Wyvern Moon, Imperial Year 1178
"Wyverns, bow knights! En masse!" Patrols ran in from across the forward draw bridges as the soldiers off duty ran to the closest armor wrack to prepare.
"Broken Blade, get ready." This kind of defense was the speciality of the heavy infantry, not the mixed light and medium they'd become but every blade helped. The Blade moved into its arranged lines off to the side of the Alliance defense as they moved into their positions. The heavy infantry on the front line, the archers in their forward bunkers and the cavalry ready to charge anything that broke down or relieve any force in danger.
Goneril came stamping in with all the glee of a child on his face. "Now that's the Nader I know."
"You almost seem happy," Jeralt noted.
"Do I?" He had a half-grin slapped all over his face. "I'm not, I assure you." He withdrew Freikugal from his back. The Hero's Relic of House Goneril. Shaft long as the man, the ax head that reminded Jeralt of some sort of flattened shell glowed red in the hands of its rightful wielder.
"First time getting to use a Relic, huh?"
"First time in a real fight. Bandits don't do much for me with this in my hands."
No wonder the Almyrans had been so silent before now. The transfer of a Relic into the hands of someone as capable as Goneril would even give the Empire pause. "Where do you need us?"
Goneril went over a quick assessment of the force disposition. "South, your boys are gonna be better for the terrain if we push out. Report in to Balthus. You'll know him when you hear him."
"There a need to attack?"
"Almyrans like to leave their wounded behind. You'll see."
Leaving the wounded behind on a failed assault was common, but the way Goneril spoke of it indicated more. "We'll get moving then."
"See you at the end." Goneril grinned.
Jeralt relayed the marching orders and the Broken Blade headed down south. The southern bridge actually connected to a plateau in lower elevation, half the size of the central pass entirely. Maybe about five men wide by comparison. There was a thick tuft of shrubbery down in the center. Perfect for advancing under fire. Even the ballista might have difficulty shooting targets. Again Jeralt wondered why they didn't just burn it, but not for long.
Wyverns by the hundreds flew in from the mountains in the distance. Their true numbers unreadable but more and more poured out between the crags and settled down far afield. Then finally one last, with a banner of simple green raised high above his head.
"There's Nader," one of the soldiers said. "He'll be going straight for Holst like always."
Brave or stupid? Jeralt was gonna settle on him being stupid to go against Goneril with a Hero's Relic. That aside the guy here was a bit too casual with the general. "You must be Balthus," said Jeralt. Broad-chested, with a broad grin and some spiky hair.
"Always wanted to go up against the Blade Breaker myself. See if you're worth the stuff."
"Maybe later kid."
"I'll make sure you eat those words." Too much Cassandra in the kid. Though maybe he was older. Kind of hard to tell sometimes.
"Not the best of circumstances to bring this up," said Gilbert. "But I am worried about the lack of gates on the eastern faces."
"Tried it for a few years. Almyrans really didn't like it. Had to let'em in to give'em a place to focus. Huddle up too hard and they try and get sneaky."
Opening a vulnerability. Knew where your opponent was gonna strike. "Where do you need us?"
Balthus gave the Broken Blade a once over. "Archers on the walls. Big man with the heavy armor up front. Tough guys in back. Draw'em in, hit'em hard."
Simple as ever. "Get moving people." The Broken Blade settled into their new positions...
Then nothing. The Almyrans were either resting or bringing in more troops Jeralt couldn't see. The sheer tension slowly eroded people. No one broke ranks, but there was a too fast head movement, or a sudden cough that would go on too long. Even after so many victories, the Almyrans still struck worry into the hearts of their opponents.
A cry like thunder erupted from the Almyran army and their wyverns took flight. Through the various broken lands in front horses aplenty charged in with infantry—highly elite mortal savants marched in careful formation. Arrows flew from both sides. The great power of the Almyran bow knights giving them range to equal the height advantage Fódlan's Locket gave the defenders.
Though their range may have been equal, their cover was not. All over the Almyran lines the bow knights were struck whilst the stone buildings or wooden roofs of the Locket protected the defenders. It was incredibly sloppy and borderline suicidal. Not even a hint of flaming arrows to at least reduce some cover.
Jeralt kept an eye out for any sort of trick, but the Almyrans kept advancing under the constant barrage. The only tactic he could see is that the bow knights were drawing an incredible amount of missile fire, leaving the mortal savants to advance mostly unimpeded.
That didn't change by the time they arrived at the bottom of the drawbridge. The Almyran's archers had taken an incredible beating yet every one that fell was replaced by another. Or maybe even the same ones, if they had magical healing on their side.
Jeralt waited for a sudden attack, or anything. But the enemy infantry waited at the bottom without a care for the exchange of arrows above them. The wyverns hadn't moved either. Maybe the rumors about Nader were over exaggerated.
Blasts of lightning flew out from the mortal savants and the chains connecting the drawbridge up were blown apart. Damn impressive considering they were buried in a lance-length of solid rock. There'd be no raising the bridge to stop this. A mighty roar accompanied their charge up the bridge as fire and lightning preceded them and arrow struck back.
The vanguard of the enemy never reached the top, as wagons loaded with black powder were pushed down the drawbridge. Explosions eradicated the forward wave, blowing chunks in the thick wood of the bridge and setting the surface aflame. But the wood was thick and no holes were made clean through to the abyss below.
Through the fire and flames the Almyrans advanced regardless. Their boots stomping out fire with whatever mad conviction marched them forth. The magical swordsmen clashed with the heavily armored soldiers guarding the front. Their greater speed and sharp blades proving themselves an equal to the tough armor and their blasts of magic completely better. Though the arrows nearby even the odds and the ballista wrecked terrible havoc in the ranks. Whoever was manning it was a damn precise shot. He saw four enemies go in one bolt.
Gilbert struggled brilliantly, keeping three enemies at bay with his mighty shield while misdirecting attacks with an ax before slamming down a finishing blow. In the fray Balthus unleashed a fury of punches that overwhelmed even the dedicated swordsmen he faced.
But despite everything the Goneril defenders were slowly losing ground. They had no back-up in magical healing save the occasional spare from Byleth and three others. The Eastern Church should have physicians on standby here and Goneril wasn't incompetent enough to leave a flank like this that badly exposed if he had the resources. Something foul still smelt in the situation but what could wait.
The defenders slowly fell back unto the stone of the fortress and the Almyran boots soon joined them. Back further, and the Broken Blade threw themselves fully into combat. The fresh support gave breathing room for the beleaguered defense and they pushed them back unto the drawbridge. Further down, nearly to dirt. Aided by the defending archers, as the new waves of Almyrans were thick-as-targets with arrows. Yet such a focus left them vulnerable to the horse archers themselves and Jeralt saw more than a few tumble below.
But it was working for now. The Broken Blade couldn't trade better in blow-for-blow but they could duel better and the Almyra offense faltered once the Goneril troops rejoined the melee. There were still a lot of soldiers coming in, but they could hold at this rate. Especially with the ballista tearing out huge chunks in the enemy formation.
"We have to get back," Byleth said between kills. "Those wyverns are gonna go after the ballista."
The flying mounts were skirting the field to the south. "Broken Blade back! Protect the ballista!" They maneuvered through the combat lines of their allies, who through themselves back into combat with renewed vigor. Vigor that couldn't last but they held the enemy on the bridge as the Broken Blade made it back inside.
The balistician and his archers had refocused their attention on the wyvern fleet circling in. Their arrows striking down dozens amongst hundreds. Broken Blade couldn't match that but they had to try. They were joined by a relief force of cavalry and set about as much a shield wall as they could muster when the flying beasts slammed in.
He'd fought wyverns before. Pegasus before. Horsemen before but never anything like this! Jeralt was nearly blown off his mount—one among many as the brown tide of wyvernhide tore through them. Sheer weight overpowering the defense even as everyone unleashed their fiercest to stop it.
Lance against ax. Arrow into rider. Fireball into face. Jeralt stabbed again and again as wounds piled up high from the talons, teeth and axes of the enemy. The carnage destroyed any sense of awareness. Any call for order went unheeded. Just the simple urge to fight kill and survive.
The Crest of Seiros imbued him with divine power as he killed a wyvern and rider in one blow. A second time, for another! On the third his lance splintered from overuse. He tossed aside the trash and drove his spare into a fourth.
There! - Byleth, Alois and three others were standing ground next to the shattered ballista. His son with some bleeding cuts but his next swing closed the wound with whatever mysterious Crest power he had. Alois swung his ax with fervor and even tackled a wyvern aside with his pauldron spikes. They wouldn't hold. Jeralt rallied everyone he could with a shout and pushed forward through flagging strength…
A volley of arrows cut through the wyverns. A second - a third with incredible precision and the sudden life-threatening melee ended as the remaining wyverns took back to the skies.
He gave silent thanks to Shamir and all the archers on the wall, only half remaining at this point. It'd saved the lives of the thirty or so still standing but the guards at the bridge had paid the price. Even less of them remained than Jeralt's group and the Almyran numbers seemed endless. Regardless of the numbers they fought valiantly. Gilbert nearly holding the entire left side by himself and Balthus making any move against him suicidal in with his fists and ax.
A horn blew in the distance and at once all the Almyrans retreated with incredible discipline. Jeralt dragged everyone back to the battered front line. Byleth exhausting the rest of his magical reserves to ensure no one was dying just yet. In the distance the Almyran army was retreating utterly. The wyverns flying back with maybe a third their number (at best estimate). The bow knights completely gone and the other infantry leaving the wounded and dying behind. A detachment of conventional foot soldiers covered the retreat of the elites. A retreat bombarded with arrows and bolts.
"Make ready to charge!" Balthus wailed.
Jeralt affixed him a hard glare. "Your group isn't making it back up that hill if you go down."
"The Almyran reserves aren't like Fódlan armies. These are barely trained, poorly equipped conscripts. One of us for twenty of them easy."
They were wasting their best units in an upfront battle like that? He'd never been a fan of using the less capable of your forces to exhaust the enemies troops then smash them with the elites. The entire Officers Academy was about stopping that kind of harsh thinking. Doing the exact opposite never occurred to him.
"So, if we charge, they break." They get plenty of prisoners which means an incredible amount of ransom money. But something about it seemed off. He was missing something, but what?
"We'll take the first wave," the grinning soldier said. "We're more imposing. Once we scatter them, move in and take down what you can."
"Right."
They took a moment to catch their breath, but the heavy infantry advanced down the battle-stained drawbridge. They kicked aside a path through the carnage and advanced with arrow cover to the enemies still lurking in the foliage below.
They didn't last long. The arrow fire was shattering the reserves resolve and many were fleeing even before the lines clashed. For all their fatigue the Goneril troops battled evenly or better with the Almyran reserves. The low quality equipment of the latter rarely able to penetrate the thick plates of the defenders.
Jeralt gave the order and the remaining mixed unit advanced in. Even those among the Almyrans with strong stomachs turned and fled. Jeralt relished nothing in wounding as many as he could until there were no more in sight.
A ragged cheer came from the survivors. Victory only because the enemy retreated on the cusp of victory.
"Captain," Alois said, "we've got a problem."
"What is it, Alois?"
"Follow me." His third-in-command led him over to a pile of Almyrans. Most of them still crawling around in pain but disarmed. Sometimes literally. Alois brought him over to a short man holding against a tree. He panicked on approach, frantically waving his arms around and shouting words that sounded half-similar to Fódlan. Alois settled him down and pulled off his helm.
Goddess… "He's just a kid." Maybe ten, at most. The armor and padding had blown him out as large as an old man but the boy hadn't even the faintest trace of a beard coming in. Not that he expected a nation that launched constant invasions to be pleasant but this was beyond the pale.
"He's not the only one." Jeralt followed Alois around. Dozens of kids in the reserve units. Some of them didn't even have armor. The only thing they shared were tears.
The Goneril soldiers rounded them up with practiced ease. This was far from the first time Almyrans sent children after them. He could understand children involved in defending a location, but an outright attack?
Jeralt nearly slapped himself. Everything made sense now. He would have words with Goneril.
The living recuperated, the prisoners marched up and the dead left where they were for the time. Back in the Locket proper the other two defensive lines were conducting their own clean-up operations. The north looked to be just as damaged as the south. The center, where Goneril was, seemed to be in decent shape. The general himself was booming with laughter despite it all. If he was so cheery despite all the kids here then he needed to be taken down a notch.
Jeralt headed over and Goneril, for whatever reason, had an Almyran soldier pinned under his arm while he was walking about taking stock of the defenses. "Jeralt my good man, I heard you saved the southern line." The man had nearly a dozen untreated wounds across his personage.
Jeralt crossed his arms and tried not to stare at the struggling prisoner. "Your men did good work. The archers especially."
"Not quite the Chosen or the Valkyries but the Deadeyes are a close third."
"Right. Right. Could I have a word with you, in private?"
Goneril's eyes narrowed. He already knew. "I hardly think it's the time. Your wounds haven't been treated yet."
"Nor have yours."
"Then let's get that fixed, shall we?" He gave a great big grin. "And no talking shop in front of the physicians, aye?"
"Seriously, big brother, what's even the point of getting all these wounds?"
The pink-haired girl wrapped bandages around the body of General Goneril in the infarmy of the Goneril mansion nearby the Locket.
"You know why, Hilda."
"Really, you won't be able to keep defending the Locket if you keep getting hurt this much." She finished tightening up the last of the linens. "There, all done."
"Thank you. You're just the best."
"I know. I know. I'll be going now. All this blood and battle is not for a delicate flower like me." She walked out of the room even over his protests.
"Nice sister."
Goneril sighed. "She's got such potential but she never wants to live up to it. I hope a year in the Officers Academy under your tutelage will get her all worked up."
It reminded him of the Bergliez situation for some reason. "Well, that's for the future. Right now I have a far more important concern to share with you."
Goneril nodded. "The prisoners." It was just the two of them now.
"The prisoners." Jeralt leaned in, lowering his voice. "If you want to speak of this somewhere more private, I'm willing."
"There's no need," Goneril saw no need to whisper either. "You'll see soon enough."
That sounded bad. "What's that supposed to mean?" Almost on order, a fresh wave of servants came in. Servants. With their darker skin tones, heads bowed low; rarely did they make eye contact and the one time his eyes met with theirs the browns darted about to avoid. Clothing battered and ragged, coarse even on sight. They were Almyran servants. "You keep the Almyrans you capture as labor?" It took a good deal of restraint not to add on slave.
"And let them go back to the general who sends children out to battle?"
"Keeping them as… 'free' labor isn't exactly the best option."
"It's not against the tenets."
"Yeah… well…" He couldn't deny that. If he hadn't pushed Rhea to intervene in Duscur that would have been a massacre. An earlier one, anyway. Was no possibility she was gonna care about a bunch of people who actually did attack Fódlan? Like with Dagda and Brigid? He had to try. "Humane treatment doesn't stop just because they're beyond the border. Lady Rhea personally treated Dagdans and Brigid prisoners after that war was over."
That confidant smile never faded from him. "So do we. We rescue them, provide medical care, housing, clothing, food and water."
"And I'm sure the labor is out of their own will."
"And what do you suggest? Almyra doesn't ransom back for them. They're conscripts: orphans, street urchins and the other downtrodden of society. Some of them don't even know how to write their own language, much less Fódlan's. Try speaking with one. All you'll get is half-broken tongue and looks of confusion."
He wasn't here to get in a moral debate. Let Rhea handle that. "You're the expert and it's your house. I'm not gonna intervene."
"The fact that you care is already more than other guests of the house." Goneril shook his head. "It's not fair, it's not right. But my house's estates are tied into protecting my people. We don't have the luxury of educating our enemies. Even this draws contempt from a good lot of the men. Believing they take proper work from good Fódlan people. Rubbish thinking that."
"Letting them go hasn't crossed your mind, has it?"
"To where? Almyra and they'll be back attacking and die or kill. To Fódlan where they can't speak? Where they'll be attacked by discrimination? No. Keeping them here is for their own good. They simply can't function without our good efforts."
"Well, you're the expert here." As much as anyone was. "But this is something I need to report to Lady Rhea."
"I would not hide this from her inspection."
Wouldn't announce it either. "Then I'll get to sending out a messenger."
"You do good work, Jeralt. I wouldn't mind having you visit the Locket again."
"Maybe we'll get to share a drink next time."
Jeralt headed out to track down Byleth first. But his thoughts couldn't stop from considering the vile nature of the situation. It was slavery, pure and simple. Considering what he saw Almyra seemed barely better off on the idea either. Goneril had down a damn good job hiding this if even he hadn't heard about it.
Was there anything he could do about this? Would Rhea do anything? Nobody would donate money to educate the people who kept attacking him. Gross as it was, Goneril had his points. Didn't mean he had to like it. But he couldn't think of a solution by the time he found Byleth.
Who was speaking with Goneril's sister of all people. He called him over and they left, prompting Jeralt to ask just what was going on. "So, what were you two talking about?"
"Marriage."
"I—what?" That was as far from his interests as anything got. "How did that come up?"
"She said I was handsome and cared about people," his son replied.
Was she trying to manipulate him or something? "Well, what do you think? About marriage." He'd never shown a single twinge of romance in all his years so Jeralt had never bothered him about it.
"It exists."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Well, if it was what he wanted, it was what he wanted. A shame to have the ring go to waste though. "Maybe that will change, one day."
"Maybe." About as positive a response as he ever gave.
Forewarned twice in advance, Rhea's arrival at Fódlan's Locket and the Goneril estate were met with accepted acknowledgement of the fort's defenses and the treatment of the prisoners of war. She went about, personally thanking each soldier who survived, and offered prayers for those lost. Her hands went about healing those yet retaining wounds, Fódlan and Almyran.
Her faith work finished, she set a meeting with Goneril in private. Inviting Jeralt, Byleth and Shamir to attend alongside her and Seteth. He reluctantly accepted, while Shamir excused herself and Byleth declined for some other reason.
The wardroom was furnished as much as one would expect the second Duke of the Leicester Alliance to be. Fabulous tapestries adorned the walls. War banners in gold with the Crest of Goneril and Freikugal. Thick carpeting with a deep golden color and wooden furniture capped with the trappings of silver and gold. Goneril sat at the second seat, the head ever reserved for his father, the actual duke who was away on roundtable business.
Rhea, Seteh and he took opposite seats. Declining an invitation to tea, but a serving boy of Almyran features brought some for the general. Couldn't have been more than thirteen. Dark hair that had never seen a comb, brown eyes doing their best not to galre. Clothes just a bit above threadbare and shows torn in several places. Hardly the type one would present in a meeting between any two people, much less the archbishop of the Church of Seiros.
"Hello, child," Rhea called out to him. "What is your name?"
The boy started back in a panic, only for Goneril to straighten him out with a shake. "Your name, boy. The lady asked your name."
"C-Cyril," he choked out, his name spoken with a twange of an accent one attributed to less-learned commoners.
"How long have you been working here, Cyril?"
The boy blinked a few times. "F-five month. Must work. Work hard."
"He's one of our hardest workers," Goneril said. A lie to Jeralt's ears. A meaningless compliment. He probably never heard his name before today.
"I was not aware the fortunes of House Goneril have fallen so low as to approve of labor such as this."
"Plenty of farming families have their children work the fields, even younger than he. Knights of the Kingdom learn the sword before their letters and numbers. My upbringing was much the same."
"To aid one's family is a noble aspiration. To not be given a choice is the opposite."
"My lady Rhea, I have long thought the same implications. But the matter is simple. We cannot invest in both the security of the border and those the Almyrans abandon." All the gold in the room spoke otherwise. "One must suffer for the sake of the other, so we prioritize all of Fódlan and care for these discarded as best we can. Or is the Kingdom's solution the preference here?"
Rhea sat in quiet contemplation for a few moments, letting Seteth take the lead. "I will not speak expertly of House Goneril's affairs, nor its treatment of prisoners. We will not intervene on such matters unless the matters become one of notice. So long as they are treated humanly we have no concern for intervention."
Slavery was never humane but there wasn't much he could argue against here.
"I daresay we are more humane than much of Fódlan would treat them. Sreng, Duscur. I've heard of how Brigid consented to ransom and Dagda... Remind me, where did prisoners in the thousands go when the Empire had no more desire to feed and cloth them?"
"Here, yes," said Seteth. "But the people of Dagda share a more common appearance with Fódlan than Almyra does."
Goneril leaned in and tapped the table. "Precisely my point. Should they be loosed they'd merely be slain like beasts. Here they are safe. Here they are cared for."
"As I said, so long as they are cared for, there will be no need for intervention."
"Then there's no problem." Goneril leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. "Hurry along, Cyril." The boy scattered with a hurry Jeralt saw commonly among those running from physical punishment.
"Are there… incidents, between the Almyrans and others?" Jeralt asked.
Goneril nodded. "Plenty. Even among each other. They fight one another for food, clothing, even beds."
Telling him to get more would have just brought another point about stretched finances. "You're gonna have to do something. If your facilities are expended so much further attacks will only exacerbate the problem."
Goneril stared into the tea. "There's talk at the roundtable conferences, of course, when I must work in my father's absence. Nothing ever comes to it. Duke Reigan extends some sympathies but Count Glouscter fights him on every issue. Margrave Edmund offers financing to maintain the Locket, not for the soldiers. Count Ordelia..." Goneril shook his head and looked from his drink. "To say more is a disservice. There is simply endless debate and no action taken until it affects more than one of us."
The weakness of an equal government. At least they didn't have to deal with a regent declaring a blood war.
"I understand the weight of your decisions, General Goneril," Rhea returned to the conversation. "The Central Church will relay the need of additional funding to the Eastern Church and request the aid of the faithful in spreading the good works of the goddess to your needs." It was a surprise, to be sure. He fought damn hard to get her to intervene with Duscur and it'd cost the church plenty. Directly decreeing such a thing was an incredible move.
"You do me much honor by alleviating this burden, Your Grace."
"The goddess protects all the faithful, and all those who would be faithful." Was she planning on converting them? Or was this another situation like Shamir? "Such funding will require an oversight bishop to ensure the totalled funds are allocated correctly, but the numerous casualties I've seen suggest an additional set of faith healers would be welcomed."
Goneril mulled over the idea between sips of tea. "Such a thing would warrant talks directly with my father, but would not need the attention of a roundtable conference. I am certain we can manage some arrangement to all our benefits."
"There is another matter, of course. The boy, Cyril, I would request he accompany us back to Garreg Mach."
The idea took Goneril aback, even if he tried to hide it behind his cup. "I will consent, of course, but, may I ask, why?"
She'd the look that Jeralt would call "doing it on a whim". "Though the suffering of all concerns me, and certainly there are others, too, in need amongst the Almyrans. But when one so unfortunate as he crosses my sight I cannot help but offer my hand." That was the Rhea from his memories. The one who gave her blood to him, gave him a hundred years. The one who earned so many devoted. The Rhea he was believing in once more.
"If that is your wish, you have my full permission."
"Then I shall inform him at once. Good day, General." Rhea excused herself with an almost frightening speed and Jeralt and Seteth were a tad slow in following her outside.
"Rhea," Seteth said before they caught up to the boy, "what is the meaning of this?"
"This young man is in need of help. There is no other reason." That was how it always began. And holy knight was how it ended.
"The monks are not… kind to those outside the faith." Didn't expect Seteth to point that out. "Even when such discrimination goes against word, he will expierence prejudice at the monastary."
"I hope his full devotion will sway such thoughtless minds."
"As your will dicates." But Seteth was hiding a grimace and Jeralt wasn't gonna put down a good deed like this.
They reached the boy, who did his best to avoid standing out. It failed when Rhea bent down before them a calm smile gifted to him. "Hello, Cyril. My name is Rhea."
The boy nodded, waited for any instructions. "How would you like a meal?" His eyes went wide, but he tried to hide his interest. "Three meals, every day. And a bed, all to yourself." The boy stared, interest in the words he understood standing out. Slowly, he nodded. "I can take you. If you say 'yes'."
"Y-yes!" He was either desperate or so broken he'd forgotten adults could lie.
Rhea's smile widened at his enthusiasm. "Welcome, Cyril."
The sudden inclusion of Cyril into their traveling party northwards did little to change things. The boy stayed to himself, or at Rhea's side. Bringing her anything she asked for, or helping strike the camp or fix wagon wheels or tend to the horses. All for three meals and the bedding of someone who'd died during the trip. He probably was the hardest worker in the Goneril estate from how quick he took to things.
Most of the escort ignored him, but some shot the boy needless glares. Like he was intruding on Rhea's finite grace. He ignored them. Ignored most everybody. Boy simply couldn't speak Fódlan. He had a few bits from getting shouted at, and some of the Almyran words Jeralt overheard sounded similar enough to Fódlan that him learning wasn't out of the question…
The only person that went out of her way to speak with him, besides Rhea, was Shamir. It made enough sense. They were both foreigners who owed Rhea. Her own tert nature made sure she didn't mince words when speaking with the kid and he picked up a few new words over the week.
The meeting with the Eastern Church was a reprieve after all the events of the journey. No bandits, no Almyrans (save Cyril) and no veiled politics. The bishops were eager to bend to Rhea's favor and boldly accepted the oversight of Fódlan's Locket in return for an official statement they could start arming their own forces.
Maybe one day that would be a bad idea. They'd be like the Western Church and Jeralt would be coming here to put them down. But that was far in the future. For now everything was stable as it ever got.
Bandit attacks, foreign invasions, slavery. Yeah. Stable as ever.
AN: Thank you all for the Reviews, Favorites and Followers.
With this chapter the Alliance section is over. Only two more Chapters remain in Broken Blade before we move on to Byleth's perspective in the sequel.