Byleth stood in the quiet clearing, surrounded by a carpet of vibrant wildflowers. Each petal seemed to sway gently in time with the cool evening breeze, releasing a soft fragrance that mixed with the damp earth beneath his boots. The pale moonlight filtered through the branches overhead, casting long, delicate shadows that danced and swirled on the ground like ethereal spirits. The world around him felt still and serene, but an unspoken tension hung heavy in the air, pressing down on his chest with each passing moment.
His gaze settled on a patch of delicate flowers, their vibrant petals swaying gently in the breeze. Valerians, just like the ones his mother had cherished so dearly. A hollow ache tugged at him, reminding him of the family that always felt just out of reach, no matter how close they stood beside him.
"This place... it shouldn't exist. Not like this."
"Brother?"
He flinched slightly and turned back, seeing his brother standing there with curious eyes.
"You didn't hear me coming?"
Byleth shook his head and answered calmly. "Sometimes you just appear out of nowhere. I thought I told you not to do that already, Seraph!" The boy smiled and looked at the surroundings. However, the smile faltered slightly before he looked at Byleth with a smile still on his face. There was something about the little boy that he felt off- as if the smile did not reach his eyes.
"I was just wondering why you always come out here alone." Seraph's voice was soft, almost tentative, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, piercing through the man's thoughts.
"It's quiet here," Byleth said calmly. "And I find it easier to think around here."
"Think about what?" Seraph approached him slowly as the brothers looked at the flowers around them, enjoying this peaceful moment.
"About why things are the way they are." Byleth said, his voice strained with a sorrow he couldn't hide."Why does everything seem trapped in an endless cycle? No matter where I go, it's the same... humans fighting, grasping for power, destroying everything in their path. It's like they can't help themselves. Like they're stuck in this never-ending loop of making the same mistakes over and over again. I've been running from the shadows of the past, but they always seem to catch up to me eventually. I thought they would finally leave me alone, but..."
"Is that why we're always on the run? You never told me why, including father and mother."
Byleth stayed silent for a beat, then squeezed his fists and muttered with resentment.
"Because Seraph… there are people who will never rest until they capture us for their twisted purposes."
"But why? What have we done to them?"
"It's not about what we've done," His voice carrying a bitter edge. "It's about what we are. Our blood- it makes us different. And to them, we are nothing but puppets, dancing to the whims of fate. All in the name of a traitor who cares for nothing but her precious Church and that treacherous liar who called herself Goddess."
"Is that why Father always gets so angry whenever I ask about the Church? And Mother, she may not show it, but I can see the resentment in her eyes when she holds me tight. What did the archbishop do to us to make them hate her so much?"
Byleth's expression darkened at the mention of the archbishop. His jaw clenched tightly, and he fell silent for a moment, his body tensed with barely contained rage. When he finally spoke, his words were laced with cold fury.
"Because…" Byleth began with a low growl. "The archbishop was planning to turn your mother into the vessel of the Goddess." Seraph widened his eyes and let out a shocking gasp. "And when it became clear that she wasn't suitable, **** turned her sights on you. She would have ripped your mother's heart out and implanted it within you, all for her own sick desires."
Seraph's face went pale, his cheerful expression crumbling as Byleth's words sank in. His wide eyes filled with a mixture of shock and fear, and his lips trembled, struggling to form words.
"They... they were going to do that to Mother?" Seraph stammered, barely able to process the horror of it. "And to me?"
"Yes. And even now, that woman sees you as nothing more than an amnesiac Goddess who will take back her throne once she regains her memories for the real you were dead that night." He clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white. "I should have seen through her lies from the beginning, but what does it matter now? I saved that wretched Church and ruled it in her place, just like she wanted."
"That's not true." Seraph shook his head vehemently, catching Byleth's attention. "Because it is different this time. You saved Mother and you saved me. That's what matters."
"I don't know if it's different, Seraph." Byleth sighed. "Yet in the end, we are still running from that delusional woman who would stop at nothing until she reclaims what she believes rightfully belongs to her. And I could not save anyone. Not my students. Not my mother. And not even my father."
"You did save us, Brother," Seraph said, his voice soft but steady. "You saved us both. You stopped her plan before it could happen, and even if we're still running... it's thanks to you that we have this chance. Mother, Father… and me. We're all here because of what you did."
"…" Byleth avoided his gaze and stared aimlessly. However, Seraph was not deterred and stepped closer.
"I know it's hard for you to see, but things are different now," Seraph continued. "You're not alone, Byleth. You have us. We might not be the family that you lost before… and we won't just disappear like that. And that I can guarantee."
Byleth's expression darkened at those words, a flicker of pain crossing his face.
"Nothing I did was ever enough even with that power. Who's to say I won't fail again?"
"But we're still here!" Seraph insisted, his voice rising slightly, not in anger but in desperation. "I'm here! Mother's here! And Father—" Seraph hesitated for a moment before continuing, his tone conflicted. "Why do you never call them 'Mother' and 'Father'? You care about them. I know you do... so why?"
Byleth's silence was thick, his eyes closing briefly as the question hit him. He knew it was coming and yet he was not ready for it. Clenching his fists, he answered hesitantly, as his emotions became turmoiled.
"I tried." His voice sounded defeated. "At first, I tried to see them as my parents despite everything. I wanted to. But every time I looked at them… it felt like I was wearing someone else's skin." His breath hitched, his eyes glistening under the weight of the words. "It's like I'm playing a role in a life that doesn't belong to me."
His gaze turned to the sky, distant, filled with memories that seemed to weigh on him. "In another life, they were never there for me. My mother died before I even had a chance to know her. And my father... he was always distant but even so, he loved me with everything he had- something I only realized until I lost him."
His fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he fought the tide of grief rising within him. "And now... they're here. They're everything I should've had, everything I thought I wanted. But I can't..." His voice cracked, barely audible. "I can't be the son they deserve. It feels like I'm betraying something—someone. Like I'm living a life that shouldn't be mine. As if I'm lying to them... and to myself."
"And I don't even know who I am anymore." The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, as tears began streaming on his face. Until a pair of hands wrapped around him as Seraph hugged him gently.
"Then… we'll make it your life. It doesn't matter what happened before. It doesn't matter if we are replacements for what you lost." He took a deep breath and continued. "You're my brother. And you are the son of ****** and *****, even if you can't say it. We're not going to leave you behind, no matter what fate has in store for us. And you belong here with us, even if you don't see it yet."
Byleth looked up at him, feeling speechless and grateful in equal measure. There was a shift in his eyes, a flicker of hope that had been missing before. Seraph's words were like a soothing balm, easing the turmoil within him.
"You saved us, Brother. And now, it's our turn to save you."
26th of the Great Tree Moon, 1180
The library was eerily quiet, the faint hum of the wind outside the only sound breaking the stillness. Rows upon rows of books lined the stone walls, towering above like silent sentinels guarding forgotten knowledge. The blue-haired man sat at a large oak table, its surface cluttered with scattered books and parchments. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, darted over the fragile pages and absorbed every word, every faded letter, as though his life depended on it.
His fingers clenched the edges of the old, leather-bound book with a desperate urgency, his movements mechanical and methodical as he turned each page. The other students in the library watched him with curiosity, wondering what had possessed the new Assistant to become so absorbed in his books. Whispers and gossip had been circulating for days about his strange behavior - some claimed he had not left the library at all, while others swore they saw him returning late at night, his blue hair disheveled and eyes glazed over. His dedication to his duty was admirable, but it was clear that something was driving him to spend every waking moment within these walls, flipping through pages upon pages without pause or hesitation.
The sun cast deep light across his face, highlighting the exhaustion etched into his features. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his usually composed expression had begun to show signs of strain. But Byleth couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop. Not until he found the truth.
The Crest. He didn't know its name, not yet. But he knew its power—he could feel it inside him, a slow-burning flame, flickering beneath the surface, threatening to consume him. This cursed Crest… the one that had been taken from his mother. It lingered in his thoughts, a reminder that his past was nothing more than a series of unanswered questions.
And those memories that had been haunting him ever since. But there was one name standing out most to him- Nemesis. The name that seemed to haunt every corner of his search. A tyrant, a murderer, and yet, something about his legacy was shrouded in a fog Byleth couldn't quite pierce. He read the same lines over and over as if repetition would unlock the meaning that had eluded him for so long.
"Under the tyranny of ruthless disorder, the people endured a long period of suffering. The vile Nemesis, who proclaimed himself the King of Liberation, delighted in war and bloodshed."
The words twisted something inside Byleth. There was no denying the cruelty attributed to Nemesis—this so-called King of Liberation who had brought chaos to Fódlan. But something didn't sit right. The more Byleth read, the more questions gnawed at him.
"Delighted in war and bloodshed…"
Byleth's brow furrowed as he read the line again, chewing on the words. Vile. Delighted in war and bloodshed. A man who had claimed to free Fódlan had instead drowned it in chaos and death. The history books painted him as a monster—someone who craved nothing but destruction.
But something about that felt incomplete.
"Rather than rebelling against his persecution, the people of Fódlan fell to his depths in a mad scramble to attain power through murder and theft."
His eyes lingered on the passage. Was Nemesis truly that simple—a man drunk on bloodlust? Or was there more to his story? Byleth could feel a sense of recognition, a distant pull, as though they were connected somehow. Shaking his head, Byleth turned the page and continued reading.
"Saint Seiros appeared in the land of Enbarr...unfathomable miracles she performed, spread light across the land..."
"Lies!"
Byleth's expression twisted into a grimace at the mere mention of Seiros. The name dripped with reverence and respect from all who dwelled in Fodlan, but to him, it brought only skepticism and disgust. His mind drifted back to that haunting dream, to the moment he was seated on that throne. The intense loathing that coursed through him, the rage at being nothing more than a pawn in someone else's game, bound by chains he never asked for or wanted.
His hands clenched into tight fists, the knot of confusion and rage tightening within him. Just the mere mention of her name sent shivers down his spine as if some dark, ancient part of him rejected her with every fiber of his being. The disgust was undeniable, bubbling up from deep within his core. Trying to push aside these overwhelming emotions, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Flipping to the next page, his eyes widened in curiosity as he delved deeper into the mystery that surrounded her.
The Angel of Death.
"When Nemesis raised his sword, it was not merely his strength that drove the Liberation Army to victory, but the presence of a figure cloaked in shadow—known only as the Angel of Death. His name was whispered in fear, for it was said that where Nemesis commanded, the Angel brought inevitable triumph, his methods swift and merciless. Those who faced him described a being with no heart, no emotion- only the cold, unyielding force of death itself. His presence alone shifted the tides of war, and it was in his wake that cities crumbled, and enemies fell without a single word of defiance."
Byleth raised an eyebrow at the information. The Angel of Death? The very same title that everyone had been calling him? The records of Nemesis were vast and many but few of them mentioned this shadowy figure, as if history had chosen to forget him. Yet there was something lacking, like a missing piece of the puzzle that he had been desperately trying to solve.
"His name was never disclosed as well as his face was hidden beneath a dark hood. Wherever the Liberation Army marched, he was there, not as a commander, but as a Guardian who gave blessings to his soldiers. Cities fell to ruin in his wake, the flames he conjured leaving nothing behind but ash. It is said that the Angel of Death had no regard for the lives of the people of Fodlan, burning them along with their homes, as though their existence was inconsequential in the grand scheme of war. Those who looked upon him saw neither a human being nor an Angel as he proclaimed, but a Demon sent to cleanse this land."
Byleth's throat tightened as he read. The cold detachment with which the Angel of Death operated made something twist in his gut. The descriptions painted him as an emotionless monster, but Byleth couldn't help but feel… odd about this figure. It was as if some deep part of him understood this deity, even though there should have been no connection between them.
"His power was undeniable—some say it was equal to, if not greater than, the King of Liberation himself despite the rumors about their relationship. For it was said that the Angel of Death was the only child of Nemesis himself and the sole heir of the Kingdom. Where Saint Seiros spread her miracles and healing, the Angel of Death sowed destruction and fear. Some worshipped him in secret, believing he was a god in his own right, sent not to save, but to judge the people of Fódlan for their sins. His title became synonymous with victory, yet it was a victory stained with the blood of countless innocents."
"In the final battle at Tailtean, where Nemesis fell, it was said that the Angel of Death took the Sword of the Creator from the fallen king's hand and unleashed an immense wave of energy, burning everything around him and forcing even Seiros herself to bow. But just as swiftly as he appeared, the Angel suddenly stopped as he let out an inhumane scream. However, that was more than enough for Saint Seiros to take her chance and stab his heart, ending his reign of terror once and for all. The Angel vanished, leaving nothing but the Sword of the Creator behind. But his legacy, his power, lingers till this day for the destruction and suffering he left in this land would never be forgotten."
Byleth's breath hitched as he finished the passage. The King of Liberation—heralded as a hero by some, cursed as a tyrant by others. Chosen by the Goddess, the one who drove back an ancient evil, only to succumb to the very power that had raised him up. And then there was Saint Seiros—lauded as the savior of Fódlan, the founder of the Church of Seiros. Yet just the mention of her name made his blood boil, his fists clenching involuntarily. Anger surged within him, but he didn't understand why.
It was a conflict buried deep in his soul, like a wound that had festered over time, one he couldn't trace back to any single moment. Except for that dream. The throne. The woman with emerald hair—her face twisted in devotion as she tore away his past, his future, his very existence. His mother's screams haunted him, though he had never truly heard them. But he felt them, in every bone, every memory that had been stolen from him.
His hand rested on the next page, and his eyes drifted over the words: "The Crest of Flames, gifted by the blood of the Goddess, passed down to those destined to shape the world!"
His breath caught again. Crest of Flames. The name sparked something deep within him, a sensation not unlike the sharp tug of memory just out of reach. His pulse quickened. The Crest he bore—the one that had marked his fate before he was even born—it had always set him apart, made him something other. He remembered that day. That nightmarish day when his mother had been ripped apart, her body torn asunder to make way for him, for the Crest she had passed to him—stolen from her dying form. It had all been for this. This Crest.
His eyes darkened. Why? Why had his mother been forced to endure that agony? Why had he been chosen—no, created—for this twisted purpose? The woman in white had called him a vessel, a mere tool to house some greater power. But for what? This unknown Crest- it was tied to his very existence, and yet the more he thought about it, the less he understood.
He pressed his palm against his chest, where the Crest had marked him for life, feeling the thrum of power beneath his skin.
Who am I?
The haunting question echoed through his mind, its sharpness piercing through his thoughts like a dagger. He had always been Byleth- a skilled mercenary, a devoted teacher, and a dutiful son. But as he stood there, surrounded by uncertainty and doubt, he couldn't help but wonder if that was all he was meant to be. Was his existence truly meaningless, as the woman had claimed? Was he nothing more than a mere puppet, used for the benefit of others and discarded once his role was fulfilled? The weight of these questions hung heavy on his shoulders, threatening to crush him with their magnitude.
"Wow, it is true. I never thought I'd see you here of all places."
Byleth closed the book and turned back where he saw a familiar yellow cape. He gave a small nod and stared at the Golden Deer with a stony- face.
"I see you are as stony-faced as usual, Instructor. Hmm, I can't tell if you're feeling resigned or you are just lost in thoughts. But perhaps, it might be the latter one this case."
"…."
"Oh…Sorry. I really didn't mean to be rude. I just find you fascinating."
"What else is fascinating about a mercenary but his combat ability, Claude?" Byleth replied bluntly.
"And he is blunt as usual. Just like Teach and her blunt manners. You two are more alike than what you give credit for." Claude said teasingly and pointed at the stack of books behind Byleth. "Anyway, pretty unusual to see you cooped up in a library for days on end. But even I didn't expect this level of dedication. You're starting to make Lysithea look like she is slacking behind."
"There is nothing unusual about it. I'm just reading." Byleth looked up from the book, his expression unreadable as always.
"Oh, I'm sure you are. But this isn't just casual reading, is it? I mean, judging by the number of volumes piling up around you, it looks like you're either preparing for an upcoming exam or conducting some kind of research like Professor Hanneman."
"Just catching up on history," Byleth replied nonchalantly, the corner of his lips barely moving.
"History, huh?" Claude pushed off the shelf, walked around the table, and took a seat across from him. "That's quite the serious expression for just history, Instructor. Must be something pretty heavy in those books to weigh on your mind like that."
Byleth's eyes briefly flickered to the stack of books beside him and then looked at Claude with a stoic expression. Yet, that did not seem to deter the leader of the Golden Deers who only became more curious.
Come on, you're not going to leave me hanging, are you? I'm dying to know what's gotten the fearless Angel of Death so deep in thought."
"It's nothing special. Just learning about Fodlan's history. It's important for my position as your teacher."
"True. But I get the feeling you're not exactly brushing up on Fódlan's trade routes. You've been reading about Nemesis, right? The War of Heroes, all that ancient drama? It's pretty specific, even for you."
Byleth remained still and frowned slightly. "I've never heard about those stories before coming here. It's important to know all sides of a story. Especially ones that have shaped the world we live in."
Claude smirked. "You're not wrong, but not everyone spends this much time on one side of the story. Nemesis, Seiros... the Church has a pretty clear version of what went down, but something tells me you're not satisfied with that version, are you?"
Byleth's jaw tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Claude didn't miss it. He leaned in again, his tone more curious than playful now.
"I get it. The official story? It's neat, wrapped up with a bow. But you and I both know history's rarely that simple. If you dig deep enough, there's always more to it than what's written on the surface. So, what are you hoping to find here? The truth?
"I'm just following where the information leads." The blue-haired man replied with a small frown as he crossed his arms.
"And where is it leading you, exactly? Nemesis was a villain, right? A man consumed by power, slaughtered by Seiros, and that was the end of it. Or... was it? You're reading about the Angel of Death too. Some say he was just a myth, an exaggerated rumor during that war. But perhaps there is something more to that tale."
"Such as?"
"It is a bit murky; don't you think? But there's history, and then there's myth. And the Angel of Death? Now that's a figure that blurs the line between the two. I've heard some pretty wild theories. A god-like warrior, Nemesis' secret weapon, even whispers that he was... I dunno, family? What do you think?"
"There is a lot of speculation about his real identity. And Seteth also told me he was more than a myth than a man."
"You don't say? Funny how the Church barely mentions him, despite his role in the War of Heroes. And yet... he was there, right by Nemesis' side. Some people even say he was responsible for some of the bloodiest battles, more so than Nemesis himself."
"The Church only focuses on the figures they see as important and those who are gifted "blessing" from the Goddess." There was a sharpness in his voice that caused Claude to widen his eyes and continue.
"Yeah, exactly. Which makes me wonder—why isn't this Angel of Death getting more attention? If he was really as powerful and influential as the legends say, you'd think there would be some paintings dedicated to him or a least mention him more. Makes you wonder if they're hiding something, doesn't it?" Byleth remained silent as Claude continued.
"Think about it, Instructor. Nemesis wasn't acting alone. He had this... figure—someone who could level cities and crush armies like it was nothing. The way the stories describe him, it's like the Angel of Death was more than just a mortal. Some people even say he was a god, or close to one. But here's what really gets me—why did he just disappear? No trace, no mention of what happened to him after Nemesis fell."
"Legends have a way of fading with time. People remember what they want to."
"True. But this feels like more than just fading with time. The way history is written by the Church… it feels incomplete and there are more questions than answers. Like, say, the Angel of Death's true identity. If he was more than just Nemesis' enforcer—if he was something greater, more dangerous—it might explain why they're so keen to forget him."
"You are speculating too much, Claude."
"Speculating is what I do best, Teach." Claude grinned. "But sometimes, speculation leads to the truth. And right now, I have a feeling there's a lot more to this story than we're being told."
"Stories and speculations of the true identity of the Angel of Death have already begun ever since the rise of the King of Liberation. But the truths remain a mystery as time passes."
"Oh, Tomas, didn't expect you to join in. Though I suppose I should have expected to our librarian in this library."
"Pardon me, I didn't mean to intrude." His voice carries a soft, harmless tone. "But I couldn't help but overhear… quite the interesting subject you're discussing."
"Do you know something about this… Angel of Death?" Byleth asked calmly.
"Ah, the Angel of Death... Yes, I've come across tales of that figure before. An enigma, isn't he? A warrior of great power, shrouded in mystery, his existence a mere whisper in the annals of history. Few dare to speak of him openly." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed Byleth. "But… there are always those who remember."
"And what do you remember, Tomas? You wouldn't happen to know anything beyond what the Church has documented, would you?"
Tomas tilted his head slightly, a vague smile forming. "The Church… they focus on what aligns with their teachings, as you've said. But not everything fits so neatly into their version of events." His gaze flickered back to Byleth, studying him with unsettling intensity. "The Angel of Death… his role was indeed pivotal, but his fate? Now that is a tale lost to time. Or perhaps, deliberately erased."
"Erased?"
"One wonders... what the Church might seek to hide. The Angel of Death was not simply a warrior. Some said he was different, not like the others who fought in the War of Heroes. A being of immense power, yes... but also... something more. There were rumors..." Tomas trailed off as if weighing his words carefully. "That his existence threatened the very order of the world. Perhaps... a figure that even the Goddess herself could not destroy."
"A being even the Goddess couldn't destroy? That's a pretty wild claim, Tomas." Claude exclaimed shockingly.
"I suggest nothing, young Claude. Only recount old tales, ones that speak of beings who walked this world before the kingdoms we know existed. Beings who shaped history in ways mortals could barely comprehend. It is said that some of these beings… still linger. Hidden, forgotten, or… perhaps, closer than we think." His eyes flickered again towards Byleth's face, before continuing.
"Perhaps the reason the Church does not speak of him is because they fear what might happen if his true nature were ever revealed. That bloodline if it is unchecked, can reshape the world forever."
"I gotta say, Tomas, you're really leaning into this whole mystery and myth here. But seriously, what's your theory? You think the Angel of Death was some kind of God in disguise?"
"Ah, theories, they can be quite dangerous, don't you think? But, young Master Claude, sometimes it is not a matter of believing in gods or myths, but in the power they wield. The Angel of Death was more than a mere legend. And legends, as we know, often hold more truth than we care to admit." His gaze settles back on Byleth. "Tell me, Instructor, do you believe in fate? Or do you believe that a man can shape his own destiny?"
"…"
"Perhaps you, more than anyone, might understand what it means to unveil the true nature of the world. But I mustn't keep you from your studies. History is a vast and winding path and sometimes, the truth is buried deeper than any book can reveal."
As Tomas turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, his gaze locking with Byleth's. "Be careful, Instructor. The past has a way of creeping up on us when we least expect it." With that, he disappeared into the labyrinth of bookshelves, leaving behind a heavy silence.
"Well… that was... something." He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to make of that old man, but he sure knows how to make things sound menacing. What do you think, Instructor? Are you buying any of that? Or was it all just another mystery we'll never solve?"
"That's up to you and feel free to read whatever you want but I must return to my study. Have a good day." Byleth nodded and returned to his books.
"Fair enough. But if you do figure it out, you'll let me know, right? I'd hate to miss out on cracking one of Fodlan's biggest mysteries."
He stood up, stretching lazily as if the entire conversation had been lighthearted banter. But as he turned to leave, he cast one last look over his shoulder, grinning playfully.
"And perhaps you might need to take some rest, Instructor. Or someone will be very upset if she sees you in this state." Byleth blinked as the Golden Deer waved and disappeared.
It didn't matter. He would not rest until he got the answers he wanted.
"You haven't slept in days," Bylass said flatly, her voice calm, almost detached.
"I'm fine." Byleth's reply was short, his gaze never leaving the text in front of him.
Bylass came to stand beside him, her arms folded across her chest. She didn't press herself into his space but kept distant close enough to show her intentions.
"You've barely eaten and rested. At this rate, you are going to burn yourself sooner or later." Byleth finally looked up as his gaze met her. Her eyes were looking at him with concern despite the stoic expression, which only made him feel more guilty.
"It doesn't matter. I can't stop until I find the answers I need."
"What answers?" She asked calmly and sat in front of him. Closing his book, Byleth sighed heavily and answered with a conflicted tone.
"About my past. About who I truly am."
Her brow furrowed, the weight of his words feeling like a familiar stab in her heart. She knew this conversation all too well—his unending search for answers, his relentless pursuit to fill the void within him. And yet, she couldn't help but feel trapped by his unwavering determination, unable to reach through and ease his pain.
"I know. I know it is something that you've been searching for ever since we met. And I promised that I would help you no matter what. But, Byleth…" She hesitated and spoke slowly. "You don't have to do this alone."
Byleth's grip tightened on the book. He knew what she meant, but there was something deep within him that resisted. Dragging her into this mess into the uncertainty and darkness of his past. It felt wrong. It was his burden to carry, no one else's.
"It's not that simple," Byleth answered quietly, still not looking at her eyes.
"Why not? You've told me about your amnesia, about the memories you had with your family. And you said you would be counting on my help, didn't you? Why shut me out now?"
The silence between them deepened, the quiet hum of the monastery filling the space between their unspoken words. Byleth's eyes dropped to the floor, fingers gripping the edge of the book until his knuckles whitened. His chest tightened, a heavy knot of confusion twisting inside him, but no explanation came. Each thought that surfaced sank back down, lost in the storm of uncertainty swirling in his mind.
"Because this is something I don't even understand. And the truth is, I don't even know what I am looking for anymore."
"You don't have to figure everything out right now. But don't push me away." Bylass's brow furrowed slightly, her calm exterior cracking just enough for Byleth to see the hurt in her eyes. Then she added softly. "When you offered to be my friend, I swore I'd do whatever it took to help you. That hasn't changed."
"I know you want to help. But... I don't know if I deserve that gratitude."
The air between them thickened with unsaid words. Bylass's eyes flickered, a brief flash of something raw beneath her calm exterior—something that flickered between hurt, frustration, and something deeper. Her lips parted, but she hesitated, the tension in her clenched fists the only sign of the emotion she held back.
She stood up, a quiet inhale steadying her as her gaze lingered on him. Her eyes searched his face, lingering on him as if waiting for something—anything—that might break through his wall. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, strained, like it carried more than the words themselves.
"Is there nothing I can do?"
Bylass let out a quiet breath, her usual calm slipping for the briefest moment, the flicker of hurt in her eyes almost imperceptible. She turned without a word, her movements deliberate, the soft sound of her footsteps fading into the stillness of the monastery's halls.
He sat motionless as his eyes unfocused on the book before him. The room felt hollow, the absence of her presence chilling. Her unspoken words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, sinking into him as if they had weight of their own. He clenched his fist but remained still, swallowed by the silence she left behind.
But like so many things, the apology was swallowed by the silence.
The afternoon sun cascaded through the tall, stained-glass windows of the monastery, casting a golden glow across the stone floors. The warmth of the light wrapped around Byleth like a comforting embrace, momentarily calming the storm raging within him. As he walked through the courtyard, his feet sinking slightly into the lush grass, he could hear the soft rustle of leaves and the distant sound of students practicing swordplay. The idyllic scene was picture-perfect, but even in this peaceful setting, Byleth could not escape the weight of his troubled thoughts, which seemed to dull the vibrant colors around him.
He found a quiet bench beneath a tree, its branches stretching wide like welcoming arms. As he settled onto the cool wood, he let out a slow breath, attempting to clear his mind. But the moment he closed his eyes, images flooded back—fragments of memories, like shards of glass, both beautiful and painful.
His mother's face appeared in his mind, her smile radiant and full of life. It was a flicker of warmth against the cold reality he had come to know. But even as he held onto this memory, it was quickly shrouded in shadow, her laughter fading away to be replaced by a haunting image that played on repeat. He could see her heart being torn from her chest in vivid detail, the pain etched into every line of her face. The scene haunted him in the darkest corners of his mind, a constant reminder of the tragedy that had shattered his world.
"Why am I here?" he murmured, staring at the ground as he traced the patterns in the stone with his fingers. The question hung in the air, weighty and full of despair. At that moment, he felt more alone than ever. Each breath felt like a reminder that he was alive, and the cost of that existence gnawed at him.
He lifted his gaze, observing a cluster of students nearby. Their voices bubbled with energy, their eyes shining bright with the carefree joy of youth. It brought him back to his time at Remire, where life was simpler and filled with purpose. He remembered aiding the villagers in their daily tasks, lending a hand to Lydia in her fragrant garden, and cherishing the peaceful moments spent with Bylass. But amidst these pleasant memories, one image stood out sharply from the rest: Her silhouette falling against the dark clouds in that fierce storm - a constant reminder of why he was fighting so fiercely to protect her.
But could he ever keep lying to himself like this forever? The thought clung to his mind like a dark specter, haunting him with doubts and fears. She had extended to him an open hand, offering everything she had - her friendship, her empathy, and her unwavering support - despite the fact that he felt undeserving of such kindness. Repeatedly she had reassured him that he didn't have to face the challenges alone. But instead of accepting her support, he found himself struggling in silence, keeping her at arm's length when all she wanted was to be there for him.
"I wish I could tell you," He whispered, his voice barely a breath above the rustling leaves. How could he explain the confusion swirling inside him? The truth was, he didn't know how to begin for everything about him might just be a lie.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small silver ring- the only keepsake that he had from his mother. The cool metal was a comfort against his palm, a tangible connection to a life he barely remembered. It was a reminder that there had been love, warmth, and joy once.
But now, those once cherished memories felt tainted. The gleaming ring on his finger no longer represented the unbreakable bond he had lost, but rather the identity he was struggling to reclaim. A pang of doubt crept into his mind as he wondered if he could ever truly reclaim who he once was.
The last dream he had about his brother still haunted him. Why did he say they were not his family? At first, he had brushed it off as a figment of his imagination, a result of his inner turmoil. But now, Byleth couldn't help but start to doubt. Doubt that there was any truth to his existence, and doubt that there was ever a place for him in this world.
Was it possible that he had no real family left? The mere thought sent chills coursing through his body. His father and brother, the only blood ties he had left in this world, were still out there somewhere. But as he digested his brother's words, a new fear took hold - what if they were never truly family? What if their bond was nothing more than a facade, an illusion built on lies and deceit? Each question felt like a sharp blade twisting deeper into his heart, tearing apart the fragile hope he had held on to for so long. As Byleth wrestled with these thoughts, he couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness wash over him, as if a part of his identity had been ripped away without warning.
As the sun continued its descent, the shadows grew longer, stretching across the stone paths of the monastery. Byleth began to wander, lost in thought, his feet carrying him aimlessly as he sought solace from the storm within. The familiar corridors blurred together, the laughter of students fading into the background, and he found himself longing for the clarity that had always eluded him.
His path led him to a secluded corner of the monastery grounds, a hidden alcove where the noise of the world faded away. The air felt different here—thick with the weight of silence, yet somehow comforting. It was a place untouched by the chaos of his thoughts, a sanctuary of sorts. But then, something caught his eye. A weathered grave stood in stark contrast to the vibrant life surrounding it. Byleth approached, an inexplicable sense of familiarity washing over him. He knelt before the gravestone, his heart pounding in his chest as he brushed away the leaves and dirt.
The name etched into the stone was a name he didn't expect to see. Sitri Eisner. It sent a jolt through him, the connection striking him with a force he couldn't explain. It felt as if he were staring into a mirror reflecting a past he had long since buried. Confusion and longing twisted together within him, igniting a flicker of recognition that begged to be understood.
"Didn't expect to find you here." Jeralt greeted as Byleth gave a bow in return. "How has the new position been treating you so far?"
"It's interesting. I still have a lot to learn but everyone here is more welcoming than I thought."
"Good to hear then." Jeralt hummed and both men fell silent. Neither said anything until Jeralt began hesitantly, his voice was somewhat conflicted.
"So, what brings you here to this place?" The blue-haired man shifted slightly, glancing at the grave again as he replied with hesitation.
"I don't know. But there is something about this grave that feels familiar. And yet I can't explain why."
"Familiar?"
"I know it sounds strange, but I just feel a connection with it, as if I've seen it … or known the person buried here. As if this is someone who was very precious to me." Jeralt studied Byleth's expression intently as his frown was furrowing. Until he sighed heavily looked at the tombstone and spoke with a nostalgic voice.
"This was my wife's resting place. We buried her here years ago, not long before I left the Church." Byleth remained silent, his gaze fixed on the name etched into the stone. There was something tugging at him, a strange familiarity that refused to let go.
"My condolences." Jeralt nodded understandingly. "How did she pass away if I might ask?"
"Childbirth or that was how I was told." There was a frustration in his voice as Jeralt sighed.
"It must have been hard, raising Bylass without Miss Sitri by her side." Jeralt widened his eyes as Byleth patted him gently.
"So, you see the name then but thanks, boy." Byleth nodded. "You know, when Sitri was pregnant with Bylass, she had never looked so happy ever since I knew her. We made plans back then, thinking about how we would name our child and how we wanted to raise her. And yet…"
Jeralt continued, his voice stuttered but trying to remain steady. "When she passed away, everything changed for me. There was simply no reason to remain here for there was nothing but sorrow and sadness. I didn't stick around much after that. Didn't see the point in staying here without her. So, I left and never looked back, to live not only for me but for my wife and daughter as well."
Byleth studied Jeralt's face, searching for any signs of emotion. His eyes were distant and his shoulders were tense, but his voice remained steady. He could tell the Blade Breaker was trying to hide the pain in his heart. Yet despite his sorrow, there was a sense of reassurance in the way he spoke. It was as if he had accepted his grief and found a way to cope with it, even though it still lingered in the background.
"And now, here we are," Jeralt added, breaking the silence between them. "I suppose life has a way of moving forward, whether we're ready for it or not."
"We cannot run away from our pasts. For they will catch up to us eventually." Byleth finally spoke; his voice was understanding. "That's why we need to cherish these moments before we lose it."
"Byleth, what's wrong?" Jeralt asked with concern as Byleth fell silent and stared aimlessly until he began slowly.
"I remembered something recently" Jeralt turned his gaze to him, giving a nod for him to continue. "I dreamt… I saw my mother, who was screaming in agony as that woman forcefully ripped the heart from her."
Jeralt's expression looked horrified, but he let Byleth continue. "And that was not the end of it. The woman also admitted that she planted that very same stolen heart inside me, thinking that I would be the perfect host for her some "Mother" she worshipped. All because she believed that was my fate as well as my mother's. Puppets dancing to whims of fates. That was all we were to her."
Jeralt's eyes darkened, his fingers twitching slightly as if instinctively reaching for his weapon, though there was no enemy in sight. "What kind of monster would do something like that?" His voice was rough, filled with anger and a protective instinct he couldn't suppress.
"I don't know," Byleth muttered, shaking his head, eyes distant. "But that pain, that hatred … it just felt too real. And I just stood there helplessly while my mother was begging for help that was never heard." He felt his fingernails dig into the palms of his hands, a sharp reminder of the rage that still simmered within him.
Jeralt remained silent for a moment, trying to grasp the enormity of what Byleth had revealed. He slowly approached the blue-haired man and gave him a gentle pat.
"I'm sorry, Byleth. I just… don't know what to say. That was… unexpected."
"It's alright, Jeralt." Byleth shook his head and yet his eyes were distant, staring aimlessly. The an awkward silence until Jeralt left with a heavy sigh and a ran hand through his hair.
"There must be some good memories, right? Did you have other family?"
Byleth's gaze dropped to the ground. "I had a brother." He said quietly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "An energetic brat for someone his age. He looked up to me and always followed me around. No matter why they called him The Beaming Angel."
"Sounds like a fine kid then. Do you remember anything else?" Jeralt smiled softly.
"Despite his age, the ways he acted were more mature than I could imagine. And he claimed to know how to communicate with flowers. Just like his brother or so he said."
"I heard it from Bylass as well. Are there any talents that I need to know, boy?" Despite his stoic expression, there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth. "You are feeling alright now?"
"I'm getting better. Thanks for cheering me up, Jeralt. And also, for understanding as well."
"Don't worry, we are all family here after all. By the way, did something happen between you and Bylass?" Byleth suddenly fell silent and looked at Jeralt neutrally. "I saw her stomping past my office just a few hours ago. Despite her blank expression, I could tell she looked very upset. Did you two have another fight?"
Byleth hesitated before nodding. "I had an argument with her earlier. And she was upset because of what I've been keeping from her."
"Keeping things from her? Why?" Jeralt raised an eyebrow.
Byleth glanced to the side, his voice low but steady. "I don't want to burden her with… everything that's going on."
Jeralt gave a slow nod, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. "Everything that's going on, huh? Do you mean all that stuff you've been bottling up? The nightmares? The memories?"
"…"
"Boy, you know you can't do that forever." Jeralt sighed, shaking his head,
"I just don't want her to worry or get dragged into this. She has already sacrificed so much for me and this is the least I can do to repay her."
"You think pushing her away isn't hurting her already? She might be tougher than the average woman you meet but she is still a girl after all the one that risked her own life just to get that flower for you." Byleth looked away as his eyes narrowed. "You're not protecting her by shutting her out. You're just keeping her at arm's length when she's trying to stand by you."
"I know. But she does not deserve to carry these burdens that were mine to bear alone. This path I'm walking… it's not something she has to suffer through."
"You are not giving her enough credit, boy. She is not a fragile girl like those villager girls you met and she can handle more than you realize. But you've got to let her in. That's what she wants—to be there for you, just like you'd be there for her."
"…"
"Look, I know you're afraid of burdening her, but you're not giving her a chance. You think you're sparing her, but you're just making her feel like she's not enough. As if she does not deserve your trust."
Byleth's gaze fixed on the ground as Jeralt continued, his voice was getting softer. "You've got people who care about you. And they're not doing it because they have to. It is because they want to. Lydia. All the residents of Remire. I and Bylass too. You're not in this alone, kid."
Byleth nodded slightly, his voice was getting softer now. "Then what should I do, Jeralt?"
"You let her in. Just simple like that."
"Just like that?"
"Yeah, just like that. Look, I get it…you're used to handling everything yourself. But you're not doing yourself any favors by keeping your distance from everyone that way. There are people who care about you, Byleth." He paused, his tone softening even further. " You are the first real friend she ever had. Don't push her away because of some misguided idea of keeping her safe. Trust her. Trust the people around you. It's the only way any of this works."
Byleth nodded slowly, and his usually stern expression softened. His shoulders relaxed, and a small smile appeared on his face, revealing the relief he felt at that moment.
"I'll try. But thank you for guiding me once more, Jeralt."
Jeralt clapped him on the back with a small smile. "That's all I'm asking, kid. What are you intending to do now?"
"I'll find her and apologize for what I did earlier. If that is everything, I will take my leave now." Jeralt nodded as Byleth was about to leave before the Blade Breaker asked hesitantly.
"Hey, Byleth."
"Yes?"
"You know what, never mind. I'll see you next time then." Byleth shrugged and left quickly, leaving the Blade Breaker alone as he looked at the grave of his wife with a conflicted expression. Jeralt stared at the handkerchief, his brow furrowing as memories danced on the edge of his mind.
"Sitri, please tell me, what really happened that night?"
Byleth's heavy boots reverberated through the empty monastery halls, each step sounding louder and more urgent than the last. The sun had long since set, casting a dim glow from flickering candles along the stone walls. His breath came in sharp bursts, his mind consumed with a whirlwind of thoughts and regrets. This sense of urgency and unease was unfamiliar to him, as he searched for her desperately, feeling a knot tighten in his chest with each passing moment she remained out of sight.
Where could she be? His thoughts spiraled, cycling back to the same questions over and over, each one sharper than the last.
The frantic beating of his pulse drowned out even the quietness of the monastery. Each empty room he passed seemed to sneer at him, a stark reminder of her absence. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, echoing through the halls and tormenting him with their ambiguity. Had he said too much? Or not enough? He couldn't even remember now. All he knew was that he had wounded her deeply, and every step he took felt like a knife twisting in his gut.
He turned a corner sharply, breath hitching as he forced himself to think. Where would she go?
Then, it struck him. The library.
Turning the corner sharply, he paused just outside the library. The door was slightly ajar, a soft, flickering light glowing from within. Something told him she was there. He stepped forward quietly, the sound of his boots barely registering against the stone floor.
Pushing the door open, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.
Bylass was slumped over a table, her head resting on a stack of books, the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders signaling that she had fallen into a deep sleep. The warm light from the flickering candles bathed her in a soft, golden glow, casting shadows across her face. Despite the weariness painted on her features, there was a peacefulness to her expression, as if she had finally found solace within the pages of her studies. Papers and old tomes were scattered around her like fallen leaves, some of them open and marked with handwritten notes that seemed to dance in the candlelight. A few sheets had slipped from her grasp, floating to the ground.
But it wasn't just that she was here. It was the books.
His eyes caught the titles, the familiar bindings. He recognized them instantly—the ancient texts, records of the War of Heroes, and the Crest Stones. Books he had been pouring over in his own search for answers. His past. His family. The things he couldn't remember.
She had been reading those books.
Byleth's throat tightened as he took a step closer, the weight of it all pressing down on him. She had gone this far searched through the same texts, followed the same trails he had been. All for him. While he had been pulling away, keeping her at arm's length, she had been trying to understand him. To help him.
She was looking for answers too… for me.
His fingers clenched into a tight fist, the inner turmoil within him intensifying. He felt both touched and deeply moved by her willingness to go to such lengths for him. But at the same time, another part of him, the one that had pushed her away, recoiled in fear and guilt at the thought of her delving into the same darkness he was trying to escape.
He didn't want this for her.
The soft sound of her breathing was the only thing that kept him grounded at that moment. She had been searching, just like him. But she didn't have to. She wasn't supposed to. He had tried so hard to keep her out of this tangled web of confusion and pain—yet here she was, entangled anyway.
Byleth knelt beside her, his gaze lingering on the pages before her. The parchment was slightly crinkled and smelled of old ink and musty paper, evidence of the countless hours she had spent poring over its contents. The notes she had made in the margins mirrored his own, tiny scribbles and symbols that only they could decipher. Their intertwined thoughts and theories slowly pieced together the fragments of a story that still didn't make sense.
I never wanted her to carry this burden.
He held his breath as he approached her, his hand shaking slightly as it hovered just inches above her shoulder. Her body was draped over the stack of books, her head resting on open pages. The exhaustion was palpable in the way she slumped forward, her hair unkempt and falling in front of her face.
She went through all this… for me.
A wave of emotions washed over him, his chest constricting in a way that was unfamiliar. It wasn't just guilt this time, there was something else stirring within him. A sense of gratitude, perhaps? Or maybe it was something more profound, a feeling he couldn't quite put into words. Whatever the reason was, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her at all costs. But here she was, standing before him, proving that she didn't need his protection. She had chosen to be by his side, whether he wanted it or not.
I don't deserve this, he thought, his hand trembling slightly. But he couldn't deny the truth any longer.
He didn't want to do this alone.
With a careful touch, Byleth carefully placed the books back on the shelves and collected the notes, tucking them into his bags. Slowly, he made his way towards her, crouching down beside the chair. As he reached out to lift her, his movements were hesitant and careful, a stark contrast to his strength. Cradling her in his arms, her head rested against his chest as he adjusted his grip. Her body was warm against him, and for the briefest moment, her hand twitched, fingers curling slightly against his tunic.
As he carried her in his arms, the dimly lit halls of the monastery seemed to stretch on endlessly. The silence of the late hours amplified the sound of each step as his boots lightly tapped against the stone floor. They both remained quiet, but the weight of what lay unspoken between them seemed to echo off the walls.
The soft creak of a door broke the stillness as he entered her quarters. He moved quietly, crossing the room in a few strides. The moonlight trickled through the small window, casting a faint glow over her bed as he approached it.
Gently, he lowered her onto the mattress, her body sinking into the familiar comfort. Byleth adjusted the blanket over her, making sure she was covered, her hand slipping loosely from his grip as he tucked her in. For a brief moment, he stood there in silence, taking in the sight of her peaceful slumber. His eyes then drifted to the small doll he had crafted for her, its hand-sewn fabric and button eyes appearing almost lifelike in the dim light of the room. A wistful smile danced across his lips before his gaze returned to her, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke to her sleeping form.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though the words barely made it past his lips. It wasn't enough, but it was a start.
Maybe, when she woke, they could begin again.
Together.
Deep within the heart of Shambhala, a colossal chamber thrums with dark energy. Ancient symbols flicker with an eerie glow along the walls, casting jagged shadows that dance across the faces of the Agarthans who gather in tense silence. At the center of the room stands a massive stone table, engraved with a map of Fódlan.
Thales, Myson, and Cornelia stood around the table, cloaked in their ominous, dark robes. The tension is palpable. Myson's fists are clenched, his knuckles white with anger, while Cornelia's eyes burn with frustration. The air feels thick, and suffocating as if the very walls are closing in on them.
"This is madness, Thales!" His voice cut through the heavy silence like a blade. "We cannot delay any longer. The Church of Seiros grows bolder by the day, and those false humans are on the verge of discovering us! Our forces are ready. They are eager to strike, yet you hold us back. Why?"
Cornelia slammed her hand onto the table and hissed venomously.
"The Burning One's plan? For how long will we use that excuse? The others are starting to whisper. They wonder if you've grown weak, Thales. Are you so afraid of failing Him that you've forgotten our purpose?"
Thales' jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and fear as he listened to their accusations. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he stood tall and kept his composure.
"You think I do not understand the gravity of the situation?" His voice was low, but there was a dangerous edge to it. "You think I haven't heard the whispers? Our people have followed the Burning One's orders for over a thousand years. We have waited, prepared, and obeyed, all for the right moment. Do not presume that I hold us back out of fear. The Burning One has a plan, and to act prematurely would be to doom us all."
"Doom us? We've been following this so-called 'plan' for centuries, Thales! Centuries! Ever since the fall of Nemesis, and the disappearance of the Angel of Death, we've done nothing but hide like rats! While those false humans prosper, we're left to rot here in this wretched darkness!"
"You speak of the Angel of Death, yet he was nothing but The Burning One's greatest puppet." Cornelia continued. "And what did that lead to? Nemesis dead, the Angel gone, and our people scattered. Where was the 'plan' then, Thales? Where is it now?"
The room seemed to crackle with energy as Myson and Cornelia's fury built, their patience finally snapping. The soldiers in the back shifted uncomfortably, sensing the growing animosity. Thales straightened his back, his eyes narrowing. For a moment, doubt flickered in his mind, but he pushed it aside.
"The Angel of Death was not lost, Cornelia. His disappearance was part of His design. Nemesis' fall, the Church's rise, everything—everything—is part of a grander scheme. One that we cannot fully comprehend. To act now, without His command, would be to betray everything we've worked for. Have you forgotten what happened to those who defy His authority?"
There was a sharp silence. Both Myson and Cornelia glanced at each other incredulously before relaxing their stance. Myson began, yet there was fear in his voice now.
"I remember. But perhaps you've forgotten something else, Thales. We are the children of Man, the true leaders of this world. It was not fear that gave us victory in the ancient days; it was action." His voice rises, filled with anger. "We are no longer those craven fools cowering in the darkness. We are warriors. And if His plan truly calls for more waiting, then perhaps…."
"Do not mistake my caution for cowardice, Myson. The Burning One has power beyond our understanding. We have seen it. We have felt it. Do not forget that it was His hand that reshaped this world, that crushed armies beneath His will. We cannot defy Him!" His voice dropped, quieter, more dangerous. "And I will not be the one to invite His wrath again."
"There is no need for this... squabbling." Solon's voice dripped with malice. "Because the time for action has come. Just like how it was foretold."
"Solon. What do you mean?" They asked simultaneously.
"There's no need to wait any longer. The sign we've been searching for, the moment we've been anticipating - it has finally come."
"What sign? Speak clearly, Solon." Thales demanded
"The Angel of Death... has returned."
The chamber fell into a stunned silence. Myson's face twisted into shock, while Cornelia stepped back. Despite his calm demeanor, Thales felt the cold thread wash over him and yet there was excitement in his eyes.
"The Angel of Death? That's impossible." Myson hissed. "We saw how that false Saint killed him and now you expect us to believe he has returned after all this time?"
"Believe it, Myson. I have seen him with my own eyes. He walks among us, in a new form, but there is no way I won't recognize that emotionless face. The Burning One's plan is unfolding, just as He said it would. The Angel of Death has returned to lead us once more."
"And what of the Angel himself?" Thales asked skeptically. "Does he remember who he is?"
"Oh, he will. That puppet will learn about his fate sooner or later. And when he does, Fodlan will tremble before us once more. Lord Thales, the time to act has come!"
"Then we proceed." Thales spoke dangerously. "All preparations will be finalized. Every plan we've laid out, every order we've been given—it all moves forward now."
"And what are your orders?" Myson asked carefully.
"Prepare the catalysts." His voice was low but carried the weight of command. "Deploy all our agents. Every instrument, every piece we've set in place—all of them."
"But what of the…?"
"Do not dare to question my judgment, Cornelia." Thales snapped. "You will follow my orders or you can deal with the consequences by yourself. We do not move unless we are prepared to see the plan through to its conclusion."
"And what is the conclusion, Thales?"
"That's not for you to know. Not yet. And when it comes, we will be ready. Until then, you will carry out the orders as given. No more questions."
As they disappeared into the shadows, he stayed behind his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. Doubt crept into his mind, but he remained rooted to the spot. He had been the one to give the orders, but now, Thales couldn't shake off the gnawing questions that plagued him.
What was that Serpent truly planning?
Thales closed his eyes, suppressing the rising unease. There was no room for doubt anymore. The signal had come and that was enough.
And when everything was done, he would reclaim what was rightfully his from the beginning.
As it had always been.