The next day is the thirty-first of the Lone Moon of 1179—the last day of the year. Cyril and I have a busy day ahead of us with the final preparations for the festival—principally, making sure all the food is ready to be served. And there is a lot of food to bring out: everything from meat to be grilled to desserts. The place settings are nothing to sneeze at, either. It seems like some of the usual fare is being replaced with wooden pieces, like simple flat plates or skewers for the grill. It makes sense—they're less valuable, and certainly less breakable, than the nice porcelain, glass and metal from the dining hall.
I find myself looking forward to the festival, at least a little. I mean, there will be lots of cleanup after all the celebrations, and I am a bit nervous that there will be some custom or whatnot that I'll bungle. But that said, it'll be nice to just sit back, eat some good food, maybe see if I can bum a drink off of Manuela, and overall, enjoy the festivities.
One of the more interesting things we have to set up is a temporary stage that Rhea is going to use later on.
In the mid-afternoon, while Cyril and I make some last minute preparations to the courtyard grounds, Rhea assembles the previous year's class together with the faculty and some of the knights for a quick graduation ceremony. Since we're busy, I don't catch much of what Rhea says or does until the end. While I take a breather and observe the proceedings from a distance, I find myself in the vicinity of Catherine, who is looking on with a wistful glint in her eyes, and Shamir, who folds her arms with disinterest.
I hear Catherine muttering something. "Eight years," it sounds like.
I look over to Shamir, who doesn't react to it. It feels awkward to let it just hang there, so I muster up the courage to say something.
"What was that?"
Catherine turns to me. "It's been eight years since I graduated from the Academy," she says. "I used to be a student here, back in the day. Of course, a lot's changed since then."
Right, back before the Tragedy of Duscur, when Catherine left the Kingdom and joined up with the Knights of Seiros. But obviously, I'm not supposed to know all that. "Yeah," I reply, struggling to think of something more insightful to say. "Did you have any of the professors as one of your teachers?"
"Professor Hanneman was around back then, and let me tell you, he is one thing that hasn't changed," Catherine says, laughing. "I think Manuela and Professor Goneril are newer arrivals. But there were still some familiar faces who are still around. Seteth and Lady Rhea, of course. I don't think Alois had made Captain yet…"
"I certainly wasn't around," Shamir interjects.
"You're a bit of a special case," Catherine replies.
Shamir raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything.
I guess talking about their pasts is a little awkward. I once again awkwardly attempt to keep the conversation moving. "Well, I don't know a lot about how it all works, but going from student to—what was it, Commander?—of the Knights in less than a decade is pretty impressive to me."
Catherine laughs. "Well, thanks. It's all because I've worked hard and devoted myself to Lady Rhea's service," she says. "If you do the same, I'm sure good things will come your way, too."
"You really think that's how it works?" I reply dryly.
"Positive," Catherine says, beaming.
Shamir scoffs. "It's not smart to get so optimistic," she says. "I've heard the Church say just as often that everyone has their own place to stick to."
Catherine furrows her brow. "You and I would have never gotten here if it wasn't for Lady Rhea taking us in, rewarding us for serving her faithfully," she fires back.
"Doesn't change my point," Shamir says. "Farmers farm. Sailors sail. Servants serve. What's our job? We kill people."
As those words hang in the air, the atmosphere shifts uncomfortably. I suddenly remember that I am also part of this conversation. I mutter some half-hearted agreement and conclude with the old standby, "Well, you know, I've really got to get back to work."
Catherine nods. "Keep up the hard work," she says. "I know Shamir can be a bit of a wet blanket, but trust me. Stick with what you're doing, and sooner or later, you'll get noticed for it."
Shamir just shakes her head wordlessly.
What they don't know is that I have, but hardly for desirable reasons.
I walk away and return to my work, trying not to look over my shoulder at Catherine, Shamir, or the graduation. It's a big club, and I'm not in it.
As the sun sets, the celebration begins. All of the courtyards and gardens around the monastery are lit brightly with oil lanterns and torches against the darkening sky. Masses of people are milling about, talking and eating and drinking, but all the chatter dies down quickly once Rhea ascends the stage platform.
She looks around at the assembled masses, then addresses everyone with the same soft, smooth, serene tone she uses during services.
"Thank you all for joining me in celebration on this wonderful evening, as one year ends and another begins. To our clergy and our knights, our students and faculty, our acolytes and our workers, our visitors and friends, our brothers and sisters in the faith across all of Fódlan, you bring glory and honor to the goddess's name through your celebration. It was her will that brought us the passage of the seasons that make up our year. It was her power that was bestowed upon the divine Seiros, who crowned the first Adrestian Emperor, Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg, exactly one thousand, one hundred and seventy-nine years ago.
"While we symbolically reenact this seminal moment every week at Praesday services, it is doubtlessly auspicious to usher in the new year with a rite that further honors our history and our origins. This year, we are blessed to count among our new students a descendant of Emperor Wilhelm." Rhea gestures out towards the crowd and smiles. "Edelgard von Hresvelg, the Imperial crown princess—please, join me up here."
Edelgard emerges from the front of a group of students near the stage and she steps up onto it. She solemnly and silently walks in front of Rhea and takes a knee.
"Edelgard—I shall anoint you with this sacred oil, and invest you in service of the goddess, in remembrance of the ancient covenant forged between my predecessor, Saint Seiros, and your ancestor, Emperor Wilhelm. Through the providence of the goddess, they founded the Church of Seiros and the Adrestian Empire, and together brought a thousand years of peace and prosperity to Fódlan."
Rhea's smile grows wider. On a small table next to her is a bowl like the one she used at services and the Sword of Seiros—I'm still not sure if it's the real deal, or a replica. Rhea dips one hand in the bowl, and grabs the sword with the other. She smears Edelgard's forehead with the oil, then taps Edelgard's right shoulder with the sword, raises it above her head and around to her left side, and taps her left shoulder.
I can't imagine what's going through Edelgard's head right now. She must hate this. It's everything she hates—the lovechild of the institutions of religion and nobility, with the added bonus of Rhea lying through her teeth about the past. A thousand years of peace and prosperity! What a joke! But she's got to perform as the dutiful Imperial princess, even if the revolutionary in her surely sees that now would be the perfect time to slide her dagger in Rhea's ribcage.
Rhea speaks again after she puts down the sword. "Some day in the future, I shall have the honor of performing this same rite at Enbarr, witnessing your true coronation as Adrestian Emperor."
"The honor is and will always be mine, Archbishop Rhea," Edelgard says, playing the part flawlessly. She already knows Rhea will do no such thing.
Rhea simply smiles and doesn't say anything as Edelgard gets up, turns, and climbs down from the stage. Rhea turns back to the crowd. "The covenant has been renewed. May the goddess grant us another thousand wonderful years. May her blessings be with us always!"
The crowd erupts in raucous cheering for a minute, before everyone settles back into their usual activities, while Rhea steps down from the stage and a few priests clear away the ritual items. I try to keep my eye on her, but it doesn't take long for me to lose her in the mass of knights, priests, servants and acolytes—not to mention the students. I sigh.
Soon after, the knights' combat tournament starts. Two knights at a time get on opposite corners of the stage, armed with wooden training weapons, and just have at it while another knight acts as a referee and announcer. I don't know the first few pairs of competitors, so I don't find it that engaging, even as the crowd around me cheers and swoons with every expert parry or daring dodge.
Then Catherine steps up.
She's up against a strong, muscular man—another Commander of the knights, according to the ref-announcer. He takes a heavy swing with his wooden sword, but she easily dodges and sidesteps him. She lunges forward and gets in a few blows to his chest, before he goes back on the offensive and comes close to landing a strike of his own. Catherine blocks it with perfect timing and turns her attacker's momentum against him, knocking him off his feet with a resounding thud and putting her wooden sword to his neck.
"No one can hold me back," she announces triumphantly.
"Catherine wins this round and advances to the next!" the ref says, as Catherine's colleagues cheer excitedly.
She destroyed that man in under a minute, and she didn't even use a real weapon, or worse, Thunderbrand, her magical fucking dragon bone sword. That's a man who could destroy me in a minute. If Catherine knew who I really was—or more accurately, if Rhea knew who I was and gave Catherine the all-clear—there would be no time for hesitation or explanation. Only a death even swifter and more punishing than that knight's defeat would await me.
I make a promise to myself to redouble my efforts to blend in, even as Edelgard wants to drag me out for her own reasons—and to redouble my efforts learning magic from Hanneman.
I sigh, not able to watch the tournament much anymore. Maybe food will help fill the growing pit in my stomach.
Part of the advantage of having helped set it all up is that I know exactly where everything is. I skirt my way around the traffic jam forming by the massive dessert display—and lock eyes for a brief moment with Edelgard in line for Faerghus sweet buns—and head around to where the meat is being served. While the gamey meat served at the monastery is far from my first choice of food, the kebab-style skewers make it a more practical choice given the conditions.
"Oh, Harrison!" a familiar voice calls. "There you are!"
Of course, where there is meat, there is Manuela. She saunters in my direction, meat skewers in one hand and a large pewter goblet surely filled with wine.
"Hi, Manuela," I say.
"Enjoying th'feshtivitiesh?" she asks, her words garbled by the mouthfuls of grilled meat she's chewing.
"I guess so," I reply.
She washes her food down with a long drink from her cup. "Well, if you're not, you may as well get started drinking," she says, raising her glass once more. "I don't know about you, but I'm hardly the type to turn down free wine."
I can't help but laugh. "Would they even let me drink?"
Manuela waves her hand, the one holding the skewers—now with only scraps of meat left on them. "Oh, please," she says dismissively. "They even let the students drink at celebrations like this, and it's against the rules for them to keep alcohol in their rooms. So come along, you're fine. Besides, you're a good bit older than them, aren't you? What—twenty-five? Twenty-six?"
"Twenty-one," I correct her.
She shrugs. "Close enough for me," she says with a flirtatious wink.
I just laugh nervously, trying to play it off, when I realize something. "Wait, haven't you called me 'kid' before?" I ask.
She gives another dismissive hand wave. "Everyone but Hanneman, Alois, and Lady Rhea is a kid to me."
Manuela leads me to where the drinks are being served. There are big casks holding what must be gallons and gallons of wine and ale. The casks are surrounded by long tables, holding rows of pewter cups like the one Manuela has, and quaint-looking wooden tankards. At one end of one of the tables are small bottles with a variety of brown and clear contents. It's not certain proof, but those bottles are evidence that distillation exists in Fódlan, and that distilled spirits are a thing. The amateur bartender in me is curious if the local styles are anything recognizable, but the fact that a bunch of high-ranking knights, including Shamir, are hanging around, discourages me from getting a closer examination.
"So what's your poison?" Manuela asks, gesturing to the array of options.
"Well, I don't know much about wine," I reply. That was true back on Earth, but it's probably even more true here. "I guess I'll go for beer?"
It doesn't take long for me to get a tankard, practically overflowing with a thick, foamy head. Manuela nods approvingly and raises her glass in my direction.
"To the new year," she says. "May this be the one when I meet my husband."
I laugh. "I'll drink to that."
I take a drink from the tankard. The beer is a far cry from the cheap piss-water swill you get used to in college—it's thick and heavy, with a full, malty, almost fruity flavor. And it's cold. It doesn't surprise me at first, because I expect beer to be cold back from Earth. But then I remember that they don't have refrigeration in Fódlan. They must be using ice magic to keep it frosty. Hanneman mentioned that we could try learning Fire soon, but cracking open a cold one like this makes me think that Blizzard might be worth it.
Manuela and I hang around chatting and enjoying our drinks. She asks me about my magic training with Hanneman, and in turn, I ask her about getting ready to teach the Black Eagles.
"It's not every year you have the imperial princess in your class," I say.
"Miss Hresvelg?" Manuela asks. "She's sharp as a tack, for sure, but she's so intense."
Don't I know it, I think to myself. "I guess having the weight of an empire and a thousand-year-old dynasty on your shoulders will do that."
"That makes sense," Manuela says. "I just hope there aren't any problems. It seems like Caius and Hanneman got the lion's share of the troublemakers, but still, you never know, right?"
It takes some real force of will—not at all aided by the alcohol entering my system—to not betray any knowledge that, yeah, there will be some problems. Big ones. I just sort of nod and mutter something noncommittal.
"Oh, that reminds me!" Manuela exclaims. "One of my students is a lovely young lady who I knew from my days in the opera," she says. "Dorothea is her name."
"Dorothea and I actually met the other day…"
Our conversation goes on like this for a little while. It's silly small talk, but it's not wholly unpleasant, given Manuela's penchant for clever responses. Soon, she tells me about an ill-fated date with a "dreamy young knight" last week, and again, I just sort of nod along. I don't have much advice to contribute, given that I don't have much experience with relationships myself.
"Every time I run into him, every time I ask around for him—he's gone! He must be avoiding me!" Manuela declares, taking another long drink of her wine.
"Well, you never know," I say. "He might just be busy."
Manuela sighs and looks out into the crowd. "Maybe, but—oh, this always happens, I just don't—"
She abruptly stops talking. Her gaze is transfixed on something—or someone.
"What's wrong?"
I realize that she's watching one knight in particular walk away from the crowd, in the direction of where the desserts are being served.
"That's him," Manuela whispers. "Now's my chance! I've got to go for it."
"Uh, I don't know if this is such a—"
Manuela ignores me. "Catch you later, kid," she says, and whirls around in the direction of the poor knight, her white shawl flowing behind her as she confidently saunters over.
I sigh and take another sip of my beer. Just like that, I'm alone once again.
I try to stay totally relaxed and calm, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for me to just be hanging out on my own at this celebration, but the attempt fails miserably. I'm alone in the crowd, adrift in a sea of people who are friends, a community, "brothers and sisters in the faith", as Rhea put it. I end up looking around frantically for anyone I know. I can't tell if it's more because I want to blend in or I want to feel like I belong.
I do make eye contact with someone I recognize. Unfortunately, it's Caius Goneril. He just furrows his brow and shakes his head as he looks at me. I look away and take another drink, silently hoping he won't have something to say to me. He doesn't, thankfully—he just passes on by. I drink again, this time in celebration.
It's hard to tell with these tankards in the dim light, but my cup is feeling a little dry, so I head back to where the drinks are being poured.
"Oh, hey there!" a male voice calls in my direction.
I startle as I get the sudden feeling this voice is talking to me. My eyes dart around trying to find its source.
"Claude, stop stalling," another voice, much higher in pitch, says.
I realize who is talking—Claude and Lysithea are standing in the vicinity of the drink tables. Claude is grinning in my direction, while Lysithea is pouting with her arms folded.
"Uh, hi," I call back with a wave. Well, I found people I know, but I'm not sure this is what I actually wanted.
"Harrison, right? Come on over here, yeah?" Claude says, waving me over. Of course he remembers my name. They all fucking do. Now what the hell is he trying to drag me into?
Whatever it is, refusing doesn't seem like a good idea. I start heading over in their direction.
As I do, Claude turns to Lysithea. "I'm sure he will agree with me," he says.
When I reach them, I can't help but sigh. "What's going on here?" I ask.
Lysithea begins before Claude can get a word in. "What's going on is that Claude is refusing to treat me like the adult I am!"
Claude laughs. "Lysithea wants to drink alcohol, but just between us, I'm not so sure about it. I don't think it's good for her health," he says.
"This isn't about health," Lysithea says. "This is about you treating me like a child! I'm entitled to the same privileges as any other student, even if I'm younger."
"But you are a child, more or less," Claude rebuts. He grins again. "Don't you want to grow up to be big and strong?"
Lysithea pouts and looks towards me. I don't really want to tell off Claude, but given that the house leaders all think I'm worth remembering for their own inscrutable reasons, I guess there's not much I can really do to worsen my position. I sigh again. "I get where you're coming from, but you could stand to lay off the teasing a little bit." And the more you tease her, the more she's going to want to do it.
Lysithea looks at me and cocks her head. "You two are strange. Don't you know that peasant farmers give their children ale with dinner, when they can't get priests to clean the water?"
Farmers giving their children ale? Priests cleaning the water? What is she talking about?
Lysithea must notice the expression on my face. "You seem confused," she says. "I can't believe the monastery lets its servants remain so uneducated. It seems inefficient."
Shit. Did I betray a lack of knowledge that I'm supposed to have living in this world? I shrug, trying to play it off. "You'd be surprised," I reply. "Cyril can't even read."
Her eyes widen for a moment. She shakes her head. "Nevermind that. My point is that children in the countryside seem to have no problem growing up big and strong, yet they drink ale."
Claude interjects. "Aha! So you admit it! You are a child!"
"I wasn't finished!" Lysithea yells. "As I was saying, even if I was, it's still acceptable!"
Claude shrugs. "Maybe," he concedes. "But you don't do long hours of hard labor in the fields like those kids do. I'm just trying to keep in mind your—you know, delicate and small constitution."
Lysithea pouts again, but I interrupt before she can say anything. I have an idea of how to bring an end to this.
"You know, most alcohol actually tastes pretty bad," I say.
"Really?" Lysithea asks. "I mean, that shouldn't bother me. Aren't some wines sweeter, anyway?"
"Well, this beer isn't," I reply. "And I was just with Professor Manuela, and you know how she likes her wine—she told me they were pretty intense."
"Oh," Lysithea replies. "Well, I suppose I would rather not waste my time trying whatever garbage they are giving out to all the servants, anyway." She folds her arms confidently.
I shrug. I can hear Claude barely managing to hold down a snicker.
"I'll be going now," Lysithea declares. "I hope you two enjoy your celebration." She turns and walks off.
When she's gone, Claude turns to me and grins. "Nice call there," he says. "I wouldn't have thought to go for the taste aspect."
"Yeah," I say as I take another sip of my drink. I head over to refill my tankard, and Claude follows me.
"Thanks for helping me out," he continues. "Lysithea might be small, but she's got such strength of will."
"She seems like a handful," I reply. "But she's smart. With the right motivation, the right leadership, she could make a great ally, I think."
Claude shakes his head and grins again. "I leave the 'right motivation' and 'right leadership' up to Their Highnesses," he says. "This is probably the complete opposite of what you're suggesting, but, just between us, I've been trying to think up a nickname for her. You know, something like the Tiny Terror, or—ooh, how about, the Short Little Scorpion?"
I can't help but laugh at that last one. "She is small, but she sure can sting."
Claude's grin grows into a smirk. "Exactly," he says with a nod.
A few moments later, Dimitri approaches us, with Sylvain following close behind. Both have their own drinks in hand.
"Is everything all right?" Dimitri asks.
"No problems here, Your Highness," Claude says.
"I noticed that Lysithea stormed off just a few moments ago," Dimitri says. "I just wanted to make sure it wasn't anything urgent."
Sylvain chimes in. "Usually when a girl is running away from me, I take it as a bad sign," he says.
"If by girl you mean 'small child with delusions of grandeur,' then I guess this qualifies," Claude replies with a smile. "But otherwise, for Lysithea, it's just a day that ends in 'y.'"
I laugh. "That's the Short Little Scorpion for you," I add.
Dimitri and Sylvain don't seem to get it. I feel my face heating up. Did I say something wrong? I try to play it off awkwardly.
"Uh, that's just a Golden Deer inside joke I've been let in on," I say. "Don't worry about it."
The two Blue Lions shrug.
Dimitri smiles. "Well, at any rate, it's wonderful to see how the festival came together," he says, gesturing around. "It's quite satisfying to know how we contributed to make it happen."
Claude smirks. "I'm right there with you, but if I recall, there's someone here who didn't exactly help out."
Dimitri, Claude and I all look at Sylvain. After a quiet moment, he realizes what's going on. "Oh, me?" he says, laughing quietly. He puts a hand around the back of his neck. "Hey, I had some other important stuff to take care of, you know?"
"It's all good," I reply with a dismissive hand wave. "We're all here to have a good time now, right?"
"I can get behind that," Sylvain says.
While the four of us hang out and chat idly for a bit, it doesn't take long for Sylvain to notice some girl making coy glances at him and Dimitri, and he drags the poor prince off on some ridiculous skirt chase. Claude takes his leave of me not long after. I spend the rest of the night floating around, occasionally making eye contact or saying hi to someone I know, but mostly just existing on my own.
At least I have alcohol.
Aside from a moderate hangover the next morning, things return back to normal over the days after the festival. Cyril and I have a lot of work cleaning up. At one point, when after I check back in with Seteth for the night, I run into none other than Caius Goneril heading out from his office. I give him a polite smile, nod, and a short bow.
"Hold a moment," he says. Oh no. Was that actually not polite at all? "Harrison, correct?"
"That's correct," I reply. "How can I help you, Professor Goneril?"
"You may recall that Manuela offered your services to clean my office," he begins. "I would like to take up that offer now."
Wait, really? Last time we spoke about it, it seemed like there was no way he was going to actually go for Manuela's silly, spite-fueled volunteering of my services. But here we are.
"I'd be happy to help," I say, even though I know I will hate every second of it. "If you don't mind me asking, though, what prompted this change of heart, Professor?"
Caius folds his arms. "I merely wish for Manuela to stop pestering me about the subject, at least for some time," he says. "If you would be so kind as to get this out of the way, perhaps she will leave me alone."
Or find something else to bother you about. I do my best to fight down a sigh and nod. "I understand," I say.
"However, I would like to supervise you closely while you do this work," Caius says. "Perhaps you would be unoccupied tomorrow afternoon?"
Tomorrow is the fourth of the Great Tree Moon, a Thorday—two days before Praesday services, and a little over two weeks before the fated encounter of the three house leaders with one Byleth Eisner—and when Caius Goneril was supposed to disappear, abandoning the three heirs at a bandit attack orchestrated by the Flame Emperor.
"I believe so," I reply.
"Very well. I will expect you here at my office then."
"See you tomorrow, Professor," I call back as I try to leave his presence as fast as humanly possible—without being rude, at least.
After finishing up most of my tasks early in the day, I head to Professor Goneril's office. I take a deep breath. I'm not looking forward to doing this. There's a knot in my stomach and my hands feel cold and clammy as they grip the broom, mop and bucket. But Manuela offered and he accepted, so my hand is as good as forced.
I notice that the door is open, just a tiny bit ajar, but I have no doubt that barging in would lead to a lecture from Caius. Maybe that's why he agreed to this—so he could set me up. Instead, I knock on the door, and there's no answer.
Maybe he is fucking with me. But either way, just stepping inside is still the wrong move—that's how I ran into Rhea last time. I wait for a minute and then knock again. "Professor Goneril?" I call out. "I'm here to clean your office."
I hear some shuffling from inside. The door opens, and the man himself is standing before me, a scowl written across his face. "Hmph. You realize you are a fair bit early," he says.
I nod. Kill 'em with kindness, like Manuela said. "I try my best to be punctual, Professor," I say. "If you like I can come back later."
Caius shakes his head. "I would rather not have you scamper around the monastery, loitering and wasting time," he says. "Let us simply get to it."
"Yes sir," I reply.
I step inside and start sizing up the place. In contrast to both Manuela and Hanneman, Caius's office is considerably more spartan, with little more than his desk, a few bookshelves, and a plain wooden chest of drawers in the corner.
Cleaning up isn't particularly difficult, especially since he insists on telling me where to put every single tiny thing. I mean, I won't complain too much, since it makes my job easier, especially as opposed to Manuela, where I would have to take the initiative. We start with straightening out his desk, and I set about cleaning up and filing away stray papers.
We're almost ready to move on to the bookshelves when there's another knock at the door. I look up for a moment, but catch myself and immediately throw myself back into my work. I can't let up for a second, or risk Caius Goneril's wrath.
Caius groans. "Who could it be at this blasted time?" He walks over to the door and throws it open.
"Hey there, Professor," a casual voice says.
Caius sighs. "Is there something you need, Riegan? I am somewhat occupied at the moment," he says.
Claude's here? What does he want? Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder just to confirm, and indeed, the leader of the Golden Deer stands in the doorway.
"I can see," Claude says, giving a quick nod up in my direction. I still don't like it. It's no better than Edelgard's suspicion—at least with her, I know where I stand. I turn back to my work, but continue listening to the conversation.
Claude goes on. "I just wanted to go over some plans for the rest of the month now that the school year's actually starting. I mean, you're going to be taking us on that exercise to Remire Village, and then we've got the mock battle—"
"Can it wait?" Caius asks.
"I guess so," Claude says. "But every day we're not planning, Birdgirl and Catboy over there are. And I know you want to beat them, Professor. So we've got to keep up. This won't take long, I promise."
Birdgirl and Catboy, huh? Maybe I'm overthinking things, but I feel like that was meant for me more than it was for Caius.
I instinctively turn back over my shoulder and see Caius looking back at me.
I shrug. "I'll accommodate whatever you want to do, Professor," I say. "Maybe I could just, you know, sweep the floor or something while you're gone?"
Caius shakes his head and sighs. "I suppose that will be acceptable. Do not touch anything else. Is that clear?"
"Crystal clear, Professor."
Caius nods and heads out the door. Claude shoots me a wink before turning and following.
I can't say I'm particularly pleased with this course of events. I was already pissing off Caius Goneril by virtue of existing and doing my job—I don't appreciate that Claude is making it more difficult by agitating the man more. Still, I can try to enjoy a precious few minutes of him not hounding my every move for a few minutes. I breathe a somewhat relieved sigh as I focus on that, and turn my attention to sweeping the floor. It's only as I do so that I realize just how wound-up and anxious I was—how tense my breathing was, how sweaty my palms were.
Once I've swept most of the floor, I realize that I ought to get behind that little chest of drawers. I don't want the man thinking I've missed a spot. I set down my broom and do my best to get a good grip on the drawer. I just need to move it a few inches to-
"Shit!"
My hand, still a little slick with sweat, slips on the well-polished wood and I lose control of the chest as it clatters to the floor with a final thud.
"Shit! Fuck! Oh—fuck!"
I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. This is bad, really bad. Did I hear something in there break? My heart pounds even faster than it did when I met Seteth, and later, Rhea.
If Caius Goneril knows about this, he is going to kill me. I have really, truly, irreparably fucked up. He's going to complain to Seteth and have me fired and forced out on my own, or worse, executed. Maybe that'll be better because I'll be spared the miserable agony of dying of starvation out in the mountains.
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, trying my best to focus. There's only one way to find out exactly how bad this was, and if it's something that I can try to fix. I force my eyes open and take a look.
First, I carefully set the chest upright, and again, I hear things rattling around. Not a good sign, that's for sure. The outside of the chest seems a little scuffed from the fall, as I fruitlessly try to buff it out with the cloth of my tunic.
But that's only the outside. I take another deep breath and start going through the drawers themselves. The top drawer just has some papers. Everything seems to be undisturbed. The lower drawer is going to be the real test, though—being much taller, there's a lot of room for things to move around in, and potentially break.
In the lower drawer, there are some books. Nothing breakable, thank God. I don't know what the right order to put them back in place is, or even if they were stacked vertically or horizontally. But I try to make as few adjustments as possible, considering that things couldn't have moved around too much given how much space there is in the drawer.
I do my best to work fast, but I notice something as I'm setting the books back into place—there's something rolling around behind them. I take out the books to figure out what it is.
It's a glass vial, sealed with a cork. There's several of them, in fact, all rolling around on the bottom of the drawer. That's weird. I can't really see what's in them, since the room isn't very bright and the glass is dark and opaque. I guess it doesn't really matter. And thankfully, there's no sign of broken glass. I stand all of the vials up in the back of the drawer, then put the books back in place in front of them and shut the door.
Then I hear footsteps. Oh God, he's here! I stand back up and look at the doorway. Thankfully, my panic is unnecessary, as it's only Manuela and Dimitri looking into the office from outside, with concerned expressions on their faces.
"Everything okay here?" Manuela asks.
Dimitri acknowledges me with a nod. "We heard you cry out a moment ago."
I laugh nervously. "Oh, yeah, everything's fine here. I just thought I was going to drop this drawer, but—"
He tilts his head and curls his lip ever so slightly. "What's important is—are you unharmed?"
Meeting Dimitri's ever-so-slightly-disapproving expression, I can't help but admit it and sigh. "Okay, fine, I did drop the drawer, but I'm all right," I reply, as I do my best to carefully move the chest of drawers back into position. "And even more importantly, Professor Goneril's things seem to be fine. So nothing happened, okay?"
Dimitri doesn't say anything. He gives me a sidelong glance, but then looks over to Manuela, awaiting her response.
Manuela nods slowly. "Alright, kid. I trust you. But let us know if you need something, alright?"
"Of course."
She turns and leaves, and I swear I can see Dimitri's lips twitch once again into a frown. It only lasts a moment, though, as he turns and follows her.
I exhale in relief as I finish up making everything look as normal as possible. That could have gone a lot worse. If those vials had broken, I would be in a much worse position—whatever's even in them, anyway. Despite the fact that the edge of the chest is a little worse for wear from the fall, I think I can probably pass it all off as nothing happening. I trust Manuela and Dimitri.
It doesn't take long for Caius Goneril and Claude to return. Claude heads off and Caius returns to ordering me around. I watch him carefully, to see if he starts inspecting the chest, but he doesn't make more than the occasional glance at it. I notice that his instructions become even more terse and harsh, as if he's trying to rush me out of his office as fast as possible. Maybe he's just agitated from Claude bothering him.
Soon, I've finished to Caius's satisfaction, and he unceremoniously ousts me from the office. "Thank you very much," he says.
"Have a good night, Professor," I reply.
He just shakes his head and shuts the door harshly. There really is just no pleasing this man.
As I head back down the hallway, I feel another wave of paranoia wash over me. Maybe he did notice the scuffing on the drawer, and that's why he was upset. Well, if it comes down to it, I'll deny any knowledge of it. And like I said before, I trust Manuela and Dimitri. There's no way they'd go to bat for Caius Goneril over me. Right?
With the door shut and locked, Seteth can finally take a breather for the day. He returns to his desk, unlocks his drawer, and once again takes out the books that have been keeping him occupied these past few weeks: Inorganic Chemistry and Abnormal Psychology. Because the books are so long and dense, and their contents so esoteric and unfamiliar, Seteth does not care to read them from cover to cover. Instead he has been skimming, jumping around the texts and reading bits and pieces of subjects that catch his interest.
Both have proven difficult to get through in their own respects. Inorganic Chemistry has so many inscrutable facts and figures, symbols and diagrams describing the properties of materials both familiar (iron, copper, silver, gold) and unknown (ruthenium? krypton? yttrium?). What Seteth is able to understand seems rather dubious to his skeptical outlook: how likely is it that water a union of two other substances, and that this "carbon" is the same material found in both diamonds and living things, while also being the substance that makes steel stronger than iron?
Abnormal Psychology, on the other hand, is far simpler to grasp, but proves more difficult for more painful reasons. When Seteth reads about trauma, about memories that stay embedded like infected thorns of the mind, for a brief, fleeting, ugly moment he is transported back into being Cichol—the Cichol who returned to Zanado to find his people massacred and mutilated. The Cichol who found a sobbing, trembling Seiros in an alcove deep in the mountain caves.
The book's descriptions of the conditions ring eerily familiar to Seteth's ears. Seiros never relaxed, never let her guard down, and never stopped anticipating that Nemesis and his band of butchers would return to finish her—even after they were soundly defeated. One might expect that the mountains of Zanado, the Hero's Relics made from the bones of their kin, would make Seiros even more anxious and bring her even more pain.
But somehow, Seteth notes, they did not. She made them the cornerstones of her religion, in fact. Was it a desperate, fruitless yearning to return to times long past? Or something else? He flips through the book, in his own desperation to understand, though it offers little more. How could it? The book is just a description, and though it provides examples and suggestions for how these problems can be overcome, Seteth doubts any text is capable of grappling with the enormity of Rhea's pain.
Perhaps Harrison might have an additional insight, but that is a ridiculous proposition. Obviously, Seteth cannot reveal that the books have not been destroyed, much less the true history of the Church and its Saints. Perhaps Seteth was not meant to know. It is true that Seteth and Rhea—Cichol and Seiros—along with Macuil and Indech, carried around an unspeakable burden, but none of them saw more than Seiros. None of them suffered more than Seiros. And, Seteth knows, sometimes she still, almost silently, cries at night for their mother.
The next day I am woken up by a sharp knocking at the door, a lot sharper than usual. I sigh. I wonder what's gotten Cyril so agitated.
"One minute," I call out in reply as I throw on my clothes. The knocking doesn't stop. That's weird—Cyril can be impatient, sure, but like this? "Hang on!"
I open the door.
No. It is not Cyril.
On the other side is Catherine, in full armor, Thunderbrand at her side. She's flanked by two helmeted soldiers, and she's scowling at me.
My jaw drops and my chest feels hollow. My mind is buzzing with questions. What is she doing here? Did Rhea send her? Do they know?
"Hi, Catherine," I manage to get out. "What's going on?"
"You know full well what's going on," she says. "Harrison, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the Church."
Shit, she does know. My mouth goes dry. "What?"
Catherine ignores my question. "Search, then restrain him," she orders the guards.
My eyes dart to the one on the left, then the right—then down the hall. I instinctively consider running for a fraction of a second, but I realize it's stupid. Not only would it be impossible, it would just probably make things worse.
"Catherine, this isn't true," I protest. "I didn't do anything wrong, I promise! This is just some kind of misunderstanding!"
The soldiers step towards either side of me. One pats down my tunic and trousers while the other roughly pulls my hands behind my back.
"You expect me to believe a word out of your mouth?" she retorts. She sighs and shakes her head as my hands are forced into cold, heavy iron manacles. The soldiers snap the closures shut. "And here I was thinking you were just a weird kid. I should've known you were a filthy heretic."
I want to cry out, to scream for help, but I know how Catherine is. I need to stay calm lest she decide there's sufficient cause to chop off my head with Thunderbrand.
"Please, listen to me," I say. "Let me talk to Seteth. Or you can talk to Seteth. I don't know what's going on, but we can work it out—"
"Seteth!" Catherine repeats. She leans closer to me and furrows her brow even more. "Seteth is the only reason your head is still attached to your body. But I wouldn't get too comfortable. Once Lady Rhea reviews the situation, she'll issue the judgement and seal your fate."
Catherine's words chill me to the bone, but they tell me something important—that there's no use arguing with her anymore. The person I need to convince is Rhea.
"Take him away," she says to the soldiers. "I'll look around here."
The soldiers give Catherine a quick salute, then begin escorting me down the hall, and presumably out of the staff dormitory.
As we walk, I feel myself panicking more and more. What brought Catherine to do this? How much does Rhea know about me? Even if she did know about me not being from around here, conspiracy seems like a big leap to jump to. Does she know about me appearing in the Tomb? What could have prompted all this? Sure, I can blunder my way through customs and traditions, but it's not illegal to. Being a clueless foreigner doesn't quite rise to the level of conspiracy. And I don't think I gave any smoking-gun evidence of me being more suspicious than an ordinary foreigner to anyone but Seteth, Flayn, or Edelgard.
The soldiers lead me outside the staff dorms, out into the early light of the morning. It's going to be a long day—that is, if I don't die soon.
Well, I know that it wasn't Seteth or Flayn who turned me in. Seteth actually came to my defense, according to Catherine—no doubt because he doesn't want me coming clean about being found in the Holy Tomb out of desperation. I'd like to think he actually doesn't want me to die, too. It was a little touch-and-go when we first met, sure, but I've been a good employee, or so I thought—and I'm fairly certain Flayn doesn't want me dead, either, which is what really matters. I just hope they can get to me in time.
It isn't long before we reach the knights' barracks, and I'm taken around a small side path to a staircase leading underground. As we descend, my view of the sunlight slips away, giving way to the dim glow of torches and lanterns along the narrow stone walls. They feel suffocating, claustrophobic. Just as they extinguish the light of the outside, they seem to block any hope of escape (legitimate or otherwise), and the gravity of my situation begins to fully set in.
When we reach the bottom, the soldiers lead me down to a walled cell, with the front consisting of the stereotypical thick iron bars. They open the door, push me inside, then shut and lock the door. I watch them leave as I sigh, sit down on the floor and lean my back against the cold, hard stone wall, defeated.
What are the odds I get out of this? On the order of zero. It's a miracle that Seteth was able to pull for me enough to not instantly get executed. It would take another miracle for me to somehow get acquitted. I've been accused of conspiracy against the Church—how is that a charge you can even defend yourself against? Does Fódlan even have a legal system through which I could make my case? And would anyone even believe me?
And I still don't even know who accused me. Could it be Edelgard, trying to apply pressure to see if my Morfis story cracks? It's possible, yet at the same time, it doesn't seem right. Beyond the fact that using the institution of the Church just isn't her style, I don't think she would want any of that sensitive information getting to Rhea of all people.
Then it hits me: could it be Caius Goneril? I mean, the man clearly disliked me even before that little mishap in his office. Maybe he did notice the scuffing on his desk, the other day. Accusing me of a crime, trying to get me executed for that, is absurdly petty, but I wouldn't put it past him of all people. Maybe growing up as a nobleman, with your every need attended to by slaves, means that you come to think that if a servant screws up one thing you can just get rid of them.
I don't know how long I sit there for—two, maybe three hours. Then, I hear footsteps, and hushed voices—one masculine, one feminine. They quiet down before I can hear them well enough to try to make out who they are. And then they bound around the corner into view.
Claude and Edelgard.
I squint to try to make sure I'm seeing that right as they look from cell to cell. What the fuck are they doing here? Isn't this a guarded prison below the knights' barracks?
Edelgard turns and looks towards my cell. We share a brief moment of eye contact before she grabs Claude and the two head over in front of my cell.
I sigh. "What the hell are you two doing here?"
Claude gives an exaggerated frown. "Hey, come on, that's no way to greet your friends," he says in a quiet tone. There's a lot to fucking unpack with that statement but I don't have the energy to challenge it. "How about, 'how are you?'"
I rotate my torso 90 degrees for a moment to show them the handcuffs. "Take a wild guess," I mutter.
"Gotcha," Claude replies. "That's pretty rough."
I furrow my brow and press him further. I won't let him get away with dodging like this. "Don't you have class?"
"Classes have been cancelled today and tomorrow," Edelgard says matter-of-factly. "Professor Manuela and Professor Goneril were spirited away by the knights—"
Claude interrupts. "His Princeliness, too."
Edelgard shoots him a glare, then continues. "We were wondering why that might be."
I don't know what either of them are after with me. I mean, I'm sure Edelgard wants to know if I'm a threat to her goals, and Claude has been trying to get weirdly friendly with me from the beginning. And while I know that neither of them are exactly fans of the Church or the apparatus it's going to use to summarily execute me, I don't know if they're trying to help, either.
"I think there are better ways to find the answer to that question," I reply.
"There are few people with firsthand knowledge of the situation who haven't been taken in by the knights for questioning," Edelgard says.
"And rumors spread fast," Claude adds.
"Rumors don't matter if you're going to die anyway," I reply. "What do you two want from me, anyway? Do you realize you're talking to a dead man?" I look down at the inscrutable, dirty floor of the cell.
"I am not convinced that this is the case," Edelgard replies. "But you need to answer me this, Harrison. And if you are so sure you are a dead man, then, it shouldn't be a problem."
I inhale sharply and nod.
"Are you conspiring against the Church?"
I can't help but laugh to hear it said out loud to me again—and because that's absolutely not what I expected from her. I thought she'd ask about the Morfis story.
"Tell me what you think," I say.
Claude cuts in before Edelgard can respond. "I don't think you are, but sitting in a prison cell with your hands shackled isn't exactly a good look, either."
"Without hearing your side of the story, it is difficult to arrive at such a judgement," Edelgard says.
Something about her attitude is bothering me. While I don't think I should be afraid to tell her the truth—that I didn't do anything wrong—I find myself hesitant, holding back.
"I'm not sure it matters. You're not the one I need to convince," I reply.
"That's right, you would need to convince the Archbishop that this charge was false in order to survive," she says. "But just a moment ago you told me that you believed you were doomed. That there was no hope of demonstrating your innocence. Is that not the case? Has such a hope not, in fact, been extinguished?"
"Edelgard," Claude says, "I can't tell if you're making things better or worse."
I maintain eye contact with Edelgard, trying in vain to understand her game. I'm left with the same question Claude has: is she making things better or worse? Is she trying to dash my hopes of getting out of here, or raise them? Playing good cop or bad cop? Is she right—do I even have any left?
Do I really think I'm going to die here? Am I really ready to give up?
"I don't know," I say quietly, an admission just as much to myself as it is to them.
"That is certainly understandable," Edelgard says, the blunt edge in her voice softening slightly.
There's a stiff, awkward pause. I think we're all evaluating what to say next.
A high-pitched voice echoes down the hall, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps. "Harrison! Are you all right?"
Flayn?
Claude turns to Edelgard. "I think it's time for us to fly away, Miss Eagle," he says. She scoffs but says nothing.
A moment later, Seteth and Flayn step in. Seteth's eyes widen when he sees the two students there, and it quickly furrows as he frowns. Flayn, on the other hand, just runs up to my cell.
"Harrison!" she calls out again. "We came as fast as we could."
"Hey there, Flayn," I reply, trying to sound more calm than I actually am.
"Are you unharmed?" she asks.
"For the time being."
The relieved smile is plain on her face. I muster up a smile back for a moment before I listen to Seteth's conversation with Edelgard and Claude.
"Miss Hresvelg and Mister Riegan," he says, folding his arms. "I cannot begin to fathom what either of you are doing down here. This is a secure underground prison compound guarded by elite knights, and we have urgent information to discuss with Harrison. If you do not—"
"Wait, wait, hang on," Claude says. "Elite knights? When we got in here, there weren't any knights guarding the entrance. We just wandered all the way down here—an honest mistake."
Edelgard covers her face with her gloved palm.
"A likely story," Seteth mutters. "You seem like you know something, Miss Hresvelg."
She sighs. "This was Claude's idea, not mine, but the truth is that the knights were charmed from their posts by a few flirty winks and coy eyelash-batting from Dorothea. That's how we were able to enter. My sincerest apologies, Headmaster Seteth."
"It seems I will have to discuss this matter further with the guards—and Miss Arnault, naturally," Seteth says. He shakes his head and exhales sharply. "I am quite grateful that you brought the capabilities of our personnel to my attention, so if you two keep quiet about this, I will resolve the situation myself. Is that clear?"
"Certainly, sir," Edelgard replies. "Your generosity is appreciated."
Claude just nods.
"Good. I do not believe any of us need another pressing incident on our hands," Seteth says. "Now get out."
Unexpectedly, Flayn pipes up. "Wait, Brother," she says. "There is something that I do not understand."
"What's that?" Claude asks.
Flayn turns to Edelgard and Claude. "You have explained how you came down to this prison, but not why you went to see Harrison."
"Well, for one thing, you piqued our interest when you were running around telling everyone Harrison was in trouble," Claude says.
If Seteth's brow furrows any deeper it's going to make a permanent divot in his head. "Flayn, you—"
"I'm sorry, Seteth," Flayn says. "You disappeared so suddenly, and without explaining much of anything! I was so worried when you told me that Harrison was accused of a crime. When all the other students were asking me what was happening—should I have not told them what I knew?"
Seteth sighs again. "I suppose it doesn't matter now," he says.
"It'll only be a matter of time before I get executed anyway," I call from the cell. "And I bet that's what you came down here to tell me, right?"
"As a matter of fact," Seteth begins, "no."
Huh.
"We can get into the details momentarily, but due to the highly irregular nature of this case and the evidence being brought against you, I believe I will be able to successfully convince the Archbishop to give you a trial," he explains. "Of course, she will be the final arbiter of both procedure and your guilt."
Is he serious? I feel something stirring inside me. Embers of hope, maybe. "So what you're saying is, there's a chance I can prove I'm innocent?" I ask.
Seteth nods. "A slim chance, but a chance."
I exhale so deeply that I'm taken aback at my own lung capacity.
There's a non-zero chance that I don't die.
But it could just be a show trial. A kangaroo court. After all, Seteth said she will be the final arbiter of everything. And even if the trial was legit, I don't know anything about Fódlan's legal procedures. How can I construct and present a case? Do I get to call witnesses?
I ask the next logical question. "Are you going to—can you help me?"
Seteth doesn't say anything. Shit. I swallow hard as I remember our first encounter in the Holy Tomb. It was so presumptuous to think a few weeks of dutiful work could erase that stain, that terrible first impression.
"Do you even believe I am innocent?"
After a painful pause, he speaks, slowly and deliberately. "As the Holy Chamberlain, I am required to withhold judgement."
I feel my gut sink. It is going to be a show trial. Seteth can't, and won't, help me, and I don't even know if he wants to. The last embers have finally been snuffed out.
A mournful silence descends over the five of us for a moment. I just slump back against the wall again. I'm alone. I always was alone. Nobody's going to stick out their neck for me. It was foolish to think anyone ever would.
Flayn breaks the silence. "I am not the Holy Chamberlain," she declares, "and I will pass judgement. I believe you are innocent, Harrison," she says.
I feel the corners of my lips pull into a smile. And I do smile, even if it hurts to do so. Even if there's nothing she can really do, Flayn still believing in me means a lot.
"I do too," Claude says.
"And I as well," Edelgard adds.
Seteth raises a finger. "Do bear in mind that none of you have even seen, much less considered, the evidence."
"Perhaps," Edelgard says. "But what Harrison needs is not more judgement. What he needs is an advocate."
"An advocate?" Seteth asks.
"Someone to help him make his case during the trial, and who believes in his cause," she says.
"That would be very helpful," I add. "I don't know the first thing about how the law works here." I need an attorney to get me out of this mess. I'm going to need a miracle worker who can pull off a defense that belongs in the hallowed ranks of Ace Attorney or My Cousin Vinny.
Edelgard nods. "The Adrestian legal system allows parties to bring learned advocates to help assert their cases in court. Surely the Archbishop's system for the Church is different, but would you and her allow Harrison to have such an advocate?"
Seteth puts a hand on his chin. "I suppose I would need to discuss it further with her, but it is possible, in principle."
"Excellent," she says. "If it is all right with Harrison, then, I would like to volunteer myself for the role." She turns to me with an expectant look on her face.
Wait, what? Edelgard wants to be my defense attorney?
I don't suppose I'm in a situation to turn it down, especially since public defenders aren't exactly a thing. I don't know what she wants, but I do know she's extremely smart, knows her stuff, and won't give Rhea an inch if she can help it. Which is exactly what I need.
"That's more than all right with me," I reply.
Edelgard smiles.
Right. There's a tiny chance she throws me to the wolves to cover her own tracks.
A/N: And now it's sink or swim. Real conflict, here we come! Thanks to ThreeDollarBratwurst as always for beta-reading, with special help from RedXEagle3, DestructionDragon360, and Stormtide Leviathan, so a big thank you to all of them. For TDB's out of context quote, we have "Furries are the footsoldiers of the Walt Disney Company. I'm woke to the Mouse's game." And thanks to everyone for the reviews, favorites, and follows! It's amazing that a story still this early on has such a strong following and it means a lot to me.
Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a - Hope to see you guys around!
Review responses:
Otacon - As much as we all love Flayn, I've got to give other characters their chance in the spotlight, too. And don't worry, the magic will be explored even more in depth later on.
Spiderc - Thank you so much for the review! I'm glad you enjoyed it!
Ghep - I always appreciate hearing people's thoughts on how things are developing, so commentary is certainly welcome. You're right that there's a lot going on here, and despite working for the Church, Harrison isn't exactly Rhea's biggest fan. He's just trying to scrape by to survive, but... well, we'll see how that works out for him.
DestructionDragon360 - Well, if it wasn't already clear where your loyalties and hopes lie, it certainly is now. Time will tell if Edelgard's direct, no-nonsense approach will work in the long run. But no matter what you or anyone else thinks of her, she is a ton of fun to write.
Stormtide Leviathan - Thanks for the review! Unfortunately, given the present circumstances, it seems like leaving the monastery will have to wait for a bit, but I look forward to exploring those kinds of things later on.
ThreeDollarBratwurst - No comment here. Other than that I'm mildly surprised that Rhea is on the list, but hey, everyone loves the anime Pope I guess.
Cavik - Thank you for the review!
Jeptwin - Thank you so much for the series of detailed reviews! The jury's still out on what's up with Harrison's Crest mystery, and probably will be for some time longer. I appreciate your detailed analysis of Harrison and Edelgard's conversation and what the the future might hold, but I don't know if I would give anything away by commenting on your analysis of Edelgard and Claude, so I won't, haha!
Crowbars357 - Thanks for the review!
CryKen - Thanks for the review! Harrison doesn't exactly have a prospective weapons instructor the same way he has Hanneman and Manuela for magic at the moment, so we'll have to wait until he can get someone to teach him how to fight before he gets the opportunity to take up any weapon. That is, if he manages to get out of this situation.
Heavenschoir - I hope the storm in this chapter delivered!
Remvis - Thank you so much for the review! I think jumping to romance might be a bit much right now, but admit I find Edelgard to be a fascinating and fun character to write, so she's definitely going to remain relevant in one capacity or another - even if there are lots of different ways that can go, as you identified. This new sequence of events will certainly shakes things up. But thanks for the review and I'm glad you're enjoying the story!
Call Brig On Over - Those are some interesting suggestions... I wonder what sort of circumstances would lead to a romance with a TWSITD member.
Alacron - Thanks for the review! I take it as a good sign that even people who aren't normally interested in self-insert fics can enjoy this story!
anon - Thank you so much for the review!
Masquer Q - Thank you! Byleth will have to wait a little bit, but I think it's reasonable to suggest that things like stats being low early on is just for game balance as opposed to actually reflecting Byleth's skills.