Chapter Text
Weapons maintenance is, thankfully, on the short list of tasks deemed “not too strenuous” for her healing body.
After a light lunch, Byleth settles at the edge of the training grounds with an armful of swords and her satchel of maintenance supplies; a whetstone, oil, and gritted paper. She carefully inspects each blade for the beginnings of rust, scraping it off with the sandpaper whenever necessary, then oiling and polishing the edges until they gleam sharp and wicked.
Her father leads a small squadron of knights running through drills on packed dirt of the arena— the sort of thing she’s been doing since she could walk, familiar enough that she could complete a set with her eyes closed without stumbling. Jeralt barks orders, punctuated by the thud of practice weapons against the cloth-covered dummies.
The monotony is almost therapeutic— it's been a long while since she's last been able to tend to a task as simple as this with her full attention.
Sothis hovers at her shoulder, humming absently. She stretches like a lounging cat in warm sunlight, apparently just as pleased by the fresh air as Byleth is.
She’s whetting the last blade as the knights finally wind down from their drills, the lot of them red-faced and panting. Jeralt is wearing an expression that makes it seem like he’s wrangling rowdy children rather than training professional knights— she’s relieved to see that he doesn’t look distant and distracted anymore, eyes sharp with irritation as he corrals them through cooldown exercises.
Her attention is tugged away by the grind of the gates, a student darting in and tentatively skirting around the edges of the training ground— and making their way towards her.
“Ingrid,” she greets, mildly surprised. She's never been approached by this particular student before. “How may I help you?”
Ingrid shifts uncomfortably. “Greetings, Professor. I was told you were the one who arranged our schedules this month…?”
Byleth tilts her head. “That's correct.”
“I noticed that Dedue and I are partnered together… frequently,” Ingrid says. “Stable duty.”
“Correct,” Byleth repeats. “I believe Dedue would greatly benefit from more experience with horses, but I would prefer it if he were to have the company of someone who is already comfortable with them.”
Ingrid nods once, as if expecting the reasoning. “I would prefer not to be paired with someone from Duscur,” she says, and Byleth blinks.
Well then.
“May I ask why?”
Ingrid straightens, jaw clenching. “Because of the Tragedy,” she replies tightly. “Faerghus lost so much because of Duscur’s rebellion— our king and queen, and Felix’s brother—” she cuts herself off, hands balling into fists. “He was my fiancé,” she finishes. “I hope you understand why I do not hold the people of Duscur in high regard.”
Byleth steeples her fingers together and presses them to her mouth. She supposes that the only thing that is truly surprising about this situation is that it has taken this long for it to rear its head; Duscur is not well-loved by most of the kingdom, despite most of the Blue Lions’ friendships with Dedue— the key word being most.
“You truly believe Duscur is to blame?” she asks, and Ingrid’s brow furrows.
“Of course. Why else would Fareghus retaliate against them?”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Ingrid goes stiff. “...Wrong?” she echoes quietly.
Byleth tilts her head, observing the girl. “Dimitri seems to think that Duscur had nothing to do with it. He intends to make amends as soon as he’s crowned. As his friend, I’m sure he’s confessed to you as much.” She watches as the student’s hands curl into the fabric of her skirt. “If Duscur is declared innocent, what will you do?”
“They can’t be!” Ingrid blurts. “I—the Tragedy took Glenn, it took Dimitri’s family, they took everything—if it wasn’t them, then—!” She stops abruptly, like her throat has been noosed shut.
“Then what?” Byleth presses, gentle, firm.
Ingrid squeezes her eyes closed. “If not them, then who? Who was responsible?”
“Duscur would have certainly been the most convenient scapegoat,” Byleth muses. “Politically, it gave the Kingdom an opening to seize valuable territory. One noble house gained control over the entirety of Duscur’s lands, did it not?”
Ingrid looks ill. “But that… that’s not the way of Faerghus. King Lambert would never have allowed such a thing.”
“Maybe that’s why he died,” Byleth says simply.
She knows she’s treading on dangerous territory. The majority of the country considers the genocide of Duscur recompense for the Tragedy— to imply a conspiracy of this magnitude to the daughter of a noble house is, perhaps, unwise. But she remembers the earnestness in Dimitri’s eyes when he pronounced his support of Duscur, remembers Dedue’s quiet grief, countless nights spent in the sanctuary of the greenhouse.
There is something afoot amongst the nobles of Faerghus.
Ingrid hasn’t said a word during her ruminations, pale and shaken.
“I'll reassign you and Dedue,” Byleth says finally. “I'd like you to think about what I've said. Dimitri has a long road ahead of him—your support means a great deal to him. And—” she pauses, waiting until the student raises her head to meet her eyes— “Dedue deserves better than to be treated as such.”
There's a long beat of silence. “Yes, Professor,” Ingrid replies, her voice very, very small.
Byleth nods and turns back to her weapons, a wordless dismissal.
Ingrid’s views are far from uncommon in the Kingdom. It will be one of the greatest hurdles Dimitri will have to overcome if he truly seeks to offer reparations to Duscur.
Byleth sighs, running her oilcloth along her sword’s blade, and Sothis drifts into view, brow arched.
“Meddling again, are you?” she says disapprovingly, wrinkling her nose. Her wild hair floats along an intangible breeze, ornaments catching the light.
Byleth’s eyes flicker up to her before she sheathes the sword, gathering all the weapons and returning them to the racks. “This doesn’t seem like a matter that should be allowed to fester.”
Sothis huffs, crossing her arms, but offers no rebuttal.
She flags down her father as the rest of the dusty, exhausted knights funnel out of the training grounds, and he scowls at the backs of the retreating knights. “They wouldn’t last a week in our troupe,” he declares, and the few left in earshot wince and hang their heads.
“You might need to retrain our members if they don’t see action soon,” she points out, and Jeralt grimaces.
With their captain and second-in-command enlisted in the monastery, the rest of the mercenaries had taken a contract with the church, being functionally put on retainer for any of its needs. As far as Byleth is aware, the most they’ve had to do is route a handful of bandit attacks on some rural villages.
“They wouldn’t dare let themselves get that out of shape,” he says. “I’d send them to freeze their balls off in Sreng— see how they’d like that for ‘training.’”
Byleth shakes her head. “Dinner?” she prompts, and Jeralt glances up at the orange sky.
“It’s that late already?” he says, just as the evening bell begins to toll. He snorts. “Apparently. Alright, then.”
Jeralt continues to complain about the knights for the duration of the trudge to the dining hall, only concluding when they collect their plates and amble over to the tables unofficially reserved for the faculty. The tables are only sparsely populated for the late hour, with just a handful of fellow latecomers,
Her father starts his meal with hearty enthusiasm, but Byleth pushes around her food, taking bites sparingly. While her father’s temper seems back to normal, his abrupt change in mood after meeting Aelfric still has her wary.
“Where were you born?” she asks, and Jeralt looks up at her, still chewing.
He studies her for a moment before swallowing. “Why the sudden interest?”
Byleth shrugs, spearing a piece of roasted chicken with her fork and dragging it through the gravy.
He doesn’t looks terribly convinced. “Faerghus,” he says finally. “I used to be a knight of the kingdom, before… everything.” He casts a sidelong glance at the others at the table, who aren’t paying very much attention to anything but their food. “But there’s no one left waiting for me there,” he finishes.
She nods, chewing thoughtfully. Her thumb rubs absentminded circles along the pommel of her dagger.
He squints at her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re planning something,” he says, in a tone that very clearly conveys, ‘You better not be.’
She meets his eyes steadily, blank-faced expression firmly in place. “Just curious,” she comments mildly.
He holds his gaze for a while longer before rolling his eyes. “You and that poker face,” he says, exasperated. “Never should’ve let you learn cards.”
She takes another bite to hide her smile.
She sits at her desk long after dark, her desk lit by a wavering candle, only half a mind on prepping a riveting lecture on terrain advantages for the next day’s class.
The dissemination of misinformation must have started from somewhere very high, she thinks. Dimitri hasn’t been crowned, so a regent rules in his place— his father’s older brother, Rufus. The house that gained estate over Duscur, the Kleiman viscountcy, is also worth scrutiny, not to mention the possibility of third parties and political factions that would benefit from a power struggle in Fodlan’s largest state.
She, like the rest of Fodlan, knows the results of the Tragedy— the royal family dead, the nation massacred in retaliation and the lands seized by the kingdom. Beyond that… she only has the crumbs gleaned from Dimitri and Dedue.
She sighs, leaning back in her seat. Dimitri is the sole witness and survivor of the incident, but the last thing she wants to do is make him relive the day, over and over, and the sentiment is equal when it comes to Dedue. There are other avenues she can explore before she subjects them to that.
She stares at the sway of the candle’s flame, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood. And then she pushes away from the desk, the length of her coat swirling behind her as she ducks out into the night, her steps quick and purposeful as she strides towards the Abyss.
There are perks to being so fearsome as to be called the “Ashen Demon,” she thinks. While the name doesn't hold much weight in the monastery, in the Abyss, home of mercenaries and blades for hire, her reputation precedes her by miles. All she has to do is ask the nearest tavern patron where Yuri’s regular haunts are, and she's pointed in the right direction without hesitation.
She winds up in the market, Yuri’s pale hair and neatly made uniform easy to spot in the crowd. He's off to the side, apparently people-watching rather than shopping.
Yuri smiles. “Professor,” he greets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You spent some time in Faerghus in your childhood, did you not?” Byleth says bluntly.
He arches a brow. “While it’s not common knowledge, I suppose it’s no secret, either. Yes, I did. Under the patronage of House Rowe.”
“Do you still have connections in the Kingdom?” she asks.
The surprise that flickers across his face seems genuine— quickly overtaken by his amusement. “I suppose I have a few favors I could call in, depending on the task. Although I must ask— what would I have to gain?”
“Coin, if you would have it,” Byleth says. She pauses. “Otherwise, I would owe you.”
“Is that so?” he says, a sly tilt to his mouth. “I wouldn’t be averse to owed a debt by the Ashen Demon.” He throws his head back in a laugh, exposing the long line of his throat— but it feels more like a taunt than a vulnerability. “An exchange of favors from a demon to a wolf—the playwrights would fight for the rights to that story.”
“Then we have a deal?” she prompts.
Yuri grins. “We do.”