply tanned skin it's laughable. She almost could be a ghost, especially when she moves so damned quietly.

Probably one of the reasons they called her the Ashen Demon. He thinks as she stops right beside him and looks outside. Claude's seen the other reason for the nickname a few times on the battlefield during their Academy days. Some nights he's seen her in Ashen Demon mode in his dreams. She's always covered in blood, Sword of the Creator in hand, and vanishes without fail beneath a never-ending tide of enemies. She's as terrifyingly competent there as she is in reality, but he's never been able to get to her in time before she's overcome and vanishes entirely.

Every time he's woken from that particular dream, he renews his vow to find her and promises himself, and her, that he'll never let that particular scenario happen.

He's no Edelgard or Dimitri; raw, brute strength is not his forte. Neither is going around tanking hits in a suit of armor. He's a little too quick, a little too instinctive in his reflexes to tolerate being a sitting duck in the battlefield. His eyesight and ability to analyze and plan on the run make him valuable on and off the field, so he went for the traditional role many in Almyran nobility chose; aerial combat with a particularly crafty beast.

Byleth offers him the aforementioned fruit and awaits an answer.

"Flayn sent these along with the apples." She lifts up a pair of mugs and a ceramic container tightly corked. He accepts both fruit and ceramic mug and listens to the sound of her teeth crunching into apple flesh. The mug is set to the side, for now, and his apple tossed from hand to hand as he tries to figure out what to tell her about his plans for Seteth.

His eyes light up as the sharp fragrance of his favorite tea billows up along with the steam from the corked container. Points for Flayn pulling the good old fashioned hospitality bribe, though he'd tell her later that it'd would work a lot better if it came with promising news. "I might have to sneak her away from Seteth to thank her properly. You think she'd enjoy a ride on a wyvern?"

"Possible." Byleth is noncommittal in her response and finishes off the last of the apple, core and all.

Claude stares at her in shock. Maybe she's just really hungry. That's not exactly normal. "Uhh, Teach? Please tell me you didn't eat the entire thing."

She turns her head and blinks owlishly at him. "...you're not supposed to?"

Claude can do nothing but gawk. "Uh, no. No you aren't."

There's the faintest hint of pink along her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. "Why not? Isn't it just a waste otherwise?"

He's trying not to laugh at how much she sounds like Leonie in that moment. Even the notorious skin-flint mercenary-wannabe that his fellow Housemate was for wouldn't go this far to save a few coins. "Don't tell me; you eat the heads, fins, tails, and bones off the fish too?

"The heads and tails were usually boiled down, sometimes the bones if the fish were big eno- Claude, why are you laughing?"