Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Year 1180, 20th day of the Lone Moon.

Seated in her usual place, Archbishop Rhea observed the new students gathered in the great hall of Garreg Mach. As every year, most of them came from noble families, though a few commoners stood out in the crowd.

Three students, in particular, caught her attention. Edelgard von Hresvelg, leader of the Black Eagles, was also the crown princess of the Adrestian Empire. Beside her, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, head of the Blue Lions, represented the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Lastly, Claude von Riegan, leading the Golden Deer, bore the name of the preeminent house of the Leicester Alliance.

Each house had eight students, all destined for an important future. But at this moment, none of them could imagine how much this year would change their fate.

As Rhea finished her speech, Ingrid stood as straight as a rod. She was finally here. Garreg Mach. The place where she could hone her martial skills while securing a more stable future for her family. Determined, she clenched her fists. She would give it her all to prove herself worthy of the Officers Academy.

Behind her, Sylvain seemed far less concerned with the solemnity of the moment.

— Wow… I’d heard that the Academy gathered the elite, but I didn’t know they were talking about the beauty of the students too…

Ingrid briefly closed her eyes, exasperated. He really couldn’t help himself.

— Look at that one, Sylvain continued in a hushed voice, discreetly gesturing with his chin toward a student a few rows ahead, wrapped in an elegant shawl. She’s in our house, right? I hope she’s as kind as she looks…

— For the love of the goddess, shut up, Ingrid muttered through clenched teeth.

— What? I’m just celebrating our arrival in my own way. A little joy wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Ingrid spun toward him sharply, eyebrows furrowed.

— You idiot! You could at least pretend to listen!

As she shot him her deadliest glare, a heavy silence settled around them. A shiver ran down her spine. Seteth was staring at them. His piercing, stern gaze silenced them instantly.

Flushing red with embarrassment, Ingrid straightened up at once, avoiding the eyes of the archbishop’s advisor.

— Don’t panic, Sylvain whispered with a smirk. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me like that. He probably just likes me in secret.

Ingrid clenched her fists. This was going to be a long year…

Once the speech was over, Hanneman and Manuela led the students to the courtyard, near the classrooms. They gave them a moment to get to know each other.

— We'll come get you shortly to take you to your rooms, Manuela announced with a smile.

— Oh, and just so you know, the dorms for nobles and commoners will be separated, added Hanneman in a slightly dry tone.

A few murmurs of protest could be heard, but nothing too serious. Ingrid, however, paid little attention. Sure, some commoners were wealthier than she was, but she remained, first and foremost, a noble—a Galatea.

Sylvain, always true to himself, seemed completely detached from the situation. He stretched with a mischievous grin.

— Even our professors are hot, it's crazy!

— You're talking about Hanneman? Dimitri asked, having just appeared behind them, an amused smile on his face.

Sylvain burst into laughter but quickly composed himself.

— No, no, I was talking about Manuela, of course. She's got... assets that are hard to ignore.

Ingrid, annoyed, shot him a sharp glare.

— You’d better shut up now, she warned coldly. I don’t feel like apologizing again on your behalf to the ladies you hit on like an idiot.

Sylvain laughed but said nothing more, already heading toward other students… female students, of course.

Ingrid found herself alone with Dimitri, who gave her a reassuring smile.

— And you, Ingrid? Are you happy to be here?

She smiled back, feeling a bit more at ease.

— Of course. It's a great opportunity to improve. And I'm glad to be here with you three… you, Sylvain, Félix…

Dimitri nodded, a sincere smile on his lips.

— Me too. It’s reassuring to have you guys here with me.

Without thinking, Ingrid began to look around for Félix. She quickly spotted him, standing alone, leaning against a wall. Always apart, as usual.

She sighed.

They had known each other for years, the four of them. But over time, Félix had become more withdrawn, and his difficult personality had become more apparent. Yet, despite everything, Ingrid couldn’t bring herself to completely push him away. She still worried about him.

Dimitri smiled at Ingrid, a light expression on his face.

— Well, I think I’ll go introduce myself to the other delegates, he said with a slight shrug. They’re probably waiting for me.

Ingrid nodded, a peaceful smile on her lips.

— Yes, of course. That’s a good idea. Good luck.

Dimitri returned her smile, a glint of friendship in his eyes.

— Thanks. See you later, Ingrid.

He gave her one last glance before turning and heading toward the group of other delegates. Ingrid watched him walk away for a moment, then, now alone again, she looked up at the sky, her heart feeling light.

Finally, she was here. She wasn’t sure if she truly deserved this place, but now that she had arrived, she was determined to do everything she could to save House Galatea. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by.

When her thoughts returned to the present moment, Ingrid turned her gaze to the other students. She spotted Sylvain attempting to approach a young woman with blue hair. She had no doubt that the woman was clearly not interested in his company. Ingrid sighed. When was he going to learn to take a hint? Sylvain wasn’t a bad guy, he was just a little too... persistent sometimes.

As she wondered if she should intervene to spare Sylvain from yet another ignored attempt, she felt a hand gently rest on her shoulder. Surprised, she turned around to find two young girls standing behind her.

The taller one wore a shawl, the same girl Sylvain had noticed earlier. She still wore her warm, friendly smile, her gaze kind and welcoming. The shorter one, more reserved, looked curious and friendly as well. Ingrid watched them for a moment, intrigued.

Ingrid smiled warmly at the two girls standing in front of her.

— Hello, can I help you? she asked politely.

The taller of the two, the one wearing the shawl, returned her smile.

— My name is Mercedes von Martlitz, she said softly, with a touch of nobility in her tone.

The other girl, shorter and clearly more energetic, immediately reacted, her face lighting up with a radiant smile.

— And I’m Annette Fantine Dominique! she said with enthusiasm, as if she had just made a grand announcement.

Ingrid observed them for a moment, a little surprised by their enthusiasm, unsure of what to say. But Mercedes, with a sincere smile, spoke again.

— Well, it seems we’ll be in the same house, the Blue Lions, she added. It would be nice if we could become friends.

Annette nodded vigorously, determination gleaming in her eyes.

— Yes, exactly! Especially since there are only three girls in the house. So we’ll really have to stick together, don’t you think? It’s a bit fewer than the other houses, right?

Ingrid, a little taken aback by Annette’s frankness, still smiled, touched by their kindness. She took a deep breath and introduced herself in turn, feeling more at ease.

— Well… I’m Ingrid Brandl Galatea, she replied with a shy smile. I’m really glad to meet you, Mercedes, Annette.

The two girls returned her smile, and the atmosphere between them seemed to relax even more. Mercedes gave a slight nod.

— It’s a pleasure, Ingrid, she said softly. I have a feeling we’ll get along well.

Annette added, still full of energy:

— Yes, we’re going to have an awesome year, I’m sure of it!

Thirty minutes had passed, and Ingrid had the chance to talk with a few members of her house: Ashe, a reserved but kind boy; a girl from the Golden Deer named Leonie; and another boy from the same house, Raphael, who seemed to be a ball of energy. She had also exchanged a few words with Petra and Caspar, two members of the Black Eagles. Overall, everyone seemed quite friendly, and Ingrid felt well surrounded. She figured she had socialized enough for the day.

She then started looking for Sylvain, wondering where he had wandered off to. After a few moments, she finally spotted him, leaning against a column, deep in conversation with a young woman. Ingrid stopped for a moment, discreetly observing them. The girl had her back to her, but Ingrid immediately noticed her silhouette—exactly the type Sylvain was drawn to. Confident in her appearance, likely more interested in looks than chivalric values… Just his type.

Then, something happened that made Ingrid jump. Sylvain took the young woman's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it with total ease. Ingrid’s eyes widened, shocked by his boldness. *Who does he think he is?* she thought. They had barely met, and he was already allowing himself such an intimate gesture?!

The young woman swiftly pulled her hand back, clearly displeased. She stared at Sylvain for a moment, her face showing a mix of disdain and discomfort, before turning on her heels and walking away briskly. Ingrid, furious, watched the scene in disbelief. *Sylvain, you idiot…* she thought, glaring at him. He had barely arrived, and he was already ruining his reputation.

She couldn’t just let this slide—not only for Sylvain’s sake but also for the atmosphere at Garreg Mach. Turning her attention to the girl who had just walked off, Ingrid made a quick decision. She stepped forward, moving at a brisk pace to catch up.

She reached her swiftly, calling out gently:

— Excuse me, miss?

As Ingrid called out to her, the young woman turned around, and for a moment, Ingrid froze. She was struck by her beauty. There was a certain charm about her, a natural elegance that immediately drew the eye. Her delicate features, her poised posture, her smile—both gentle and mischievous… Ingrid had the impression that the girl was observing her just as intently, a silence hanging between them, almost suspended in time.

Then, the young woman broke the moment with a charming smile—the kind of smile that seemed capable of melting away any tension.

— Oh? Yes? she asked in a soft, melodic voice, tilting her head slightly to the side.

The mere sound of her voice brought Ingrid back to reality. Regaining her composure, she gave a slight bow, more out of reflex than necessity.

— I… I wanted to apologize for Sylvain’s behavior, she said formally. He shouldn’t have acted that way. I hope it didn’t make you too uncomfortable.

The young woman observed her for a moment, then, to Ingrid’s surprise, burst into laughter.

— Oh, it’s nothing! I’m used to men like that, she replied with amusement.

Her lighthearted tone reassured Ingrid, who relaxed her shoulders slightly.

— It’s still inexcusable, she insisted. Sylvain never thinks before he acts… and I wouldn’t want his reputation to cause him trouble so soon after arriving.

— Oh? So you’re Sylvain’s noble protector? the stranger asked, her lips curling into a teasing smile.

Ingrid quickly shook her head.

— Not at all! I just… have too much experience with his nonsense, she sighed.

The young woman laughed again before stepping closer to Ingrid, subtly narrowing the space between them.

— And what is the name of this noble soul who bears such a burden?

— Ingrid. Ingrid Brandl Galatea, she replied confidently.

The stranger repeated her name softly, as if tasting it on her lips, before her smile widened.

— Ingrid… That’s a beautiful name, she murmured. It sounds strong, noble… yet gentle, just like you. It suits you perfectly.

Ingrid immediately felt warmth rising to her cheeks. She was caught off guard by the compliment—especially by the way it was delivered—and averted her gaze briefly, trying to hide her embarrassment.

— Uh… thank you, she replied, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.

The other girl seemed amused by her reaction and placed a hand on her hip.

— I’m Dorothea Arnault. I’m with the Black Eagles.

Ingrid immediately took note of the name.

— Arnault… she murmured, thoughtful.

— Oh? Are you trying to figure out who I am? Dorothea asked, a playful glint in her eyes.

Ingrid hesitated for a second before deciding to be honest.

— Your name… It carries no title, so I assume you’re not of noble birth?

— That’s correct, Dorothea said without the slightest hesitation. I’m a commoner… and a singer, she added with a knowing smile.

— A singer…?

— Yes, I was with the Opera of the Empire before enrolling at the Academy.

Ingrid couldn’t help but look at her with renewed interest. An opera singer… That explained her graceful bearing and natural confidence.

— Well… I hope I get the chance to hear you sing one day, Ingrid said sincerely.

Dorothea gave her a radiant smile.

— Who knows? If you behave, I might even grant you a private performance.

Ingrid felt her cheeks warm again, and Dorothea, clearly pleased by the effect she had, let out a soft laugh before gracefully walking away. Ingrid watched her go, feeling unexpectedly flustered.

As Dorothea walked away, Ingrid kept staring at her for a moment, unsettled by what had just happened. The exchange had been far stranger and more intense than she had expected. She had felt something unexpected—a look… a smile. She shook herself mentally, trying to push away the warmth rising to her cheeks. That’s when a familiar voice rang out behind her.

— Well, well…

Ingrid quickly turned her head and saw Sylvain, arms crossed, an amused smile playing on his lips. He was looking at her as if he had been watching the scene from a distance.

— What? Ingrid replied, a bit annoyed, her eyebrows furrowing.

Sylvain took a step closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He kept smiling as he scrutinized her.

— Oh, nothing… but you know, I saw what happened between you and Dorothea.

— So what? Nothing happened, Ingrid responded defensively.

Sylvain looked her up and down before saying:

— There was definitely something going on between you two, though.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, her heart beating faster, though she tried not to show it.

— What are you talking about? There was nothing at all, she retorted, trying to sound calmer than she felt.

Sylvain made a small gesture with his hand, as if to brush off her words.

— Honestly, Ingrid, you’re not very subtle, you know. Dorothea was practically devouring you with her eyes! It was like she had found a treasure—kind of like you when you see good food.

Ingrid froze, shocked by the comparison. She immediately felt her cheeks heat up.

— No, but… are you serious? That’s not at all what was happening! Why are you saying that?

Sylvain burst out laughing, clearly enjoying himself. He had no intention of holding back.

— Oh, come on! You know it wasn’t hard to see! She was looking at you so intensely, it was like you were her prey!

Even more flustered, Ingrid blushed to the tips of her ears and slightly averted her gaze, searching for a way out of this situation.

— You’re such an idiot, Sylvain. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t include me in your weird fantasies, she muttered, feeling more off balance than she wanted to admit.

Sylvain shrugged, still giving her that annoyingly confident smile.

— You say that, but honestly, I think you were even worse than her! Seriously, you were about two seconds away from drooling while looking at her. It was… how should I put it… obvious! You couldn’t even hide your interest.

Ingrid glared at him, clenching her teeth.

— No, seriously, stop talking nonsense! There’s nothing between Dorothea and me. That’s not at all what you think!

Sylvain laughed even harder, shaking his head in amusement.

— Oh sure, play innocent! But you’re the only one who doesn’t see it. And honestly, you were straight-up staring at her. It was like you were ready to devour her whole!

Ingrid felt her fists clench. She had lost control of her emotions.

— I… I wasn’t staring! And I don’t have… those kinds of thoughts!

Sylvain crossed his arms, giving Ingrid a piercing look.

— Hahaha, yeah, sure… Anyway, let me tell you a little secret… You see, Dorothea? Well, she’s insanely gorgeous, so it makes total sense that you’d be interested. Not judging you at all—I do the same thing, honestly.

Ingrid blushed violently, her anger flaring up. She could no longer hold back.

— What?! That’s… That’s ridiculous, Sylvain! I don’t like girls! So stop with your stupid insinuations! I… I didn’t do anything like that, and I have nothing to do with whatever you’re imagining!

Sylvain burst out laughing, his mocking laughter echoing around them.

— Oh, but of course! Of course, Ingrid! You’re the only one who doesn’t know, huh? But seriously, only a blind person wouldn’t get it! You’re probably the only one who doesn’t realize that you’re… how should I put this… a little… hmm, how can I say this without offending you… you know, gay?

Ingrid felt her heart pound wildly, rage boiling inside her. She threw her arms up, ready to explode.

— No, stop spouting nonsense, Sylvain! I don’t have that kind of… that kind of attraction to girls! So shut up already! I don’t even want to talk to you anymore!

Sylvain, still wearing his victorious smirk, simply shrugged like it was no big deal.

— Well, if you say so… but I think you’re just lying to yourself.

Ingrid, eyes burning with anger, spun on her heels and stormed off, fleeing the conversation that was driving her crazy. Behind her, Sylvain only laughed louder as she left.

Chapter Text

Ingrid pushed open the door to her room and scanned the space. The room was of a reasonable size—simple yet pleasant, far more welcoming than she had expected. She set her bag down near the bed and took a moment to take in her surroundings. The walls were plain, the furniture functional, but the overall atmosphere exuded a certain warmth.

She sat on the edge of the mattress, testing its firmness, then let herself fall onto it with a sigh. It was much more comfortable than the bed she had back in Galatea. A pleasant surprise.

As she closed her eyes for a moment, her mind wandered despite herself to the day's encounters. She thought of Mercedes and Annette, their warm welcome, the lively conversation she had shared with other students. But inevitably, her thoughts lingered longer on one meeting in particular.
Dorothea Arnault.

She saw those deep green eyes again, that smile—both soft and confident. There was something about that girl that unsettled her in a way she couldn’t quite explain. Ingrid abruptly sat up, shaking her head as if to rid herself of these intrusive thoughts.
She wanted to be friends with Dorothea, nothing more. Of course, she was beautiful—she wouldn’t deny that. But that wasn’t a reason to let Sylvain’s ridiculous ideas infect her mind.

Sighing, she ran a hand over her face.

— "I really need to teach him some manners," she muttered under her breath.

Determined not to dwell on the matter any longer, she lay on her side and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow would be a new day, and she intended to focus on her training and studies.

Not on a smile. Nor on piercing green eyes.

No, absolutely not.

Ingrid was on the verge of slipping into a well-deserved moment of peace when her door suddenly burst open with a loud crash. She jolted upright as a red-haired whirlwind stormed into the room.

— "Ingrid!" Sylvain exclaimed, grinning and looking far too pleased with himself.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, swallowing back a sigh of exasperation before glaring at him.

— "Sylvain, could you at least knock before barging in? Or better yet, not come in at all?"

He completely ignored her and raised his arms dramatically, as if announcing some grand news.

— "Honestly, these rooms are amazing! Even mine is nice, and trust me, I was expecting worse!"

Leaning casually against the doorframe, he remained as relaxed as ever.

— "And on top of that, I just found out that some very charming ladies are staying right next door… What a fantastic coincidence, don’t you think?"

Ingrid let out a long sigh, placing a hand on her forehead as if she could already feel a headache coming on.

— "Sylvain, seriously…"

But before she could scold him properly, he raised a finger, cutting off her frustration.

— "No time for complaints, my dear Ingrid. There’s something far more important than my little stories!"

She arched an eyebrow, skeptical.

— "What now?"

A wide grin spread across his face.

— "It’s dinnertime.
"
Ingrid opened her mouth to retort but immediately froze.

— "… What?"

— "Yes, yes, you heard me right. Dinner. Right now! And trust me, just from the smell wafting through the halls, it’s going to be a feast."

He took a deep, exaggerated inhale, savoring the scent.

— "Ah, that aroma… It would be a crime to miss out!"

Ingrid’s irritation melted away, instantly replaced by sudden excitement. A good meal, after such a long day, was exactly what she needed.

— "Alright, fine," she said, quickly getting to her feet.

Sylvain burst into laughter.

— "Hahaha! I knew that would work! You can scold me all you want, but throw a good dinner into the mix, and poof—everything is forgiven!"

Ingrid shot him a dark look, but she couldn’t deny he had a point.

— "You should be grateful I have a weakness, or I would’ve knocked you out by now," she grumbled.

Sylvain shot her a playful wink.

— "And I’m just happy to have a friend who loves food as much as I do."

She crossed her arms, but an amused smile flickered across her lips.

— "Alright, before I change my mind, let’s go."

Ingrid placed her plate in front of her, and just looking at it made her heart leap with joy. Filled with everything she loved, it was a true feast. Juicy meat, perfectly seasoned vegetables, crispy golden bread, and most importantly, a thick stew that gave off an irresistible aroma. Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her just how long it had been since she’d had a meal like this.

The scent alone was pure temptation. She took a deep breath, savoring the aroma of spices and herbs, then grabbed her spoon without further delay. At the first bite, the warmth of the dish spread through her, and she closed her eyes for a moment, completely won over. The taste was rich, comforting—a true delight after a long day.

Across from her, Sylvain sat down as well, his own plate piled high.

— "So, does it live up to your expectations?" he asked, watching her relish every bite.

Ingrid nodded, too busy eating to reply. Sylvain chuckled, amused.

— "It’s crazy how easily food can win you over, Ingrid. I should keep that in mind if I ever need your forgiveness."
ˆ
She shot him a glare, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the way she absentmindedly licked a bit of sauce off her fingertip.
— "Shut up, Sylvain," she muttered, immediately taking another bite.

Their meal continued in relative silence, only interrupted by the lively chatter around them. Then, after a few minutes, a new figure joined their table.

— "Ah, Félix!" Sylvain exclaimed, raising his arms as if welcoming a hero.

Ingrid looked up and greeted him with a sincere smile.

— "I’m glad you’re joining us. So, what do you think of Garreg Mach so far?"

Félix sighed, crossing his arms.

— "It’s not complicated. Just a school."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

— "Nothing more?"

He shrugged.

— "I’m mostly looking forward to training."

She sighed, not really surprised by his answer.

— "Maybe you should try being a bit more friendly with the others," she suggested. "After all, if you want to train with them, it would help if they actually wanted to."

Félix shot her a mildly irritated look.

— "I’m not here to make friends."

Sylvain burst into laughter.

— "Ah, Félix, always so warm! It touches me to see how much you’re opening up to us."

Félix glared at him, but Sylvain kept grinning in that deliberately provoking way of his, only irritating their taciturn friend further.

As they exchanged their usual banter, Ingrid simply continued enjoying her meal, savoring every bite. It didn’t matter if Félix was grumpy or if Sylvain was making annoying remarks. For now, the only thing that mattered was the food in front of her.

As Ingrid savored every bite of her meal, she noticed that Sylvain seemed distracted. He was scanning the hall, sweeping his gaze across the tables as if searching for someone. She frowned before setting down her spoon.

— “What are you up to now?” she sighed.

Sylvain briefly turned his head toward her and flashed a smile.

— “For once, I’m not looking for a girl, if that’s what you think.”
— “Then what?”

— “A friend. Our future king.”

Félix, who had been silently eating until now, glanced up.

— “If Dimitri comes here, I’m leaving,” he warned flatly.

Sylvain didn’t even argue. He simply shrugged.

— “Relax, Félix. It’s not like I’m going to invite him to eat with us. I just want to see where he is and how he’s doing. And if it really bothers you that much, I can go talk to him and leave you two here. That way, everyone’s happy.”

Félix didn’t reply but shifted his attention to Ingrid before remarking nonchalantly:

— “Either way, Ingrid’s almost finished her plate. She’ll be leaving soon.”

Ingrid paused mid-bite and raised an eyebrow.

— “Huh? No. I’m getting a second serving, obviously. It would be a crime not to take advantage of free food!”
Sylvain chuckled.

— “I knew you’d say that.”

With that, he turned his attention back to the dining hall, and after a moment, he finally spotted Dimitri. He was sitting a bit further away, deep in conversation with Edelgard, the leader of the Black Eagles.

— “There he is,” Sylvain said, discreetly motioning toward their table with his chin.

Ingrid followed his gaze and observed Dimitri. He looked serious, fully focused on the conversation.

— “What could they be talking about?” Sylvain wondered aloud.

— “Nothing that concerns us,” Ingrid replied with a shrug. “Probably confidential matters.”

Félix muttered something unintelligible before stabbing a piece of meat on his plate.

Sylvain glanced at him, then a mischievous grin stretched across his lips.

— “You think he’s already trying to flirt with the princess?”

Ingrid rolled her eyes and shook her head.

— “Not everyone is like you, Sylvain.”

— “Oh, come on, spare me the lecture…”

Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added:

— “Besides, you’re not really in a position to say that. I’m not the one who nearly started something with someone right after arriving.”

Ingrid froze. Her expression darkened immediately.
— “What?!”

She felt Félix slightly turn his head toward her, but he said nothing. Still, she was certain she caught a flicker of curiosity in his eyes before he quietly resumed his meal, as if nothing had happened.

— “That’s nonsense,” she muttered, her cheeks slightly flushed.

As Ingrid had not yet finished her plate, Sylvain, like a curious dog, leaned toward Félix. A mischievous smile on his face, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone:

— "Hey, Félix, you know what I saw earlier? Ingrid totally hit on a girl!"

Ingrid, who had just taken a bite, froze. She immediately turned her gaze toward Sylvain, outraged.

— "What?! That’s ridiculous! I didn’t hit on anyone! I was just socializing, that’s all! And there’s absolutely nothing romantic about it!"

Sylvain raised his arms as if to defend himself, letting out a light laugh.

— "Ah, of course, denial, as usual. You’re really incorrigible, Ingrid. But I assure you, this girl seemed pretty receptive to your... charm."

Félix, who had overheard the comment, raised an eyebrow while continuing to eat, clearly interested but not as shocked as one might expect. Sylvain, still smiling, continued his little description.

— "Honestly, it was pretty funny. She looked you up and down, and you, as usual, didn’t even realize it. You really need to learn how to recognize those obvious signals, Ingrid. It could save you from a lot of misunderstandings."

Ingrid, red with embarrassment and furious, stood up abruptly.

— "Sylvain, you’re talking nonsense! It’s a pure coincidence! She doesn’t even look interested, and besides... I’m not looking for that kind of thing! Especially not with a girl."

— "Of course, of course," Sylvain replied, still calm, with his hands raised. "But personally, if I were you, I wouldn’t speak too quickly, especially since, between you and me, Félix, that girl was absolutely gorgeous!"

Ingrid shook her head, exasperated.

— "You’re unbearable..."

Félix, feeling the need to respond, chimed in.

— "I’d say Ingrid doesn’t seem to agree with you, Sylvain."

Ingrid, uncomfortable but more in control of the situation, sat back down.

— "See, that’s it! I’m here to study and train, not to get involved in stupid, completely nonexistent drama!"

Sylvain, half-mocking, half-sincere, flashed her a mischievous grin.

— "Oh, but I never said it was a bad thing. On the contrary, Ingrid, you could take advantage of it. After all, you’re pretty cute when you make an effort!"
Ingrid sighed deeply, crossing her arms.

— "You’re really getting on my nerves, Sylvain."

Sylvain burst out laughing.

— "Come on, Ingrid, relax. But you know, if you ever need help understanding how people react to your charm, I’m here for you."

As Ingrid was talking with Sylvain and Félix about the upcoming classes, she suddenly felt a hand rest on her shoulder. She turned quickly, her face immediately flushing red as she saw Dorothea standing there, a bright smile on her face. Sylvain, meanwhile, had a smirk, while Félix remained calm and showed no particular reaction.

Dorothea, all smiles, cheerfully said:

— "Well, Ingrid, you have a nice plate there. You must have quite an appetite, that’s a good thing!"

Ingrid, a little thrown off by the situation and Dorothea’s proximity, stammered something that resembled a thank you, unable to really form her thoughts.
Sylvain, delighted by the opportunity, took the initiative and invited Dorothea to sit with them, his voice full of pride:

— "Well, if you haven’t eaten yet, we still have space here. Ingrid and I would be happy to share this feast with you!"

Dorothea quickly glanced at Sylvain, a slight grimace of disgust crossing her features before she answered, politely but firmly:

— "Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. I won’t be staying here long. I just wanted to come say hello to Ingrid."

Sylvain, clearly disappointed, couldn’t help but respond with a touch of mischievous humor:

— "Ah, I see. No worries! I completely understand. After all, I know that the 'rejection' you gave me this morning must’ve left a bit of a sour taste. But don’t worry, I’m a considerate guy. If you’d rather, I can leave, and you two can enjoy this moment alone. I got the impression that you two were getting along quite well already, right?"

Ingrid, embarrassed, blushed even more and clenched her fists, ready to slap Sylvain for his comment. Dorothea, however, put on a polite smile, but her expression grew more serious. She responded gently, raising her hand to ease the tension:

— "That’s not necessary, Sylvain. I’m just here to greet Ingrid, not for… anything else."

Ingrid, a little more relaxed but still embarrassed by the situation, forced a smile and murmured:

— "Thank you, Dorothea. That’s very kind of you."

Dorothea smiled at Ingrid, then turned to Sylvain, her gaze piercing him in an amused yet firm manner.

— "As for you, Sylvain, if you want to continue looking for girls to charm, I’m sure you’ll find someone else to bother. But thanks for the invitation."

Sylvain shrugged with a smirk, letting out one last conspiratorial laugh:

— "Tss, always so straightforward, Dorothea… Fine, I yield."

As Dorothea walked away, Ingrid, caught in a mix of embarrassment and frustration, quickly turned toward Sylvain and said, her voice full of reproach

— "Seriously, Sylvain! What was that with your comments?!"

Sylvain, undeterred, responded with a smug smile, clearly proud of his move:

— "Oh, you see that, Ingrid? Just another piece of evidence. I told you, you’re clearly giving signals. And now, it’s totally obvious, you're getting hit on, my dear."

Ingrid, furious and blushing, retorted sharply:

— "That’s nonsense! There’s nothing like that!"

She then turned to Félix, hoping for some support, and asked:

— "Félix, did you see anything? Tell me you agree with me!"

Félix, unshaken, shrugged and replied in an indifferent tone:

— "Honestly, Ingrid, none of this is my business. What happens between you two, I couldn’t care less."

Ingrid, annoyed by the lack of support, sighed deeply. She turned her gaze back to Sylvain and snapped:

— "You’re really talking nonsense. It’s not what you think, Sylvain!"

Sylvain, still convinced of his analysis, continued teasing her:

— "No, no, you’re wrong, Ingrid. Look closely. She came just to say hi, with no other reason. She just wanted to get closer to you. It's a classic flirting technique—a light physical contact to get you used to her presence... and her body. Honestly, you’re falling for it!"

Ingrid, red as a tomato and furious, suddenly stood up, her fists clenched on the table. She answered in a sharp voice:

— "I don’t want to continue this conversation. It’s ridiculous. I’d rather leave before I say something I might regret!"

She stood up abruptly, grabbed her things, and headed for the exit of the dining hall. Sylvain, still amused, watched her leave without a word. Félix, for his part, didn’t move at all, too indifferent to the situation to intervene further.

---

Once in her room, Ingrid collapsed onto her bed, taking off her boots and getting ready to lie down. Her thoughts were racing, especially regarding her encounter with Dorothea. As she closed her eyes, one thought troubled her. What if Dorothea really was interested in her? Ingrid shook her head, trying to dismiss the absurd thought. But deep down, something in her chest fluttered a little faster, and a slight shiver ran through her skin. She didn’t know if it was confusion or something else, but the idea troubled her more than she wanted to admit.

Eventually, she fell asleep, her mind disturbed, without fully understanding what had just happened or why Dorothea seemed to occupy so much space in her thoughts.

Chapter Text

- Thea!

Edelgard screamed as she finally reached orgasm, her nails digging into the brunette's back.

Finally, she released Dorothea, catching her breath as the other woman moved away from the princess.

The room was bathed in dim light, the atmosphere still thick with the heat of their recent embrace. Edelgard lay on the bed, the sheets disheveled, half draped over her figure, while Dorothea, completely naked, sat on the edge of the mattress, one leg crossed over the other.

— So, how was your first day at Garreg Mach? Edelgard asked calmly, her crimson eyes observing Dorothea with feigned nonchalance.

Dorothea ran a hand through her tousled hair, glancing toward the window where the moon was beginning to rise.

"It was... appropriate, I suppose," she replied with a shrug. "The people here are... interesting."

She gave Edelgard an amused smile.

"And you, Edie? Has anyone caught your eye?"

Edelgard sighed, exasperated by the question, and spoke.

"No one. And I doubt that will change."

Dorothea laughed softly.

"Oh, I'm sure it will." Some people just take a little longer to observe the Imperial Princess.

"I don't think so," Edelgard retorted dryly, before changing the subject. "And you? Did anyone catch your eye?"

Dorothea took a moment to think, tapping her finger lightly on her chin.

"Hmm... Petra looks gorgeous, as always. And Ferdinand... well, he's insufferable, but I suppose he has a certain charm."

She narrowed her eyes as if searching through her memories, then a name came to mind. She let her gaze wander towards the ceiling before exhaling almost absently:

— There's also this girl, Ingrid.

Edelgard turned her head slightly towards her, intrigued.

— Ingrid?

Dorothea bit her lower lip lightly, remembering their exchange earlier that day.

— Yes. She's from the Blue Lions. Blonde, green eyes… she carries herself like a noble knight in shining armor.

She smiled at her own description, but continued in a more thoughtful tone.

— I met her this morning when she intervened to apologize for her friend's behavior. Sylvain, I think. He tried his usual routine—you know, the kind of charm I find unbearable—but Ingrid interrupted him.

Dorothea flopped back onto the bed, lying on her side, one hand under her head. She stared at the ceiling, a slight smile on her lips.

"It was really lovely. She was so formal, so direct, so serious. But what struck me most was her reaction when I complimented her."

She closed her eyes for a moment, reliving the moment with startling clarity. The hesitation in Ingrid's voice, the red rising in her cheeks, the slight stutter... Like a melody she knew by heart, but it sounded different this time.

"She went quite red," she continued with a chuckle. I'm used to people being surprised by my compliments, but she...

She opened her eyes and turned to Edelgard.

—That was different.

Edelgard studied her for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

—Different in what way?

Dorothea took a deep breath, then shrugged, feigning indifference.

—I don't really know... It was just... interesting.

But in truth, it wasn't just interesting. The image of Ingrid's troubled expression lingered in her mind longer than she expected. It wasn't the first time she'd been looked at like that, but there was something about Ingrid—a raw sincerity, a charming inexperience—that set her apart from the others.

Perhaps she should probe further, out of curiosity.

Just to see where it might lead.

Edelgard sat up abruptly before straddling Dorothea, giving her a full view of her.

"It seems Ingrid already looms large in your thoughts. I might even be jealous."

Dorothea laughed, placing her hands on Edelgard's hips.

"You know me, Edie. I'm a hopeless romantic; I fall for almost everyone."

—And almost everyone falls in love with you, Edelgard murmured before leaning in to kiss Dorothea. The kiss deepened, but Dorothea suddenly pulled away, her tone surprisingly cold.

—To be precise, everyone is just happy to have me in their bed.

Edelgard sighed before placing a firm kiss on Dorothea's forehead.

—What do you want me to say? You have the body of a goddess, and you're the best lover I've ever had.

Dorothea laughed.

"As if you'd have so many people to compare me to?"

Edelgard, slightly offended, replied,

"For now, you're enough."

And as she leaned in to kiss her again, a thought crossed Dorothea's mind.

"Yes... but for how long?"

The first few days at Garreg Mach passed without too much difficulty for Dorothea. She took advantage of her free time to explore the monastery, admire its architecture, and familiarize herself with the various buildings. Between walks, she lingered in the library, leafing through old books without really reading them, more out of curiosity than anything else.

She also spent a good time chatting with the other students, flashing a few charming smiles out of habit. With her fellow Black Eagles students, she got to know them better: Ferdinand remained as pompous as ever, Caspar loud, Linhardt always sleepy, Petra intriguing, Hubert intimidating, and Bernadetta incomprehensible. As for Edelgard, their relationship remained unchanged: relaxed and full of camaraderie.

In the evenings, she liked to hang out in the dining hall and taste Garreg Mach's specialties. The food was really good, and she didn't deprive herself. She also met Manuela, with whom she exchanged a few words about music and life at the monastery.

Dorothea adjusted her hat and smiled slightly as she looked at Edelgard. The future empress was preparing to leave for a few days with Dimitri and Claudius, on an important matter between the heirs. Dorothea hadn't asked many questions; political discussions didn't really interest her.

— "Take care, Edie," she said, inclining her head with a smile.

— "Don't worry about me," Edelgard replied, her calm tone contrasting with Dorothea's carefree energy. "I'll be back before you even get bored." »

— "I don't think I'll be bored, but I'll take care of your dear comrades in your absence," Dorothea added with a wink.

— "That's all I ask," Edelgard said with a slight smile.

Not far from them, Hubert watched the scene, as stoic as ever. His scrutinizing gaze raked over Edelgard, probably assessing all the possible risks. But he remained where he was this time. Edelgard was leaving without him, and he didn't seem to like it.

"Try not to stress too much while I'm gone, Hubert," Edelgard shouted, slightly mocking.

"I prefer not to make empty promises," he replied coldly.

Dorothea stifled a laugh at the look on his face. Hubert, without Edelgard, was like a fish out of water.

That's when Dimitri approached, tall and immaculate as always. Beside him, Dedue walked calmly, and just behind them, another familiar figure followed: Ingrid.

Dorothea's heart leaped slightly at the sight of her. It wasn't the first time they'd crossed paths since their encounter in the dining hall, but they hadn't really exchanged a word since. Yet, Dorothea found herself inspecting Ingrid with her gaze, noticing her upright posture, the confidence in her gait. She seemed focused, serious, as always.

When their eyes met, Dorothea gave her a natural smile, but with a hint of mischief, almost as if testing her reaction.
Ingrid blushed immediately and looked away, visibly embarrassed. Dorothea, amused, stared at her for a moment before letting out a small laugh, amused by Ingrid's shyness. It was odd, this slight distance between them, when Ingrid seemed to have gotten used to being more reserved than usual.

Just then, Claude arrived, hands in his pockets, his usual smirk lighting up his face. Arriving at them, Dimitri casually turned his head towards him and looked at him, a little puzzled.

— "Claude, are you alone? I thought your vassal would accompany you…"

Claude burst out laughing, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

— "Hilda thought it was too early to leave," he replied with a shrug. "She said she'd rather stay in her room and get some sleep."

Dimitri, taken aback, let out a laugh.

— "I see," said the brunette with a warm smile. "Well... how about coming tomorrow at 2:00 PM? Are you free?"

— "Uh... tomorrow? 2:00 PM? Yeah, I think so..."

— "Great!" exclaimed Dorothy. "So, see you tomorrow at 2:00 PM!"

— "Yeah..."

Chapter Text

"Ingrid! There you are at last!"

Sitting on a bench near the dining hall, Dorothea waved enthusiastically in her direction.

Ingrid approached with a polite smile. She stood still for a moment, caught in the moment, letting her gaze wander across the singer’s graceful features. Those green eyes, both deep and playful, had something hypnotic about them. Her hair, shining in the light, seemed almost unreal. Her straight nose, slender neck adorned with a delicate necklace, and... the glimpse of her cleavage exposed by her dress sent a wave of warmth through Ingrid that she quickly pushed away.

“Well, Ingrid, don’t just stand there—come sit! I’m not going to bite!” Dorothea said with a mischievous smile, patting the spot beside her. Then, with a tone Ingrid hoped was only teasing, she added, “…unless you ask me to.”

Ingrid let out a nervous little laugh before sitting down beside her. She silently scolded herself. This isn’t me. I’m not that kind of girl. She had always been composed, reserved, never one to be overtaken by desire. That was more Sylvain’s territory…

Even when she was engaged to Glenn, she had never felt such a rush. The kiss they had shared was sweet, but bland. No fireworks, none of that lemon-tinged thrill that books promised. Granted, she’d been a child back then—but still. She only remembered feeling disappointed. And then there had been Sylvain. She’d accepted a kiss from him once. A mistake she tried hard to forget. The disgust she felt when the moment lingered a bit too long… maybe that had been the real sign. She’d told herself it was just discomfort, but thinking back… was it only that? Her heart had never raced the way those princesses’ did in the stories she secretly devoured.

"Thank you for coming to keep me company, Ingrid. That’s very sweet of you," Dorothea said then, pulling her back from her thoughts.

Ingrid blinked, unsettled by the softness in that voice, and replied sincerely:

"The pleasure is all mine, Dorothea."

"But that's truly amazing!" Dorothea suddenly exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Ingrid flinched slightly, startled by the sudden burst of her voice.

"Huh? What's amazing?"

"The aura you give off, of course, Ingrid!" Dorothea replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I swear, you really remind me of a knight. It's so clear every time you speak."

Ingrid immediately looked down, her cheeks tinged with pink. She stared at her boots as though every seam had become incredibly interesting.

"You're exaggerating, don't you think?"

"Not at all!" Dorothea shot back with a sly smile. "I'm used to telling stories, you know, and you have all the qualities of the loyal, noble knight—the kind that watches over his lady with unwavering devotion. I thought it the first time we met, but now that we're alone, your aura stands out even more."

Ingrid felt a lump rise in her throat. She tried to keep her composure.

"I... I don’t see what I’ve done that’s so special to make you say that."

Dorothea tilted her head slightly, leaning back just a bit to look at her better. She rested her chin between her thumb and forefinger, her eyes sparkling with analysis.

"Well... I’m not quite sure how to explain it. It’s a feeling, you know? You radiate calm, strength, and a sense of duty... So tell me, Ingrid. Do you intend to become a knight? A real one?"

The words hit Ingrid like a jolt. She lifted her head, stunned. How could she know so easily?

"I would like to, yes… but—"

She didn’t get to finish. Dorothea had suddenly leaned in close, her face just inches away, eyes wide with wonder. Ingrid felt a familiar warmth rising inside her, and her cheeks lit up again.

"Wow, that’s fantastic!" Dorothea beamed. "I’m sure you’re incredibly skilled! I can’t wait to see you in action. You must be impressive when you fight! How long have you been training? Is it a childhood dream? Because if it is, that makes it even more beautiful! You know, that kind of passion makes you even more charismatic, Ingrid. You’ll surely be the most knightly of knights! Oh, maybe someday you’ll even save me—like a princess in a fairy tale?"

Ingrid stared at her, frozen. Everything had happened so fast. It felt like she’d been hit by a storm of compliments with no way to dodge them. She’s totally flirting with you, Sylvain’s mocking voice echoed in her mind. And what if... what if he was right?

No. That was impossible. Dorothea was a woman. And so was she. Yes, that was it. None of this was serious. Dorothea was just… flamboyant. That’s all. Nothing more.

And yet, her heart was beating faster than it should’ve.

She took a breath, then spoke, her voice calm and sincere:

"I will not become a knight, Dorothea."

Dorothea stared at her, stunned, her expression shifting from surprise to confusion.

"But why?" she asked after a brief silence. "I thought that…"

Ingrid took a breath, her gaze hardening slightly, almost as if she were reciting a truth she had forced herself to accept.

"Becoming a knight is an honor, a dream that still lives inside the child I once was, it’s true. But I’m destined for something greater… or at least, more important. I’m the sole heir to House Galatea, bearer of the Crest of Daphnel. That makes me a key piece in securing my family’s future."

"What do you mean by that?"

Ingrid hesitated. She wasn’t used to opening up, especially to someone she barely knew. But there was something in Dorothea’s gaze—a softness, a sincere attentiveness—that urged her to go on. After all, it wasn’t exactly a secret.

"Our lands are growing barren… hard to cultivate. House Galatea is growing poorer by the year, and resources are scarce. Our finances are at their lowest."

Dorothea blinked, surprised, then murmured to herself, almost dreamily: "I didn’t know nobles could… have money problems…"

Then she looked back at Ingrid. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

Ingrid kept her eyes downcast, but her voice remained steady.

"What we need is support… a wealthy ally, a patron. And the surest way to gain one is for me to marry into a house wealthy enough to turn things around."

Dorothea’s eyes widened.

"What? But that’s insane, Ingrid! You should marry for love, not just to save your house!"

Ingrid finally looked back at her. Her eyes were calm, but filled with deep resignation.

"Don’t pity me, please. No one is forcing me. This is a decision I’ve made with full awareness. I’m doing it by choice, not by obligation."

Dorothea let out a soft sigh, then grabbed her cap with one hand and ran the other through her hair before murmuring, almost resigned:

"I don’t like what you’re telling me, but I suppose I’m not really in a position to judge you."

Ingrid frowned, curious.
"Why not?"

Dorothea adjusted her cap casually, a faint bitter smile tugging at her lips.

"Well, as you may know, I’m not exactly from a noble lineage… I’ve got no title, no influential family. I’ve managed to save a little money, enough to live for a while, but not enough to guarantee a stable future. So I’m looking for someone to marry—someone who’d stay by my side and help me live a comfortable life… away from hardship."

Ingrid watched her in silence for a few moments. She could tell Dorothea wasn’t telling the whole story… but she herself had only shared a chosen slice of her own. So she simply nodded softly, not pressing the issue.

"And so," Dorothea continued with a light-hearted sigh but a dimmer look in her eyes, "I end up sleeping around, here and there, never finding someone who actually wants to stay."

Ingrid suddenly turned her head toward her, cheeks flushed red.

Dorothea burst into a soft, crystalline laugh at the reaction.
"Oh come now, Ingrid, don’t look at me like you’ve just seen the goddess herself! Though… if you do see me that way, I’m flattered."

Ingrid stammered, clearly flustered:
"You… you mean you… sleep with multiple people?"

"Well, yes." Dorothea raised a hand to her lips, hiding another gentle giggle. "You have to enjoy life, don’t you think? Being here, surrounded by so many beautiful faces… it’d be almost criminal to sit back when so many men—and women—are eager to share a pleasant moment."

The word "women" hit Ingrid like a blast of cold wind. She flinched slightly, almost bolting to her feet.

"W-Women?"

Dorothea nodded, still smiling calmly.
"Yes, of course. It’s rarer, but when it happens… I don’t hold back. The women here are so lovely and—"

"I—I have to go!"

Ingrid cut her off abruptly, her voice tense, cheeks burning red. She was already turning away.

Dorothea stood up as well, surprised.
"What? Already? But we just sat down…"

"Yes, but... I have, well... a training session with Félix. I completely forgot, sorry!"

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, looking a bit surprised, but eventually smiled gently. She crossed her arms and shrugged.

"No worries, Ingrid. It's already kind of you to take the time to come."

"And thanks to you for inviting me... goodbye, Dorothea."

Ingrid waved hurriedly before turning on her heels and walking away quickly. Of course, she didn’t have any training scheduled. Quite the opposite, she had arranged to have the entire afternoon free. But right then, she simply couldn’t stay another second.

Her heart was pounding. She could feel her throat tightening, her breath coming in short gasps, as if she had just fled from danger. Dorothea... Dorothea had said that. She had said... that. That she was also attracted to women. And that she slept with them. Or at least, she had before. And she spoke about it with such lightness, such indecency...

How can someone say that out loud?! How can someone... be like that... and say it so easily? Isn’t it usually the women of ill-repute who talk like that?

Ingrid pressed two fingers to her temples, trying to calm the storm that was consuming her. This isn’t normal. This isn’t right. No, it wasn’t. She had been raised with clear values, maybe rigid ones, but just. Women loved men. Knights protected princesses. The rest... was deviant.

And yet.

And yet she couldn’t help but look at her, Dorothea. To notice her voice, her grace, her lips, her curves. And now, barely the conversation over, she had the image of that same Dorothea in the arms of others—men, women—that crowded her mind, filling her with a mix of shame, confusion, and something even more unbearable: a form of confused jealousy.

No. No, this is absurd. I’m heterosexual. Straight. I’m here to serve my house, not for... for that. She pressed her hands against her chest, as if she could suffocate her own heart.

And then there was that thought, the one that sent chills down her spine: What if Sylvain was right? What if Dorothea is interested in me?

Ingrid was struck with a surge of panic.

She's a woman. A woman. This makes no sense. It’s not natural. This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

But despite all the revolt rising within her, despite the avalanche of judgments and mental barriers, she couldn’t ignore the shiver that had run through her when she felt Dorothea draw closer. That shiver she had rushed to suppress, to deny.

Ingrid quickened her pace, her face burning with shame. She couldn’t see her anymore. She had to avoid her. Put distance between them. Before her thoughts became even more confused. Before she started doubting what she thought she knew about herself.

Chapter Text

“Well…” Dorothea hesitated for a moment before shaking her head. “No, definitely, Sylvain is more handsome than Ferdinand.”

Hilda, sitting across from her, let out a sigh.

“Yeah, I agree. He’s cute… too bad he’s, well… him.”

Dorothea burst out laughing before continuing with a teasing smile:

“Okay, my turn now. Who would you rather marry between Lorenz and Hubert?”

“Ugh, neither of them!”

“You have to choose! That’s the game. I made a choice, didn’t I?”

“I just asked who you thought was more handsome, not who you’d spend the rest of your life with! And honestly, I was way nicer picking between Sylvain and Ferdinand.”

“That’s not the point! And no, choosing between the plague and the pox wasn’t exactly pleasant either—your turn.”

“But between someone who’s way too in love with himself and someone who’s just plain scary… how am I supposed to pick?”

“You still have to.”

Hilda let out a long sigh and dropped her head onto the table, defeated.

“Fine… Hubert, then. At least he seems more loyal than that other idiot. And I like his haircut better.”

Dorothea laughed. “So you're going with Hubie? Interesting choice! Your turn.”

As Hilda thought about her next question, Marianne passed by in a corner of the room. Hilda spotted her and immediately called out:

“Hey, Marianne! Yoo-hoo! Come over here!”

Dorothea turned and, seeing the young woman, gave her a smile. Marianne didn’t return it, simply lowering her head without a word.

“Give me a minute,” said Hilda as she got up to go talk to her.

Too far away to hear the exchange, Dorothea could still tell Hilda was trying to convince her friend to join them. But judging by Marianne’s closed-off posture, it clearly wasn’t working. After a while, Hilda came back to sit down, letting Marianne leave the room.

“Everything okay?” Dorothea asked, noticing her friend’s annoyed expression.

“Yeah, yeah… It’s just that Marianne gets on my nerves a little sometimes.”

“I might be overstepping, but… maybe she just prefers being alone.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I’ve known Mari for a while now, and you get used to her being kind of… antisocial. She goes at her own pace, and I respect that. What bothers me is her habit of putting herself down for no reason. I really wish she’d gain a bit of confidence, realize that she’s worth something. But the more time passes… the more I feel like that’s never going to happen.”

“Do you know why she’s like that?” Dorothea asked softly.

“Yeah, of course. It’s because of the environment she grew up in.”

Dorothea let out a tired sigh. “The environment she grew up in,” huh… From what she knew, that girl, Marianne, was a noble. So, despite what Hilda said, her childhood couldn’t have been that bad, right? She had never slept outside. She had never felt like her last hour had come from the cold or from hunger. She had never had to do things one regrets for a handful of copper coins. No… Dorothea found it hard to sympathize.

It was then that Dedue, that rather imposing-looking guy, strode across the room with long, purposeful steps.

Hilda, having noticed him, tilted her head, curious: “Uh… why’s he walking like that?”

Then another boy followed, silver-haired, with a quiet but elegant demeanor. Dorothea raised a hand to call out to him:

“Uh… Ashe, right?”

The boy stopped immediately, turned around, and walked over to the two young women with a bright and friendly smile:

“Yes, that’s me—Ashe Duran. And you are?”

“Hilda Valentine Goneril, nice to meet you!” Hilda answered cheerfully.

“And I’m Dorothea Arnault,” said Dorothea.

Ashe gave a slight nod, still smiling. “Well, Hilda, Dorothea, it’s a pleasure to meet you. You called me—can I help with something?”

Dorothea giggled softly. “Oh, Ashe, you’re so helpful, that’s adorable. Yes, we just wanted to know why your big buddy Dedue was marching around like a general on a campaign. Is something going on?”

Ashe nodded, his expression becoming more serious:

“Yes, the envoys just arrived. And from what I understand, it’s the vassals’ duty to welcome them properly. For the rest of us, it’s less urgent, but personally, I still want to greet them… especially Her Majesty.”

Hilda straightened up at once, her eyes wide.

“What?! But… weren’t they supposed to arrive tomorrow?!”

“I’m not really sure, I didn’t receive any letter, since I’m not one of Her Majesty’s vassals… but I managed to take a peek at Dedue’s, and it clearly said today’s date.”

“Ugh! Damn it! I already missed Claude’s departure—if I’m not there for his return, my father’s going to chew me out!” Hilda turned to Dorothea, panic in her voice. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve got to run—we’ll continue our game another time!”

And without waiting for a reply, she hurried out of the room.

Dorothea waved a quick goodbye. Ashe also gave a polite bow.

“I’ll be going too. Until next time, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea responded with a warm smile, and then he too disappeared down the corridor, leaving her alone at the table.

She sighed.

“Everyone seems so eager to leave me lately…”

She was, of course, thinking about what had happened two days ago, when Ingrid had suddenly left, using a training session with Felix as an excuse. But Dorothea wasn’t a fool. That same evening, Caspar had told her he’d been training with Felix all afternoon… and he hadn’t mentioned Ingrid at all.

So of course, she had no proof. She didn’t know exactly why Ingrid had left in such a hurry. But the most likely explanation was that it had something to do with what she, Dorothea, had said right before that sudden departure.

Hard to say what had shocked her more: the fact that Dorothea slept with several people without any real attachment… or the fact that some of those people were women. Maybe both.

Dorothea let her head fall onto her folded arms with a soft sigh.

She really liked Ingrid. Genuinely. And she had the impression those feelings were somewhat mutual. Sure, they hadn’t known each other for long, but there was no denying the chemistry that had sparked between them almost instantly.

And even if Dorothea didn’t know Ingrid deeply, she did have the strong impression that the girl was… well… a little uptight? Not in a mean way. Not unkind at all. Just… a bit rigid. A little boxed in by certain ideas.

Which was kind of ironic, really. Because if Ingrid seemed closed off to the idea of same-sex attraction… only a blind person wouldn’t have noticed the way she stared at Dorothea. Or rather—her chest.

Dorothea didn’t mind, not in the slightest. Being desired was always flattering, and to be honest, the idea of sleeping with Ingrid wasn’t unpleasant at all.

But for that to happen, the blonde would first have to accept who she was—a little more openly.

And even then… it wasn’t guaranteed.

Jumping to conclusions is never a good idea. So even if Ingrid had all the signs of a perfectly repressed lesbian, who was she, Dorothea Arnault, to define someone else’s sexuality for them?

"Hey Dorothea, how’s it going?!"

Dorothea looked up, slightly surprised. Sylvain was standing right in front of her—she hadn’t even heard him approach. Reflexively, she straightened up as well, politely.

"Hello, Sylvain."

"Ah, sorry to interrupt your thoughts… but well, it's not really in my nature to leave a beautiful girl like you all alone, that’s just too sad."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on her lips.

"Now, that’s the kind of line that sexual harassers use. Should I take that as a warning, Sylvain?"

"What?! Not at all! Haha, Dorothea, you're always so sharp… like a rose: we get close, but it pricks us."

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

"Good, it was meant as one!" he said, chuckling lightly, before adding with a touch of mischief: "But tell me, Dorothea, it’s rare that we find ourselves alone like this. I think it’s the first time, actually. Usually, Ingrid’s here too."

"Indeed. I even wonder why we broke that lovely habit…"

Sylvain deliberately ignored the jab in her words and continued:

"That reminds me… lately, she’s been a bit off, don’t you think? Do you know if something’s bothering her?"

"It's not me, her childhood friend, Sylvain."

"I know, but..." He ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable. "The thing is, she’s been like this ever since she saw you."

"Oh yeah? And did she say something about our little meeting?"

Sylvain shook his head, looking a bit hesitant. "No, nothing at all..." He paused for a moment, then continued, as though searching for the right words. "Well, she did say... Well, this might upset you, I probably shouldn't repeat it."

"You've said too much, Sylvain. Or maybe not enough. Anyway, I’m not that sensitive. Tell me."

He seemed to weigh his words for a moment, before dropping the bomb: "Commoners live in a world apart from ours, with values I don't share..." He paused, as if he felt he was saying something too personal, but he didn’t stop there. "And then, she went to her room, and since then, she’s seemed constantly lost in her thoughts. She seems to be in conflict with herself, like all of this has disturbed her in a way she doesn’t even understand."

Dorothea shivered as she heard this. So Ingrid was exactly like those disconnected nobles, thinking they were above the others just because they were born into a gilded world? Why had she thought Ingrid might be different? Why this naivety on her part?

She looked at Sylvain. He seemed genuinely concerned about Ingrid, an earnestness that, unexpectedly, touched her. She decided to talk to him; anyway, it no longer mattered much now.

"I told her that I have one-night stands with men, just like with women."

Sylvain suddenly seemed more at ease, and this surprised Dorothea. She had expected judgment, a negative reaction, but he seemed more relieved than shocked.

"Ah, well, that explains everything… You didn’t do anything wrong, Dorothea, don’t worry about it. No, this is just Ingrid and her issues."

Dorothea blinked, unsettled. She never would have imagined Sylvain would react this way. Then, realizing that he might be much more sincere than she had thought, he continued his explanation.

"Ingrid... She’s a bit lost in all of this. That’s her problem. She wants to control everything, to master everything. Like the knights she admires so much, she wants to be flawless, perfect in every way, to the point of forgetting to live for herself. And I’m not even talking about her family, the pressure they put on her shoulders. It’s like she’s been shaped to behave impeccably, without deviation, without flaws." He looked at her intently, trying to see if Dorothea was following his reasoning. "She doesn’t want to give herself freedom, or pleasure. Not really, anyway. She’s stuck in her idea of perfection, but it’s destroying her from the inside, without her realizing it. And it makes her, I don’t know, unbearable sometimes."

Dorothea stayed silent, absorbed by his words. It was as if Sylvain had opened a door she hadn’t even noticed. She knew Ingrid had enormous pressure, but she hadn’t seen how far it pushed her.

Sylvain continued, his tone calmer, almost a bit thoughtful: "And then, you… You, who are completely different, who live your life without worrying about fitting into boxes, without fearing judgment, at least that’s the impression you give, that unsettles her even more. She looks at you, and she sees you as a puzzle. She wants to be like you, but she doesn’t dare take the step. She’s afraid. Afraid of not measuring up, afraid of losing control, afraid of not meeting her own expectations. And when she sees you, she thinks: ‘Why her, and not me? Why can’t I live like that, too?’"

Dorothea felt her heart tighten.

Sylvain concluded with a lighter tone, but still sincere: "Basically, Ingrid is locking herself in her own golden cage, without even realizing she built the bars. It’s sad, really. But… it’s Ingrid, after all."

Dorothea fixed Sylvain, surprised by his perceptiveness. She had always seen him as a rather lighthearted guy, whose intelligence was not his strongest suit. But now, he had left her speechless.

"So, what do you think I should do?" she asked, a bit perplexed.

Sylvain leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if he had the answer ready. "To get her to stop her nervous breakdown?" He shrugged casually. "Better to let her digest the news. If she really likes you, she’ll eventually come back to you on her own, at her own pace."

Dorothea looked at him, somewhat skeptical. "And what if she doesn't?"

A mischievous smile spread across Sylvain’s lips. "Then I’ll force her. There’s no way I’m letting our dear Ingrid ruin her life like this."

Dorothea burst into laughter, amused by Sylvain’s conviction. "Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?"

"Trust me, I’ve always had a good instinct when it comes to other people's futures," he replied, a little arrogant but with an undoubtedly sincere tone. He then stood up, stretching, a smirk playing on his lips. "Anyway, enough of this, I need to go greet my dear Dimitri. You should do the same with the princess. Something tells me she’ll have some things to tell you about her trip."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, curious. "How do you know that?"

Sylvain looked at her, a glint of mischief in his eyes, almost as if he were back in his role as a master manipulator. "Instinct, my dear, instinct. That's the only thing that works properly with me." He stretched one last time before leaving the room, walking away with his usual nonchalant stride, leaving Dorothea deep in thought.

As he walked away, Dorothea slowly stood up from her chair, a faint smile still lingering on her lips. She hurried after the redhead, but as she made her way toward the door, Sylvain's words echoed in her mind.

"You're completely different, living your life without worrying about fitting into boxes, without fearing judgment."

So that's what people thought of her...

She took a silent breath, remembering how she had always manipulated her image, playing a perfect role in the eyes of others. Sylvain was right: she appeared confident, but deep down, she felt just as pathetic as the others she judged. It was easy to put on the image of a self-assured woman, but in reality, every gesture, every word, was a performance. A well-rehearsed game. A seasoned actress. But in her mind, doubt was ever-present. Who was she really, outside of the role she played?

Suddenly, she shivered, an odd sensation washing over her, like a cold shadow enveloping her. She swallowed hard, a heavy feeling of unease settling in, a feeling that had almost become familiar... She stopped for a moment, closing her eyes to catch her breath.

Sylvain noticed her slowing down and turned toward her. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern briefly flashing across his face.

Dorothea straightened up, a smooth and controlled smile forming on her lips. "Yes, of course, everything's fine." She let out a small laugh, the one she knew was her best asset for hiding her weaknesses. She turned away, smoothing her clothes to erase any trace of doubt. "Let’s go, it would be rude to keep our respective delegates waiting."

And with a quick gesture, she resumed her walk beside Sylvain, but deep inside, one question lingered: Was she losing herself in her own character?

Chapter Text

Ingrid strode briskly through the halls of Garreg Mach, an imposing stack of documents pressed tightly in her arms. She had somehow convinced Annette to let her help with some of the administrative paperwork—a small miracle in itself—but now, she needed to drop the files off in the Blue Lions' common room. The problem was, she'd also promised Dimitri she'd be at the training grounds by precisely 4 o’clock, and it was already 3:45.

For someone like Ingrid, being on time wasn’t enough—she always aimed to be early. At least twenty minutes early. Especially when it came to training with Dimitri. One did not keep the Prince of Faerghus waiting, not if one wished to be worthy of his trust.

So focused on her race against time, she didn’t see the figure standing in the hallway's threshold. She collided with her head-on.

The papers flew into the air with a sharp rustle, falling in a chaotic rain over the stone floor.

Ingrid froze, stunned by her own clumsiness. As she straightened, her eyes met those of a young woman she’d never seen at the monastery before. Her attire was unfamiliar, and her expressionless face stood in stark contrast to the surprise one might expect from such a sudden collision.

Before Ingrid could stammer an apology, the stranger bent down to gather the scattered pages. Moving with an odd but calm reflex, she worked with silent, almost mechanical efficiency. Ingrid, still rooted in place, watched her with growing unease. When the woman finally handed her the reassembled pile, Ingrid took it carefully.

Snapping back to herself, Ingrid gave a slight bow, her face flushed.

“Thank you so much! And… I’m really sorry for running into you. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you…”

The young woman straightened as well, her expression still unreadable.

“It’s nothing.”

“No, of course it’s not! I might’ve hurt you, or been too rough… I shouldn’t have been running in the halls. It’s against the rules, and if a professor had seen me…”

The stranger stared at her for a moment, then raised a curious brow.

“You’re not allowed to run? Why?”

The question caught Ingrid completely off guard. She blinked, unsettled by the calm yet genuinely inquisitive tone.

“Well…” She hesitated, suddenly aware she had never actually questioned it herself. “It’s… like that everywhere, I guess. A common-sense rule. Probably to prevent accidents like this.”

She laughed nervously, glancing down at the documents now clutched securely in her arms again. The young woman didn’t reply, but the way she kept looking at her—like she was analyzing her—sparked a strange feeling in Ingrid, one she couldn't quite name.

“But running is practical. It lets you get from one place to another faster. It doesn’t make sense that it would be forbidden.”

Ingrid frowned slightly, thrown off. She couldn’t quite grasp where this woman was coming from—or, for that matter, who she even was. From the way she spoke, it sounded like this was her first time in an institution like Garreg Mach.

The stranger, seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts, fell silent for a moment. Ingrid hesitated, torn between asking the questions bubbling up inside her or hurrying off to avoid being late for training. In the end, it was the other woman who broke the silence.

“What house are you in?”

Caught off guard by the sudden and casual tone, Ingrid answered politely:

“Oh, right, I haven’t introduced myself. Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Blue Lions.”

“That blond guy’s your leader, right?”

The phrasing made Ingrid flinch. “Blond guy”? To refer to the Crown Prince of Faerghus? Still, she nodded, though inwardly a little shocked by the lack of formality. The young woman then replied, her tone calm and matter-of-fact:

“In that case, I won’t be with you.”

Ingrid blinked, puzzled.

“Oh… are you a new student?”

But the woman shook her head slowly.

“No. I’m not.”

Ingrid’s confusion deepened.

“You’re… not?”

“No. I’m a professor. Or at least, that’s what Rhea asked me to be.”

Ingrid stared at her, speechless. This woman—who seemed unaware of even the most basic rules of monastery life—was supposed to be a teacher? Appointed directly by the Archbishop herself? It was hard to believe. And yet, as she looked at her more closely, it wasn’t entirely absurd.

She had the build of a fighter: long, powerful legs shown off by tight black tights, a flat stomach with clearly defined abs, and… a generous chest.

Ingrid swallowed hard.

Damn it. She needed to stop. Once again, she’d caught herself ogling another woman. It was becoming a bad habit. Sometimes, she felt like giving herself the same treatment she reserved for Sylvain when he got too handsy with his “conquests”—a solid punch to knock some sense back into herself.

Trying to pull herself together, she looked away and asked quickly, hoping to refocus:

“And… what’s your name?”

The stranger looked up, her gaze steady and calm.

“Byleth.”

Ingrid nodded with a tight smile.

“Well, nice to meet you, Professor Byleth. And… I hope we’ll meet again.”

She set off again at a brisk pace, silently praying that her flushed cheeks wouldn’t betray her thoughts.

Ingrid, still flushed with embarrassment after her encounter with Byleth, resumed running, pushing herself faster, her mind focused solely on not being late. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, trying to avoid tripping, but in her hurry, she didn’t notice the figure that had appeared in the corridor. She collided with them once again, and this time, unlike with the professor, the person she bumped into seemed less agile. In an instinctive reflex, the young woman grabbed Ingrid, pulling her down with her.

Ingrid, reacting immediately thanks to her training, managed to catch herself, ensuring she didn’t crush the other person in the fall. She froze, suspended a few centimeters above the woman’s body, her hands planted on the floor beside her.

She opened her eyes, ready to apologize, but her gaze froze. There, beneath her, was Dorothea. Her mahogany hair was scattered around her, and her green eyes were wide with surprise.

Ingrid, her heart pounding, found herself frozen, her arms and legs stretched out to avoid fully lying on top of Dorothea. Silence settled between them, heavy and disorienting. Ingrid, unable to look away, studied Dorothea’s face. Her delicate features were illuminated by the soft light from the corridor. Ingrid observed every detail: the small strands of hair falling around her face, the gleam in her green eyes, and the faint pinkish hue on her cheeks, as if she, too, were caught in the oddness of the situation.

But it was the way Dorothea held onto her that troubled Ingrid. The younger woman’s hands were gripping Ingrid’s arms, pressed against them, as though she were trying to maintain her balance. Ingrid felt her heart race even more. The proximity was unbearable, yet at the same time, she was inexplicably captivated.

Embarrassed, Ingrid turned her gaze slightly but couldn’t bring herself to look away from Dorothea. They were so close, barely a few centimeters apart, and Ingrid was acutely aware of the soft breath coming from the young woman just beneath her, of the warmth radiating from her.

The moment seemed suspended in time. Dorothea, equally frozen, appeared just as unsettled by the situation. Her hands, still clutching Ingrid, held her there between them in a position that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

A heartbeat, then two, three, four, echoed in Ingrid’s chest. She forced herself to breathe slowly, but everything seemed to slip away from her grasp.

Dorothea finally broke the silence, releasing Ingrid and flashing a playful smile.

"Well, Ingrid... I thought you were avoiding me, but it seems I was wrong."

Ingrid, flustered, stammered, "Huh? What?"

Dorothea burst out laughing, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"I didn’t know you were so forward, throwing yourself at me like that in a public place... I’m impressed."

Ingrid, completely confused, tried to explain, stammering, "But that’s not what happened! It was an accident!"

Dorothea laughed even harder, and just then, a familiar voice rang out behind Ingrid.

"So, we’re not allowed to run in the hallways, but this... this is okay?"

Ingrid whipped her head around and immediately turned crimson when she realized she was in a particularly awkward position.

"Huh?! No, Professor, it’s not what you think!"

She hastily tried to stand up but lost her balance for a moment, still sitting on Dorothea’s hips. The latter, ever composed, straightened up as well, now face-to-face with Ingrid. A mischievous smile lingered on her lips as she casually placed a hand on her hip.

"Well, Professor, do we really look like we’re doing something immoral?"

Ingrid, now completely red, hurriedly stood up and turned to face Byleth, her hands nearly trembling.

"I swear it was an accident! Oh, please, don’t tell my father!"

Her heart raced as she desperately tried to cling to some semblance of dignity, hoping the situation wouldn’t spiral into a true embarrassment for her.

"Why would I do that?" Byleth replied, her calm and measured tone contrasting sharply with Ingrid's obvious agitation.

Ingrid didn’t have time to think about this response, her cheeks still as red as ever, and she remained silent, completely caught off guard by the uncomfortable situation. Dorothea, however, stood up with perfect ease, positioning herself right next to the professor, gently grabbing her arm. She turned to Ingrid with a sideways smile that spoke volumes.

"Come on, Ingrid, the professor isn't like that. On the contrary, she knows that young people need to spend intimate time together, right, Professor?" Dorothea said, her tone as light as it was playful.

"But that’s not what we were doing!" Ingrid protested, feeling more uncomfortable than ever.

"Do whatever you want, it’s not my business," Byleth responded in an almost detached voice, as if the situation didn’t bother her at all.

Ingrid, even more disoriented by the professor's relaxed attitude, turned toward Dorothea, who seemed perfectly at ease in this situation. Dorothea, a little too comfortable, decided to push the conversation further, and the question she asked made Ingrid’s heart race just a little faster.

"And you, Professor, is there someone who’s won your heart?"

Byleth slowly turned her head toward her, her gaze piercing and calm.

"No, I’m not interested in that."

Dorothea, as if she hadn’t heard the coldness in the response, leaned in slightly, her smile growing more flirtatious, almost mischievous.

"Oh, does that mean the spot is still open for me?" she said in a playful voice.

Ingrid, watching the scene unfold, felt an odd pang in her chest, her heartbeat quickening under the weight of discomfort and confusion. She frowned, a sensation she couldn’t quite place stirring within her—a kind of jealousy she’d never experienced before, slowly but surely taking root.

Byleth turned her head toward Dorothea, her expression unchanged.

"I don’t think you’d be happy with me, Dorothea."

Dorothea seemed slightly surprised by this response, her eyebrows raising. Before she could say anything, Byleth began to walk away, gently freeing herself from Dorothea’s grasp.

"I have to go. Ingrid, Dorothea, see you another time." And with no further words, she left, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving the two young women alone in this strange moment.

Dorothea finally turned to Ingrid, a playful smile on her lips.

"Well, she’s still a bit strange, that professor."

Ingrid, no longer sure where to look, turned her gaze away and replied in an almost detached tone:

"I have to go, Dorothea."

She started walking away without another word, her mind still tangled in the strange conversation, part of her wondering why she had reacted the way she had.

Dorothea watched Ingrid walk down the hallway, her steps quick but hesitant. A teasing smile formed on her lips, and she set off after her, quickly catching up to the young woman who seemed just as unsettled as before.

"Well, Ingrid, looks like you're really eager to escape..." Dorothea said, walking beside her.

Ingrid turned her head, surprised, but didn't slow her pace.

"I'm just running late," she replied briefly, her eyes fixed ahead.

However, Dorothea wasn't discouraged by the cold response. She continued with her teasing.

"But it's been a while since we’ve seen each other, right? Are you avoiding me?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with mischievous curiosity.

Ingrid shook her head slightly, a bashful expression crossing her face.

"No, that's not it... I... I’ve been busy," she answered, not sounding very convincing.

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, not letting the topic go.

"Really? Since when have you been so busy? You seemed to have all the time in the world before... Or maybe you’ve just been focusing too much on your training and mission?" Dorothea pressed, her perceptiveness as sharp as ever.

Ingrid felt warmth rise in her cheeks and discreetly bit her lower lip.

"I have my priorities, Dorothea. That’s all," she replied, her tone trying to sound more firm.

Dorothea continued walking alongside her, the smile still on her lips.

"You seem a little nervous, Ingrid. I wonder why... You’re not usually one to shy away from a conversation," she observed, amusement evident in her voice.

Ingrid bit her tongue before replying, clearly uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going.

"It’s just that... there’s a lot to handle right now," she tried to explain, hoping it would be enough to close the discussion.

But Dorothea didn’t seem ready to let it go.

"And you’re telling me this now? You think you can handle everything on your own, huh? I didn’t know you were so secretive," Dorothea said in a teasing tone, casting Ingrid a knowing look.

Ingrid stopped for a moment, glancing briefly at Dorothea, before continuing her walk, her gaze averted. She knew very well that Dorothea wouldn’t easily let the matter drop.

"I don’t need help. I’m managing just fine," she replied, her voice a little firmer, but with a hint of doubt in her eyes.

 

Ingrid kept walking without answering immediately, feeling the tension building inside her. Dorothea kept following her, relentlessly pressing with her questions, and it was starting to seriously irritate her. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to stay patient, but her mind was filling with a dull anger.

Dorothea, on the other hand, continued to trot beside her, her smile still present but now a little more nervous, as if she was waiting for a reaction.

"You know, Ingrid, you don't have to keep everything to yourself, you know..." Dorothea began, her tone still as friendly as ever.

Ingrid abruptly stopped, turning finally toward her, her fists clenched with irritation. Her usually calm face was now marked by an anger she hadn’t wanted to express up until now.

"Dorothea, I told you I’m fine, so stop hounding me!" she snapped, her voice suddenly harsher, her gaze piercing.

Dorothea paused, surprised by the intensity of the response. But she wasn’t intimidated. She crossed her arms and furrowed her brow slightly.

"Hound me?! I haven’t done anything wrong, Ingrid! I’m just worried about you!" she replied, her voice a bit sharper.

Ingrid gritted her teeth, her eyes sparkling with palpable frustration.

"You’re too persistent!" she exclaimed, frustrated. "You only care about your own amusement, trying to know everything about me, without even considering how I feel!"

Dorothea blushed slightly, the attack hitting her harder than expected. A sigh passed her lips, then she took a step forward, her gaze hardening.

"And you, Ingrid? Do you think you're the only one with problems? Maybe you’re too busy trying to be perfect to see that there are people around you who might also need to... understand who you really are!" she retorted, her voice rising in intensity, her eyes shining with a mixture of frustration and disappointment.

Ingrid felt struck by the remark. She turned her eyes away, not sure how to react. But the anger inside her kept growing.

"You’re nobody to lecture me, Dorothea!" she spat, raising her hands in irritation.

Shocked by her words, Dorothea responded sharply, "Why? Because I’m not of noble blood? Maybe, yeah, I’m of low birth, but at least I own who I am!"

"Your commoner title has nothing to do with this! You really need to stop bringing everything back to that! You don’t want to be reduced to your birth, huh? Yet you do it perfectly well on your own!" Ingrid shot back.

Dorothea, now clearly offended, stepped closer to Ingrid, but her words were even more fiery than before.

"If you were a little less defensive, you’d see that I was just trying to be there for you!" she replied, her tone a little louder. "But of course, it always has to be you who carries everything on your shoulders, huh? You have to be the one making sacrifices to be the nice little perfect girl in the eyes of everyone else!"

Ingrid, her eyes shining with frustration, sighed deeply, her hands clenching even tighter.

"I’m tired of all this. You’re exhausting me!" she yelled, turning abruptly. She could feel the anger bubbling in her chest, her face flushed with a mixture of shame and rage. "I have a training session I can’t miss, so leave me alone!"

Dorothea stood there, arms crossed, an expression marked by surprise and anger, but she didn’t reply immediately. Ingrid walked away without looking back, her steps fast and determined. Every movement was a way for her to escape this conversation that made her too uncomfortable, while also feeding the anger that had consumed her.

Dorothea stayed there, alone in the hallway, her heart pounding a little faster, Ingrid’s words echoing in her head. She no longer knew what to think. The confrontation had left her confused and, in a way, hurt. She knew she didn’t deserve it, but a part of her felt maybe responsible, in one way or another.

She sighed, shaking her head to clear her thoughts, before turning and walking in the opposite direction, the feeling of having lost something important, without truly knowing what.

Chapter Text

Two weeks later

Dorothea felt unwell.

It had been a long time since she’d had blood on her hands — real blood, the kind that belonged to strangers, men she had never seen before and would never see again. The warm, sticky sensation still clinging to her skin dragged her back to memories she would have rather left buried. There was nothing glorious or heroic in that viscous substance. Only an old, familiar nausea.

The Black Eagles had taken part in their first skirmish earlier that day. A mission ordered by Rhea: eliminate a group of bandits who had been terrorizing the region. Their leader was the same man who had led the attack against the three delegates a few weeks ago — or so Edelgard had revealed, once the battle was over.

Dorothea hadn’t killed that man. Neither had Edelgard. No… it was their new professor. That woman Dorothea couldn’t figure out — couldn’t begin to understand. There was something unsettling about her, a mix of detachment and complete dedication, of calculated coldness and simmering warmth. Incomprehensible. But Dorothea couldn’t deny one thing: she was brilliant. A formidable fighter, a fearsome strategist. And above all, she had done everything she could to keep her students out of harm’s way, never hesitating to take blows in their stead. She had protected them.

"What are you thinking about?" Edelgard asked, breaking the silence in her usual calm tone while buttoning up her pristine white nightshirt.

They were in Edelgard’s room. They had just shared an intimate moment — as they sometimes did. It had become almost a habit. Once their bodies were at rest, Dorothea would stay there a little while longer, still naked under the sheets, staring at the ceiling or at the calm profile of the future empress.

She would eventually slip away quietly. Always quietly. Just late enough to be sure she wouldn’t meet anyone in the halls. It wasn’t out of shame, nor some unspoken secret. Simply… discretion. Edelgard didn’t like involving Dorothea in political or social entanglements. She preferred to shield her from any potential scandal.

They were friends. Close, very close. But they weren’t in love. They simply shared… a certain loneliness, a certain need. And that was enough for them.

Dorothea slowly turned toward Edelgard, her gaze drifting into the dancing shadows on the ceiling.

"I was thinking about today’s battle."

Edelgard, now dressed in her pajamas, climbed smoothly onto the bed and settled beside her. She leaned back against the wall, legs crossed, her expression calm.

"Ah. And are those pleasant thoughts or… less pleasant ones?" she asked.

Dorothea gave a joyless smile. "More… questioning, I guess."

Edelgard raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"

A brief silence followed. Dorothea took a breath, weighing her words, then let them fall:

"It was the first time I killed someone."

A lie. A calculated one. Not to hide the truth… just to sidestep it.

"So I’ve been wondering about it. I guess that’s a normal reaction, right?"

Edelgard seemed to consider this, then gave a slight shrug.

"Yes, probably."

Dorothea shifted on the pillows, lifting herself slightly to catch the future empress’s gaze.

"And you? Weren’t you ever… disturbed, in the beginning? By the act of taking a life?"

Edelgard remained still for a moment, her eyes fixed on some invisible point. Then she sighed, softly, as if she had had this conversation a hundred times before — but never with Dorothea.

"You think I’m unfeeling, don’t you?"

"I didn’t say that..."

"No, but you think it." She finally turned to face her. "I’m sorry for those men. But they were criminals. Bandits. They made their choice. And I neither have the time nor the luxury to let guilt consume me for those who destroy lives."

Dorothea let out a small, mocking laugh.
“Wow… That really sounded like a future empress speech.”

Edelgard rolled her eyes, but her smile was indulgent.
“Don’t mock me. And… there was something else.”

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
“Oh? What is it?”

Edelgard took a brief breath, as if saying it out loud would make it more real.
“It’s hard to explain, but… the way the professor takes command on the battlefield, telling me exactly what to do, when to do it…”
She paused, eyes drifting into the distance.
“It was a relief. Like… someone lifted a weight off my shoulders, just for a moment. Not being the one who always has to lead, to decide… it felt good.”

Dorothea watched her in silence for a moment, then leaned over to gather her clothes scattered at the foot of the bed.

“I’m probably not the best person to understand what that feels like,” she said calmly. “I’ve never carried even a tenth of your burden. But there’s one thing I definitely picked up from that little speech.”

Edelgard looked at her, curious.
“What’s that?”

Dorothea flashed her a sly, teasing smile.
“The professor doesn’t leave you indifferent. I totally get it though… she’s devilishly attractive.”

Edelgard let out a long sigh and shook her head.
“Sometimes, you exhaust me, Dorothea.”

“I take that as a compliment!” she replied with a laugh, slipping into a light robe. Then, in a softer tone:
“But seriously… I’m glad she makes you feel a little lighter. Who knows? Maybe one day, she’ll really help you carry that burden.”

Edelgard gave a brief, almost bitter laugh.
“Honestly, I doubt anyone could manage that.”

Dorothea gave her a last smile, then headed toward the door, barefoot, boots in hand.

“Then at least let her try.”

And with that, she disappeared into the hallway, leaving Edelgard alone in the warm dimness of her chamber.

 

A few days later, Dorothea found herself in the stables, a task she truly didn’t enjoy. The morning had been long, and fatigue was beginning to settle in. Her mind wandered, uninterested in the task ahead. She was the one assigned to this chore with Ferdinand, to tend to the horses. But she wasn’t here to enjoy the experience.

Ferdinand, on the other hand, was all smiles and enthusiasm. His bright eyes clearly showed how much he loved being here, surrounded by the animals. He was eagerly offering carrots to the horses. “Horses, Dorothea, they’re really fascinating.” He cleared his throat, as though to add importance to his words. “It’s essential to know how to ride, especially for a noble like me. It’s in our blood, you know?”

Dorothea listened with a distracted ear, careful not to let her annoyance show. She simply nodded every now and then, forcing a smile. It wasn’t that she hated horses per se, but the smell of wet straw and manure, along with the heavier odor of the animals, made her uneasy. And then there was Ferdinand. She couldn’t stand hearing him talk. Every word, every comment, felt like an eternity.

“Horses are noble creatures,” he continued, handing another carrot to one of the horses. “They’re essential to a noble’s education, and even to the efficiency of a knight, you know. Though you’re not of noble birth, it would be good for you to take an interest in them as well.”

Dorothea sighed quietly, crossing her arms as she turned to look at the other students tending to the horses. She couldn’t take it anymore. Ferdinand never stopped harassing her with his speeches about nobility and noble souls. She wasn’t interested.

Her eyes landed on Leonie and Marianne, who were on the other side of the stables, taking care of their horses. Leonie looked as eager as always. She was carefully attending to her horse, checking the gear, and speaking softly to the animal. Marianne, on the other hand, stood a little apart, focused on her own horse, but she seemed a bit distant. Dorothea noticed that although Leonie had tried to strike up a conversation several times, Marianne had politely ignored her. The two of them were very different. Dorothea, curious, silently observed the scene. She wondered what was going on between them.

The Blue Lions, however, had still not arrived. The stables were almost silent, save for the sounds of hooves and the murmurs of animals.

“Dorothea?” Ferdinand broke the silence again, speaking to her with a tone that was perhaps a little too enthusiastic. “You know, one of the horses in my family is a thoroughbred. You absolutely have to see it, it’s amazing. You like horses, don’t you?”

Dorothea exhaled, annoyed but without malice. “Yes, yes… it’s fascinating, really.” She was only half paying attention, her gaze once again lost in the stable.

It was then that she noticed a movement at the entrance. She turned her head in surprise and saw two figures approaching the stables. It was Ashe and Ingrid. Dorothea straightened instinctively, becoming a bit more alert at their arrival.

They were talking together, clearly engaged in a passionate conversation. Dorothea strained her ears, intrigued by their words. They were discussing knights, the importance of honor and discipline in the army, strategies, their ideals. Ingrid, as always, seemed particularly invested in the subject. She spoke energetically, her gestures accompanying her words.

Dorothea continued to observe them, amused by how Ingrid became so passionate about these topics. But suddenly, Ingrid’s gaze shifted, her eyes meeting Dorothea’s. She paused for a fraction of a second, seemingly caught off guard. A moment of silence settled between them, a look that lingered just a bit too long, then Ingrid lowered her eyes, refocusing on her path and continuing towards the horses.

Dorothea, however, couldn’t help but smile softly. It was… strange. She didn’t really know why she had reacted that way. Why Ingrid had reacted that way. But the tension that had built up in that brief moment left her thoughtful. And suddenly, Ferdinand’s words faded into a blur, just like the noise of the stables. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

Ingrid and Ashe finally arrived at the horses, ready to tend to their mounts, but Dorothea’s presence wasn’t far, and she could feel it, like a slight disturbance in the air.

A few minutes passed, marked by the sound of horses' footsteps, the creaking of straw, and Ferdinand's remarks.

Suddenly, he exclaimed:
"Hm… I think this horse has a dietary problem. Its coat is too dull. It should be given specific plants, rich in nutrients."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow without even turning around. Plants? She found it a bit strange, but then again, it was Ferdinand. She refrained from making a remark.

Ferdinand then turned to her:
"Dorothea, would you be so kind as to go ask the Blue Lions? I believe this horse is from the Kingdom of Faerghus. They could confirm. Ask them if they know which plants—"

"Yes, yes, I can do that, it’s fine," Dorothea interrupted him curtly, not letting him finish. She didn’t even wait for his reaction before turning on her heel and walking through the mud of the stables, her heels sinking slightly into the soft earth with each step. She wasn’t running—clearly not a good idea in this outfit—but she quickened her pace, glad to put some distance between herself and Ferdinand.

She finally reached Ingrid and Ashe. Ashe was focused, carefully feeding a horse with gentleness and patience. Ingrid, meanwhile, was using a pitchfork to spread hay with precision.

Dorothea forced a polite smile:
"Hello, you two. How’s it going?"

Ashe, as kind as ever, looked up with a warm smile:
"Oh, hey Dorothea! I'm doing well, and you?"

"I’m fine, thank you," she replied softly, then her gaze shifted to Ingrid.

The knight briefly looked up, not really smiling:
"Hello."

There was tension in her voice. Barely perceptible. Just enough to be unsettling.

Dorothea kept her tone light:
"Sorry to bother you, but Ferdinand thinks one of the horses here is from the kingdom, and he believes it needs a plant-based diet. I was wondering if you could come take a look and confirm?"

Ashe stepped forward a little, observing Dorothea, then the horse in question in the distance.
"Hm... It might be better to check up close. Ingrid, does it bother you?"

Ingrid hesitated for a moment. Her eyes briefly met Dorothea’s. There was still that awkwardness between them, that unresolved tension from their earlier argument. But it was just a simple check on a horse, nothing personal. She sighed softly.
"Alright, I’ll come."

The two young women walked together, side by side, without a word. Ingrid didn’t seem in a hurry to break the silence, and Dorothea thought it wiser not to do so either.

When they reached Ferdinand, he resumed his speech as though nothing had happened:
"Ah, there you are! I think this horse is from Faerghus; its behavior suggests so. It looks a bit off. I’m sure it needs a special blend of plants."

Ingrid calmly approached the horse, observing it, stroking its neck, checking its condition.
"This horse is indeed from Faerghus, yes. But it doesn’t need plants. It just has a sensitive stomach. We just need to avoid giving it hay that’s too dry or too old."

Dorothea crossed her arms, looking falsely surprised:
"Ah? So you were wrong, Ferdinand. You see, I thought those plant stories were a bit strange too…"

Ferdinand, upset, straightened up with a slightly outraged expression:
"I’ve been doing everything here, I’m allowed a small mistake."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow:
"And I’d like to do something, but you don’t let me touch anything. You spend all your time talking about your horses."

"It’s normal, of course. I’m a noble, and I was educated for this. You, as a commoner, should instead listen and learn," Ferdinand retorted.

Dorothea opened her mouth, ready to respond sharply:
"I do know how to groom a horse, thank you—"

But Ingrid interrupted her with a firm tone:
"Ferdinand. What you’re saying doesn’t matter. Noble or commoner, it doesn’t change anything when it comes to caring for a horse. Maybe you had lessons for that, but you don’t get to judge her just because she didn’t have the same opportunities."

Ferdinand snapped back, defensive:
"I’m not judging her. I’m just saying she should listen to me more."

Ingrid crossed her arms, her gaze sharp:
"If she should listen to you, then stop complaining that she’s doing nothing. You talk to her nonstop, infantilize her, and then wonder why she doesn’t want to participate? That’s absurd."

A brief silence fell over the group.

Dorothea stood there, slightly frozen. Not so much because of Ferdinand, but more because of Ingrid. She hadn’t expected her to defend her. And certainly not with such passion.

She looked at her, almost speechless.

Ingrid, on the other hand, continued to gaze at Ferdinand, standing tall, dignified. The silence lingered. The kind of silence that leaves behind a trace of surprise.

Ferdinand, initially frozen, seemed to be thinking it over. Then, to everyone's surprise — and especially his own — he sighed:
"…You’re probably right, Ingrid."

He turned toward Dorothea, his lips slightly pressed together.
"And… I apologize, Dorothea. That wasn’t fair of me."

He gave a slight bow, a more measured gesture than usual, but sincere. It was a rare move, almost precious, coming from a noble like him. Even rarer toward a commoner.

Dorothea looked at him without blinking, almost surprised herself. She didn’t say anything, merely nodded gently, accepting the apology without fanfare.

Already, Ingrid had started to move again, ready to return to Ashe, but as she turned to leave, she felt a light hand on her shoulder. She stopped and turned around.

Dorothea, still there, offered her a sincere smile, a little softer than usual.
"Thank you," she murmured simply.

Ingrid seemed to hesitate for a moment, her eyes meeting Dorothea's. Then, she returned her smile, subtle, almost shy.
"It’s nothing."

And without another word, she resumed her walk, joining Ashe at the end of the stables, leaving Dorothea alone amidst the straw, the leather, and a silence much more peaceful than before.

As Ingrid walked away with her calm stride, Dorothea remained frozen for a few seconds. Then, unable to contain herself any longer, she suddenly raised her fist in the air, her face beaming with a radiant smile, and shouted with overflowing joy:
"Yes!"

Ferdinand, busy brushing a horse, jumped slightly before turning toward her with a deeply confused look.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

Dorothea turned toward him, still glowing, and shrugged with a light, almost teasing gesture.
"I’ve been forgiven. No one’s mad at me anymore. They’ve stopped giving me the cold shoulder… and that’s a good thing."

Ferdinand, naively thinking she was referring to him, smiled pompously and nodded.
"Oh… Well, I wasn’t mad at you either, Dorothea. I believe that a well-raised young man should know how to recognize his faults. My apology was, therefore, completely natural."

Dorothea gave him a look, half-bewildered, half-amused, almost pitying that she had to explain:
"I wasn’t talking about you."

She paused, sighed, and gently tapped her freshly manicured finger on her nail.
"And I’ve got other things to do. I’ve got a nail that’s bothering me, it’s an emergency."

Ferdinand opened his mouth as if he were about to protest, maybe suggest she stay and finish the tasks… but no sound came out. He reconsidered. Perhaps it was best to let her go this time.

Dorothea, on the other hand, exited the stable with a light step, almost dancing, her heart lifted. The outside breeze chased away the smell of straw and manure. She was still smiling. Ingrid wasn’t mad at her anymore. That alone was worth all the manicures in the world.

As Dorothea walked joyfully down the corridors, her heels clicking on the stone floor, she jumped when she heard a soft voice calling her:

"Good evening, Dorothea."

She turned around quickly, a little panicked, her hand on her heart. Mercedes was standing there, a gentle smile on her lips, her hands folded in front of her.

"By the goddess, Mercedes, you scared me!" Dorothea exclaimed, breathing out.

Mercedes laughed softly, her melodic voice betraying genuine kindness.

"Oh, I’m sorry… But you know, sometimes fear is actually a rather pleasant feeling."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, still a bit out of breath.

"You mean… being surprised?"

Mercedes slowly nodded, her expression dreamy.

"Yes. I love the chills, ghost stories… the feeling of hearing your heart beat faster. It’s like… feeling more alive."

Dorothea squinted, intrigued.

"You like horror stories, huh."

"Oh yes!" Mercedes confirmed enthusiastically. "Unfortunately, most of my friends don’t like them. Annie screamed the whole time during the last story… Ashe is adorable, but he jumps at every little noise. And I’m not even talking about Lysithea, she nearly held a grudge against me for life."

Dorothea, arms crossed, looked at her with a fake, bored expression.

"Why do you always ask the younger ones, though? Are you trying to traumatize the babies or what?"

Mercedes tilted her head, confused for a second, then laughed softly.

"I don’t do it on purpose! But now that you’re here… maybe you’d like to try it with me? A little nighttime exploration of the monastery. They say some ghosts roam at night… wouldn’t it be great to encounter one?"

Dorothea blinked, a little hesitant. She wasn’t a big fan of ghosts, but something in Mercedes’s sincere enthusiasm made her smile.

"Just the two of us might be… a bit flat, don’t you think? We should ask a few others. It’d be more fun with a group."

Mercedes’s eyes lit up like fireworks.

"Oh, what a wonderful idea! A ghost vigil with more people, it’s perfect! I’ll ask a few other students. You can count on me!"

Dorothea smiled at her with amusement as she resumed walking toward her room.

"I trust you."

Mercedes followed her with a light step, already murmuring a list of names to herself. The ghost hunt had just begun.

Chapter Text

"Thank you all for coming!" Mercedes said cheerfully, her hands clasped in front of her.

Against all odds, she had managed to convince nine people from Garreg Mach to join her little ghost hunt. Even Dorothea was surprised by how much enthusiasm the idea had sparked.

Students from all the houses had shown up: Petra, Claude, Hilda, Ingrid, Caspar, Sylvain… and even Knight Alois had joined the group, delighted to spend some time with the students.

"It’s an honor, Mercedes. To find myself alone at night surrounded by lovely young ladies… it’s one of my dearest dreams come true," declared Sylvain with a charming smile.

"Hey, we’re here too!" Caspar shouted, clearly offended.

Sylvain shrugged. "You guys are just background noise. And let’s be honest, Caspar, you’re not exactly the kind of guy who’s going to jump into my arms at the first creepy sound!"

"No one’s going to jump into your arms, Sylvain!" Ingrid snapped, visibly annoyed.

Dorothea smiled faintly at the sight of Ingrid. She was glad she had come. According to Mercedes, Ingrid had hesitated at first, but after learning that Sylvain would be attending, she had decided to tag along—probably to keep things in check.

"Can we truly hope to encounter ghosts?" asked Petra, her tone curious.

Claude burst out laughing. "As far as I know, no ghosts have been spotted at Garreg Mach recently… but who knows, the night is full of surprises."

"Seteth kind of reminds me of a ghost, personally… the way he just appears behind us sometimes to scold us," Hilda said with a mischievous grin.

Petra frowned, visibly concerned. "Seteth is dead?"

Dorothea burst out laughing. "No, he’s very much alive, don’t worry Petra."

Alois, amused, added, "If he knew what the young folks say behind his back, he’d lose every last hair on his head."

Mercedes clapped her hands joyfully, steering the conversation back. "Ghosts do exist, I’m sure of it! They only reveal themselves to those who know how to approach them… So we must be worthy of their presence."

"Yeah! Then I can beat them up!" Caspar exclaimed with excitement.

"You can’t fight ghosts, Caspar," sighed Hilda.

"Huh? Why not?"

"Because they’re see-through, obviously. Your punches will go right through them."

"Then I’ll find another way to beat them! I’ll suck them up!"

"With what, exactly?" asked Sylvain, raising an eyebrow.

"I don’t know. A vacuum cleaner, if I have to!"

"That’s a ridiculous idea," Hilda muttered.

"As long as it works, I don’t care how stupid it is!" Caspar shot back, arms crossed.

Mercedes spoke again, gently: "In any case, we shouldn’t act hostile toward them. Otherwise, they’ll never come near us."

Claude, arms crossed, suggested, "Maybe we should split up. There’s nine of us—we could do three groups of three."

Petra, intrigued, asked, "If we separate… then we increase our chances of encountering a ghost?"

"Excellent idea, kids!" Alois exclaimed enthusiastically.

"Didn’t catch all of that, but I’m in!" Caspar added with a wide grin.

Dorothea raised her hand innocently. "I suggest we put Caspar and Alois in the same group. They’re the same volume level—might as well group the loud ones together."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow and turned to her. "Why’s that?"

Dorothea turned to Mercedes. "I suppose ghosts don’t really like noise?" Mercedes nodded in confirmation.

Dorothea continued with a slight smile, "So we might as well concentrate all the nuisance factors in one place."

Alois burst into laughter. "Calling us 'nuisance factors,' huh? You don’t mince words, Miss Arnault!" He gave Caspar a hearty slap on the back. "But alright, my boy! Let’s combine our forces and find those spirits!"

"Yeah, Sir Alois!" Caspar replied enthusiastically, raising his fist in the air.

Claude snickered. "Alright, who’s volunteering to join them and give up any chance of actually seeing a ghost?"

"I’ll go with you," Hilda said with a sigh. "I’m not exactly dying to meet a ghost anyway. And at least with you two, I know I’ll get a good laugh."

"Awesome! Hilda’s coming with us!" Caspar shouted, beaming.

"Yeah," Hilda replied with a playful wink.

"I already know who I want to team up with," Sylvain said, puffing out his chest slightly. He turned to Dorothea, flashing a charming smile. "Dorothea, would you accompany me on this perilous quest? Your life will be in danger a thousand times, but fear not! Your loyal knight shall protect you."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "Loyal knight? You mean you?"

"You wish, huh?" Sylvain said with a wink. "But no, of course not! I was talking about Ingrid, right here."

Without warning, he grabbed Ingrid’s arm—she had been quietly chatting with Claude—and pulled her forward, presenting her proudly.

"Tadaaa! Dorothea, here’s your knight in shining armor! The one who’ll save you from all the horrors of the beyond. She might look quiet, but I swear, Ingrid can be a real prince when she wants to."

Dorothea met Ingrid’s gaze. For a brief moment, time seemed to slow. Ingrid flushed instantly, swallowed hard, then quickly pulled away from Sylvain’s grasp.

"Stop embarrassing us all the time, Sylvain," she muttered.

"What embarrassment? What are you talking about, Ingrid?" he replied innocently, turning to Dorothea. "Are you embarrassed, Dorothea?"

Dorothea answered with a polite smile, still arms crossed. "It takes more than that to rattle me, Sylvain."

That was a lie.

From that look they shared… from that ridiculous idea of having Ingrid as her knight, a delicious shiver had run down Dorothea’s spine. Her heart had raced in a way it hadn’t in a very long time.

True to form, Sylvain slipped between the two young women with a wide grin, draping an arm over each of their shoulders.

"So, the three of us make a team?" he offered cheerfully.

Dorothea let out a small, amused laugh.
"You were so persuasive... I can’t possibly say no."

"Ha! I knew using Ingrid to reel you in would work!" Sylvain crowed triumphantly. Then, turning to his childhood friend: "And you, Ingrid? You’re in, right? You wouldn’t leave poor Dorothea… alone… with me?"

Ingrid let out a long sigh, her gaze already weary.
"I came here to keep an eye on you in the first place… I’m not about to stop now."

Mercedes, delighted to see the groups coming together, gave them a beaming smile.
"Perfect! Claude, Petra and I were just teaming up too."

"Yep!" Claude chimed in with enthusiasm. "I’ve got the most motivated partners. That way, I’m sure we’ll see one of those famous ghosts tonight!"

Dorothea, curious, turned to Petra.
"I expected it from Mercedes… But you too, Petra?"

The Brigidian girl nodded seriously.
"I have never seen a ghost. So, I want to. And I will prove myself worthy of their presence."

Dorothea caught Petra’s determined look. She didn’t have the heart to tell her that, most likely, no spirit would show up tonight. Especially not to a group of overly excited and noisy students.

Once the teams were formed and the instructions given, they agreed to meet back in an hour at the first-floor dorms. The plan was simple: nighttime exploration in small groups—and maybe… an encounter with the unseen.

The three groups then split off into the monastery’s dim hallways, each carrying its own hopes, its own energy… and a touch of apprehension.

 

"Can I ask why we’re in the cafeteria, Ingrid?" Sylvain asked, raising an eyebrow, his expression curious.

"Don’t look at me like that! You two asked me to pick a room to explore first! I just went with the first one that came to mind!" Ingrid defended herself, arms crossed.

"We’re not criticizing you," Dorothea said in a calming tone.

"Yeah, I’m just wondering if maybe you brought us here to sneak a little snack," Sylvain teased with a sly grin.

"What do you take me for?!" Ingrid huffed indignantly. "I never eat outside mealtimes!"

"Good habit," Dorothea replied with mock seriousness. "Snacking’s never good for the figure! Actually, you’ll have to tell me your secret someday—how do you never give in to just one little square of chocolate?"

"I think you could allow yourself a square now and then, Dorothea," Sylvain added in a charming tone. "You’re already perfect, so…"

Dorothea shot Sylvain a glare, then turned to Ingrid with a completely different look—a playful, alluring smile tugging at her lips.

"And you, Ingrid, what do you think? Do I need to go on a diet? Or do you like me just the way I am?"

Ingrid, unfazed, replied with perfect sincerity: "Your fat levels seem balanced. But you should strengthen your forearms. It would make your sword strikes more efficient."

Dorothea blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness—and more than a little frustrated. Another flirty attempt, completely wasted. Ingrid was already walking off toward the back of the dining hall, utterly unbothered.

Sylvain leaned in close to Dorothea, lowering his voice. "If you wanna flirt with Ingrid, be more direct. She doesn’t pick up on subtle hints. And it’s not even on purpose."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Is there a reason she’s like that?"

The redhead hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Let’s just say it’s part of her nature. If you really wanna know, you’ll have to wait for her to tell you herself."

Dorothea didn’t reply, lost in thought, while Sylvain had already slipped back into his usual carefree grin.

"Hey! You coming?" Ingrid called from the other end of the room.

"We’re coming!" they replied in unison, resuming their nighttime exploration.

 

The library door creaked open with a slow, chilling groan. The kind that sent shivers down the spine. The oppressive atmosphere inside made Dorothea swallow hard. She had never considered herself the fearful type… but right now, she had to admit—she wasn’t exactly feeling brave.

Then, without warning, the door slammed shut behind them with a deafening bang, sending a cold gust of wind sweeping through the room. Their lantern flickered wildly—then died.

Darkness fell. Absolute. Immediate.

A heavy silence smothered the space around them. Dorothea couldn’t see a thing. Her eyes searched, wide and useless in the blackness. Then a voice broke the stillness:

“What was that?!” Ingrid’s voice trembled, high-pitched and shaken.

From the sound and direction, Dorothea guessed she was to her left.

“Ingrid? Where are you?”

“Dorothea? Is that you? I… I really don’t like this! I can’t see anything!” Her breathing was quick, shallow—panicked.

Dorothea felt her own heart pounding in her chest, but she fought to keep her voice calm. “I can’t see either, but Ingrid, listen to me… you have to calm down.”

“And where’s Sylvain?! Why can’t we hear him anymore?! Someone turn that stupid lamp back on!” Ingrid cried, her voice rising in pitch, nearly frantic.

Dorothea reached out, arms extended, groping her way toward her friend. “Please, Ingrid, just stay still. I’m coming to you—but I need you to stop moving, okay?”

A barely stifled sob trembled in Ingrid’s voice. “I… I hate not being able to see, Dorothea. I hate feeling this helpless… Please… don’t leave me alone…”

Dorothea felt her heart tighten at the sound of Ingrid’s voice. She had never heard the blonde like this—so vulnerable, so afraid. That quiet plea, barely a whisper… “please… don’t leave me alone…”

Something inside her cracked. Softly. Quietly.

She reached forward with more purpose now, moving slowly through the darkness, her fingers slicing through empty air—until they brushed fabric. A sleeve. And finally, a trembling shoulder.

“Ingrid… I’m here.” Her voice came out as a whisper, gentle and steady.

At once, she felt Ingrid throw herself against her. The contact was sudden, almost frantic. Ingrid’s arms wrapped tightly around her, holding on as if letting go would mean losing everything.

Dorothea froze. Just for a second. The shock stunned her.

Then she felt Ingrid’s head rest on her shoulder. The warmth of her breath against her skin.

Without thinking, Dorothea slowly brought her arms around her, returning the embrace.

And in that moment… her heart surged. But it wasn’t fear anymore. It was something else. Softer. Stronger. Wild.

It pounded in her chest, louder than before—like it was trying to break free.

How long has it been… since something made me feel like this? Since something made me tremble, in the best way?

She closed her eyes, sinking into the unexpected closeness, the warmth, the trust implied in that hold.

Ingrid still trembled faintly, but Dorothea gently tightened her arms, resting her cheek atop her friend’s head.

“I’m here… I won’t leave, I promise,” she murmured, her voice carrying a tenderness she hadn’t known she still possessed.

In the silence that followed, only two things mattered: the wild rhythm of her own heart and the unsteady breathing of the girl in her arms.

The rest—the darkness, the ghosts, the expectations—they had all faded.

Only the two of them remained. Huddled together. Fragile.

Alive.

Suddenly, a sharp creak broke the silence, followed by a dull thud. The pale light of the lantern filtered into the room, casting long shadows on the shelves. The door had swung wide open, and a familiar silhouette appeared in the doorway.

"Ah, there you are!" Sylvain's overly cheerful voice rang out. "I struggled like never before to reopen this damned door! There was a draft, and this poor antique slammed shut all on its own! Seriously, it's older than Tomas, and at least he doesn't put up such a fight!"

Dorothea's heart skipped a beat.

As the light returned, reality slowly started to regain its hold. Ingrid lifted her head, her eyes meeting Dorothea's for a brief moment… before she slowly loosened her grip.

And it was as if a warm sensation left her.

Ingrid detached herself from her, looking slightly confused, and then took a step back, adjusting her outfit without saying a word. Dorothea felt the emptiness where Ingrid’s warmth had nestled against her. The emptiness, and a subtle, unexpected chill.

She stayed there, her arms still slightly folded, as if refusing to accept that it was over. Her gaze landed on Ingrid, who was now looking at Sylvain, her expression half-relieved, half-annoyed.

And Dorothea, she didn’t understand anymore.

Her heart was still beating too fast, too loudly.
Why do I feel this…? Why now?

It wasn’t just fear, nor even tenderness. It was something else. Something deep, something from far away. A gentle, unsettling stir, a warmth that wasn’t only due to their physical proximity.

Ingrid had slipped away from her, taking with her more than just her embrace.

Dorothea stood frozen for a moment, silent, trying to make sense of the chaos rising in her chest.
But no song, no charming smile, no witty remark came to her.

Just that beating, still there.

Sylvain stepped further into the room, shaking the lantern to coax the flame back to life a little more, then muttered,
“Honestly… I’m just glad I found you two. I was starting to seriously freak out on my own.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow as she turned to him.
“Since when are you such a scaredy-cat?”

“Since I heard someone talking to themselves out in the hallway, that’s when!” he shot back with a shrug, a visible shiver running through him. “And I swear it wasn’t a voice I know. Like… deep, slow… really weird.”

Still a bit shaken by what had just happened, Dorothea slowly removed her hat, running a hand through her hair to refocus.
“Wait a sec…” she said, frowning. “What exactly are you talking about? A voice where?”

Sylvain gestured vaguely toward the corridor behind him.
“Right outside, just before I came back for you. I was sure it was you talking, Dorothea, but you weren’t even there. And I clearly heard some words… not super clear, but something like ‘you shouldn’t be here,’ or something like that.”

Ingrid took a step back, her wary expression returning.
“Are you messing with us?”

“I wish I was! But I’m not creative enough to come up with something that creepy!”

Dorothea exchanged a glance with Ingrid, her seriousness back in full force.
“There might be someone else wandering the halls… or something.”

Sylvain grimaced.
“Okay, you didn’t have to say it like that…”

“Alright.” Ingrid straightened up, her eyes sharp. “We’re checking it out. If some idiot thinks it’s funny to scare people, we’ll make sure they regret it.”

Dorothea placed her hat back on, now noticeably calmer.
“Fine. But we stick together this time. I’m not up for another emotional rollercoaster.”

Sylvain raised the lantern.
“I’ll lead the way. If something attacks, you’ll have time to run.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes.
“So gallant.”

They left the library, the quiet of the corridor settling around them once again… but none of them dared to speak.
Something was off.
And all three of them knew it.

The corridors were eerily silent at this hour of the night. Their footsteps echoed softly on the stones, and despite Sylvain's lantern, shadows stretched menacingly around them.

Dorothea walked a little closer to Ingrid than she would have admitted. As for Sylvain, he hadn't said a word, which in itself was already somewhat unsettling.

"So..." Dorothea whispered to break the silence, "What exactly did this voice you heard say again?"

"I swear, I heard someone say: 'You shouldn't be here'... or maybe 'Go away'... something like that. And it wasn't a normal voice."

Ingrid furrowed her brows.
"It could just be another group messing around, trying to scare us. Claude could’ve very well pulled off something like this."

"Maybe... but it was too weird. Even for Claude."

As they were about to turn down a corridor leading to the dorms, a figure suddenly appeared before them.

"What are you doing here at this hour?" asked a serious voice.

Ingrid jumped slightly, and Sylvain jumped outright.
"For all the saints of the kingdom, you could warn us when you show up like that, professor!"

It was Byleth. She was staring at them with her arms crossed, looking much more awake than the three of them combined.

Dorothea regained her composure first, placing a hand on her chest to steady her racing heart.
"Professor Byleth! We... we heard a strange noise, a voice... We thought maybe there was a ghost..."

Sylvain gave her a half-amused, half-annoyed look.
"We're not sure it was a ghost. I mean, it sounded like a ghost. Or a very strange person whispering in the hallways, which is still not much better..."

Byleth sighed, looking exhausted.
"You should go back to your rooms."

Ingrid, a little hesitant, tried to explain their late-night wandering.
"We were... ghost hunting in the monastery. It was Mercedes' idea."

The professor looked at them for a long moment without saying anything. Then she slowly shook her head.
"You'd better go to sleep."

Ingrid raised her hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay, you're right."

But Byleth added:
"Take me to see the other groups. I want to make sure everyone is alright."

Dorothea stepped forward, regaining some confidence.
"I can lead you there. They shouldn't be far."

Byleth nodded.

"We're going back," Ingrid said, turning to Sylvain. "I think we've had enough excitement for tonight."

"For once, I agree," Sylvain muttered.

As Dorothea and Byleth moved away, Ingrid gave one last glance to Dorothea. The latter still felt the weight of Ingrid's arms around her, the warmth of that brief but vivid contact. She looked away, her heart a little heavier, a little more confused.

"Well... shall we go?" Byleth asked softly.

Dorothea nodded, holding back a sigh.
"Yes. Follow me, Professor."

And they ventured deeper into the corridor, in search of the other groups.

The monastery corridors were silent, bathed in a pale light from the few lanterns hanging on the walls. Dorothea walked beside Byleth, holding the lantern. After several minutes of silence, she finally broke it, her voice light and slightly teasing:

"So, professor... are you up at this hour too? A late-night romantic adventure, perhaps?"

She tilted her head slightly, a smirk on her lips.

Byleth, impassive, simply replied:
"No. I couldn't sleep. I needed to walk for a bit."

"Oh..." Dorothea said, feigning disappointment. "So no romantic rendezvous, what a shame."

She expected no response, but to her surprise, Byleth answered calmly:
"Technically... I did see someone earlier in the night."

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued.
"Oh? Who?"

But Byleth slightly looked away.
"That's... something I'd rather keep to myself."

Dorothea shrugged, pretending to be dramatically outraged.
"Professor, you know that secrets are terribly frustrating for a romantic like me."

"And yet, you'll have to live with it," Byleth replied, the corners of her lips slightly lifting.

A small silence fell again, the sound of their footsteps echoing softly. Then Dorothea sighed, thinking about their recent ordeal.

"I wonder what it was, that voice Sylvain heard..." she murmured. "He seemed sincere... and a bit shaken."

Byleth glanced ahead, her tone almost amused.
"There's all kinds of things at Garreg Mach. Rumors, forgotten passages... and sometimes, people hear or see things that others don't."

Dorothea glanced at her from the corner of her eye.
"So... you think Sylvain made it all up and he's just crazy?"

She let out a small laugh.
"Well, I wouldn't be too surprised."

But Byleth stopped briefly, her gaze turning more serious.
"Sylvain... or someone else."

Dorothea felt a chill run down her spine. She opened her mouth, ready to ask another question, but hesitated. Byleth's tone didn't invite further pressing.

She resumed walking in silence, her thoughts swirling in her head. There was something in Byleth's words... something she couldn't quite grasp but that deeply intrigued her.

"Maybe it's better if I don't know..." she murmured to herself.

And they continued walking, their silhouettes slipping through the sleeping halls of the monastery, in search of the rest of the group...

Chapter Text

"Again you... You're truly pathetic."

"I can't help it. When I look at her, it's stronger than me..."

"Stop it. You have a duty, a name to uphold. You don't have the luxury of being selfish."

"I haven't even done anything yet..."

"You feel. And that's already too much. Do you think your father would accept this? What would the other nobles say? An heiress attracted to a commoner... and a woman on top of that?! You would be a disgrace."

"I'm sorry..."

"No, really. You're pathetic. Do you remember how long you've been like this? Since forever. You thought it would pass, but no. And now it's Dorothea. She’s influenced you with her smiles, her charming ways. And you're just following along, like an idiot."

"I... I just admire her, that's all..."

"No. You taint her, just as you taint yourself. You're filthy, Ingrid. And you'll always be alone, because no one could ever want someone like you."

Ingrid stood there, motionless, amidst the rustling plants of the greenhouse, her thoughts endlessly spiraling in her mind. She was staring at a particular flower without really seeing it, her mind a thousand miles away.

The door opened softly behind her, letting in a warm breeze and the sweet scent of the outdoors. She turned slightly.

"Hello, Ingrid."

Mercedes entered the greenhouse with her ever-bright smile. Her gentle voice blended perfectly with the green silence of the place.

Ingrid straightened up, as if caught off guard. "Oh, Mercedes... Hello."

Mercedes approached with a calm step, her hands clasped in front of her. "Sorry if I’m disturbing you… that wasn’t my intention."

"You’re not disturbing me," Ingrid said quickly. A brief silence settled before Mercedes broke it, her voice full of warmth.

"How have you been, since our little ghost hunt last week?"

Ingrid hesitated for a second, then answered with a small forced smile, "I’m fine. I’ve recovered from my... emotions. And you?"

Mercedes gently placed her hand on a leaf to feel its texture. "I’m doing well too. Maybe just a little disappointed."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"

Mercedes laughed softly. "Well, I didn’t see a single ghost. After all the preparations I made, I was hoping to at least hear something strange..."

Ingrid looked at her for a moment, then replied almost in spite of herself, "I think we had our fair share of scares anyway."

A brief silence followed, the only sound coming from the rustling of the leaves.

"Yes... that’s true," Mercedes murmured. Then she gently turned her head toward Ingrid. "You seemed really frightened that night."

Ingrid averted her gaze. "It’s nothing. It’s over."

Silence settled again, broken only by the soft drip of water falling from a leaf.

Mercedes broke it gently, without any abruptness, but with that disarming sincerity that was so uniquely hers: "Is something wrong, Ingrid?"

Ingrid froze. She didn’t answer right away, her eyes fixed on a plant she no longer truly saw. Then, in a neutral, almost mechanical voice: "No. Nothing at all. Everything’s fine."

Mercedes didn’t insist. She simply nodded with quiet understanding before adding softly: "Alright. I won’t force you. But... if you ever feel like talking, I’m here, you know that, right?"

Ingrid turned her head slightly toward her, hesitated, then nodded back. "Thank you, Mercedes."

A brief silence followed, lighter this time.

But once again, Mercedes broke the stillness, her voice slightly deeper, more serious: "But… I have something to tell you."

Ingrid stared at her, surprised. "To me?"

She felt a wave of panic rise in her chest, subtle but growing. What is she going to say? Has she noticed something? Does she… know? Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of her skirt. "What… do you want to tell me?"

Mercedes gave her a reassuring smile, gentle but firm.
"Ingrid, you know I’m not here to put you on trial." She paused, then continued in a calmer but determined voice, "It’s just that… I wanted to talk to you about Dedue."

Ingrid, caught off guard at first, felt a slight wave of relief, her body relaxing a little.

Ah, so it wasn’t about… her… about Dorothea.

But that thought lasted only a few seconds, before another feeling took over: surprise.

Why talk about Dedue, and why to her? She frowned slightly, a silent question forming in her mind.

"Dedue?" she repeated, her gaze hardening slightly. "Why do you want to talk about him?"

Mercedes didn’t seem bothered by Ingrid’s reaction and went on gently, as if carefully choosing her words.

"Well… it’s about how you see him. I think… maybe you have some prejudices against him, don’t you?"

Ingrid tensed immediately, a wave of defensiveness running through her, her arms crossing instinctively.
Prejudices? She almost felt offended, and it showed in her voice.

"What?!" she snapped. "I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mercedes."

She turned her head slightly away, as if to avoid meeting Mercedes’s gaze, a faint unease creeping into her.

But Mercedes, gentle and persistent, didn’t back down.

"Ingrid… I know you had your reasons to think that way. But Dedue isn’t what you believe. He has nothing to do with the sins of his people’s past."

Ingrid tensed, her face hardening into a mask of anger as Mercedes continued to speak. She clenched her fists, feeling a wave of frustration rise inside her. She didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to hear what Mercedes was saying. Her heart pounded harder, a dull rage building within her.

"You don’t understand," Ingrid said, her voice trembling with fury. She turned sharply toward Mercedes, her gaze fierce. "The Duscurians killed people I loved!"

The words burst out of her with such intensity that Mercedes froze for a moment.

Ingrid was breathing heavily, trying to contain the storm raging inside her.

Her eyes shone with a mix of pain and anger.

"I can’t just... forgive that." Her voice faltered for a moment, but the flame of rage still burned brightly in her eyes. "You really think I can just act like everything’s normal, just because Dedue isn’t like the others?"

Mercedes remained silent for a moment, watching Ingrid with a soft but steady expression. She knew how delicate this was, but she also sensed something deeper — a hurt that Ingrid didn’t want to acknowledge.

Finally, Mercedes took a deep breath and answered in a calm but determined tone. "Ingrid, I understand that you’re angry, that you’re hurting… but…" She stepped a little closer, her voice full of compassion. "This is war, Ingrid. There were victims on both sides."

Ingrid stared at her with defiant, yet slightly uncertain eyes. She shook her head sharply, as if trying to drive away what she had just heard.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mercedes," she snapped through gritted teeth. "The Duscurians killed my loved ones, they took innocent lives. And you expect me to be… merciful toward them?"

Mercedes didn’t lower her gaze. She knew this conversation would be hard, but she was willing to face it.

"I’m not saying you have to forget, Ingrid," she said softly. "But you have to understand that there were victims on both sides. And people can change. Dedue isn’t responsible for what his people did — and maybe… he deserves a chance to show who he really is."

Ingrid lowered her head, her gaze lost in thought, her fists still clenched. She wasn’t ready to hear this. She didn’t want to admit she might be wrong, that the world wasn’t as simple as she wanted it to be.

"I don’t want to hear this," she said, turning her back on Mercedes, clearly unwilling to discuss it any further.
"The Duscurians caused too much pain… I don’t owe them anything."

Mercedes, silent, watched her walk away.
She knew Ingrid wasn’t ready yet.

But she hoped that, maybe one day, she would understand.

There were no simple answers to wounds this deep — but Mercedes believed that the truth, no matter how painful, would always find a way to be heard.

Ingrid walked briskly through the monastery’s pathways, her heart pounding wildly, a dull anger boiling in her veins.

She rushed away from the greenhouse as fast as she could, trying to flee the thoughts tormenting her — but the farther she went, the more they seemed to catch up to her.

"Why is everyone making me doubt?"

The question hammered her mind like a drum. Every step she took seemed to drive her closer to the edge of frustration, to a rage she couldn't let go of.
Mercedes... Dedue... Dorothea...

The names spun through her mind like ghosts.
She was an heiress, a warrior.
She had principles, deeply rooted values.
She had always believed that was enough.

"So why is everyone trying to make me change? Why does it feel like it’s never enough?"

She clenched her fists, frustration tightening around her throat.

The Duscurians… She could almost see them before her — the faces from her past, the memories of Glenn’s massacre.

The wounds in her heart were far from healed. How could she ever be friends with someone from that people — a people who had taken so much from her?
"No... it’s too much. Dedue might be an exception, maybe he’s different, but I can’t. I can’t forget everything."

She stopped abruptly, her feet striking the ground with a heavy thud.

Her eyes closed for a moment, pulling in a breath like a final hope for calm.

"I’m doing what’s right. I am right!"

Her mind clung desperately to that thought.

"I’m the heir to a noble house. I must uphold what I’ve been taught. Everything I do is for the good of everyone, for justice."

But suddenly, Dorothea’s image intruded on her thoughts. Not the sweet, smiling Dorothea — but the one who made her think, who forced her to question everything she thought she knew about herself.

"Why does she have to do that? Why does she make me feel... like this?"

Ingrid gritted her teeth.

"She’s kind, but she made me doubt. And I hate that!"

Doubt... Doubting herself.

That thought struck deeper than anything else.
Ingrid couldn't accept it.

"She has no right to make me doubt."

The others — they all seemed so different.

Mercedes, calm and insightful, always reminding her to understand others.

"But who understands me?" Ingrid thought bitterly.
"Who cares about what I’ve lost, about how I feel?"

She shook her head as she headed for the dormitories.
It was impossible.

She was Ingrid.

She was righteous.

She had principles.

That was all she needed.

A life ruled by logic, by rules.

No room for doubts, no room for hesitation. Everything had its place, everything had to be kept in order.

That was how it had to be — and how it would remain.
She wanted nothing else.

Yet the truth pressed down on her with every hurried step, even as she refused to look at where she was going.

One thought grew louder, harder to silence:

"Why is everyone making me doubt? Why can’t I just live my life without having to justify myself, without constantly questioning everything?"

The answers remained silent within her mind, crushed beneath the tumult of emotions surging inside her.

But one thing was clear: Ingrid now knew that all she wanted was to regain control.

Her world needed to be mastered.

As long as she could live inside that structure, everything would be fine.

Because in her world, there was no room for chaos.
No room for uncertainty.

 

In the cobbled streets of the Adrestian Empire, a small figure slipped through the bustling crowd, her frail silhouette almost invisible among the tall buildings and the busy merchant quarters.

Her brown hair, dirty and tangled, fell around her pale, thin face. She looked about eight years old, and her eyes were searching — for something, or rather someone — among the indifferent mass. Her clothes were worn and torn, battered by the weather and years of neglect.

Suddenly, she threw herself toward a passing noble, clinging desperately to his arm.

"Please, sir, help me…"

Her voice trembled, tears welling in her dust-streaked cheeks.

"My mother… she's sick… I need money to buy her medicine. Please…"

The noble, an imposing and elegant man, looked down at her with disdain.

He didn't even hesitate.

Instead, he kicked her away roughly, sending the child sprawling onto the cold stone.

"Filthy brat, go beg elsewhere! I have no time for the likes of you!" he spat, continuing on his way, utterly indifferent to the sight of the little girl sobbing alone in the street.

The child's tears mixed with the dust on the ground, but none of the passersby turned to help her. It was as if her small, struggling existence meant nothing, as if her cries only disturbed the indifferent silence of those who considered themselves above it all.

This noble was not the first to treat her so — to push her aside with contempt, to ignore her as if she were nothing but a burden, a nuisance in their pristine world.
Her memories were filled with such gestures, with scornful words, with eyes that looked right through her without ever really seeing her.

Yet every time, the child would pick herself up again, cry in silence, and set out once more to find someone — anyone — who might finally help.

But nothing ever changed.

Nothing ever changed.

The little girl slowly pushed open the door of the old, crumbling building, dust rising with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks. She clutched a small piece of dried meat in her hand, a meager gift from another child — one far more elegant than she — but in her innocence, she had chosen to save the food for her mother.

It wasn’t medicine. It wasn’t much.

But to the child, it was a fragile hope, a small offering she thought might bring her mother a little strength, maybe even a step closer to healing.

She stepped inside carefully, the door creaking under her touch.

"Mama?" she called out, her voice trembling, heavy with fear.

But no answer came.

The oppressive silence of the room closed in around her, and the air grew denser, pressing against her small body like an invisible weight.

The girl's heart began to pound faster, her breath shortening with every step.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

She approached the bed where her mother usually lay, her gaze locked onto the shadowed figure sprawled across it.

Her mother's black hair, once lustrous and silky, now lay in tangled heaps around her head. The woman’s body, once graceful despite hardship, was now frail and thinner than even her daughter's own small frame.
The child couldn’t remember, but once, long ago, her mother had been considered one of the most beautiful women in the Empire — but now, that beauty had completely faded.

A lump rose in the girl’s throat. She didn’t dare move closer, but deep down, she already knew. Something inside her whispered that something vital had been lost.

The wind outside howled a little harder, banging the door against the wall. A shiver ran down the girl's spine as she crept toward the bed, staring at the sunken, pale features of her mother. Her green eyes — the same shade the child had inherited — were wide open, glassy, staring into nothing. A thin line of dried blood stained her mother's cracked lips, a final, cruel reminder of the life that had once been.

The piece of meat slipped from the girl's trembling hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

She no longer had the strength to hold it. Her mind was freezing, locking itself away from the horror before her.

She stood there, motionless, trapped in a silent scream of disbelief.

She couldn’t fully understand what she was seeing, but somewhere in her heart, she knew: her mother was gone, and she wasn’t coming back.

The little girl’s legs quivered, but she moved anyway, inching closer, her hand reaching out hesitantly toward her mother’s lifeless body.

Despite her tender age, she knew.

She knew it was over.

Her mother would not wake up this time.

A bone-deep chill overtook her as she drew near, a strange mixture of fear, sorrow, and crushing loneliness wrapping itself around her heart.

Her lips trembled as she whispered, without truly grasping the weight of her words: "Mama... Mama, why...?"

But there was no answer.

Only the empty room, the wind fading to a mournful stillness, as if paying silent tribute to her mother's last breath.

"You can’t leave me! You’re not allowed to do that!" she cried, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief.

Her breath hitched violently, and a biting cold seized her chest. The tears that had brimmed in her eyes froze in place as she collapsed beside the bed, the crushing reality of loss pressing down on her tiny, fragile shoulders.

She had no words left.

Only emptiness.

She was no longer anything but a lost child, alone in the world.

 

Dorothea jolted awake, her breath caught in her throat as if the air in the room had suddenly vanished.
Her heart was pounding, heavy and fast against her chest, and her hands still trembled from the terror of her nightmare.

The images of her mother — frozen, lifeless — the oppressive silence of the old house, all of it still clung to her mind like a poison she couldn't shake.
It was a memory she would have preferred to forget, but it kept coming back, haunting her even in her dreams.

She sat up abruptly, her wide eyes straining against the dimness of her room.

The stillness around her seemed almost too heavy, the silence suffocating. She barely had time to catch her breath before the loneliness crept in once more.

The coldness of the room, the isolation — the feeling of being utterly alone — she couldn't stand it anymore.
The emptiness pressing in around her felt too vast, too overwhelming.

She needed contact.

She needed warmth.

Something — anything — to chase away that deep, gnawing sense of abandonment.

She grabbed a cardigan and wrapped it around herself, pulling it over her nightgown.

The night air outside would be cold, but the warmth she sought wasn’t something blankets could offer.

She left her room in a near-desperate rush, her footsteps echoing down the dark corridors of the monastery.

The nighttime silence brought her no comfort — if anything, it only made her feel even more isolated, as if the darkness itself was swallowing her whole. Her mind raced, and she clutched at her cardigan with trembling fingers, seeking some kind of comfort as she moved swiftly through the empty halls, driven by a sudden, unexplainable impulse.

She knew exactly where she was going, without thinking, without hesitation.

Without caring about consequences.

She needed to see Edelgard.

She needed to feel close to someone, to find some kind of reassurance.

It was a burning urgency in her chest, a weight she could no longer bear alone.

Her steps quickened as she neared Edelgard’s room, and a strange warmth began to flood her, as if every step she took brought her closer to the comfort she so desperately craved — a comfort she could barely admit even to herself.

Standing before Edelgard’s door, Dorothea hesitated for just a moment, her breath still coming in uneven gasps. And then, without thinking further, she knocked softly, her trembling hand resting against the handle.
A single heartbeat later, the door opened, and Edelgard’s figure appeared, illuminated faintly by the warm glow of her room’s lamp. Edelgard’s surprised gaze settled on her.

Without a word, Dorothea threw herself into Edelgard’s arms. She didn’t need to speak, didn’t need to think.
Her lips found Edelgard’s with a desperate urgency.

Edelgard froze for a moment, but then returned the kiss — not with surprise, but with a calm understanding.
She had known Dorothea long enough to recognize these moments: sometimes, Dorothea needed the comfort of closeness, a connection — without it meaning anything more than that.

Edelgard was the first to break the contact, gently placing her hands on Dorothea's shoulders to push her back with a certain firmness.

"What's going on, Dorothea?" she asked, her gaze sharp and serious.

Dorothea, still caught in the momentum of her desperate need for contact, leaned in again to kiss her.

"Nothing..." she whispered in a low voice. "I just wanted to sleep with you."

But Edelgard raised a hand between their faces, stopping her before she could reach her.

"No," she said calmly but firmly.

Dorothea froze, a little stunned, unable to hide the frustration starting to rise within her.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice more tense than she intended.

Edelgard took a slow breath, her expression grave.

"You can't just come to me like this, in the middle of the night," she said softly but firmly, true to her usual control over her emotions.

Dorothea frowned, shaking her head, confused.

"But that's what I always used to do..." she murmured, as if trying to cling to a logic slipping away from her.

Edelgard held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed, tiredly.

"That was before."

A chill settled instantly into the small space between them.

Dorothea straightened up, her jaw tight.

"Before what?" she snapped, almost angrily.

Edelgard sighed again, her gaze softening despite the firm resolve behind it. She brushed Dorothea's arms lightly with her fingertips — a comforting, almost sorrowful gesture.

"I don't want to sleep with you anymore, Dorothea."

There was a brutal silence. Dorothea stared at her, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Why?" she asked, her voice more fragile than she would have liked.

Edelgard looked away for a moment before meeting her eyes again, calm determination shining through.

"I can't tell you much more," she said gently. "But I don't want to anymore. That's all."

Dorothea felt a deep anger start to boil inside her. She clenched her fists, her heart pounding painfully.

"You can't just say that out of nowhere!" she protested. "I need you, Edelgard!"

Edelgard remained composed, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness.

"We can't keep doing this forever, Dorothea," she replied, her voice a little harder. "Both of us need something more stable."

Dorothea shook her head, refusing to accept it.

"This is ridiculous!" she exclaimed. "We’re perfectly fine the way we are!"

Edelgard’s face hardened slightly. She gritted her teeth before replying with a flash of cold anger:

"You’ll always be my friend, Dorothea. That’s not going to change. But I need to be free for..."

She broke off, her lips pressing tightly together as if forbidding herself to say more.

After a moment, she added simply, with restrained sadness:

"It would be dishonest otherwise."

Dorothea stood still for a moment, her breath short, her jaw clenched with the anger she was struggling to contain. But she knew that insisting would be pointless with Edelgard. Not tonight.

She turned sharply, making no effort to hide the coldness of her movement.

"Good night, Edelgard," she said in a cutting, almost choked voice.

Without waiting for a reply, she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Dorothea walked quickly through the dormitory corridors, her bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor, her cardigan fluttering around her. She moved without really looking where she was going, emotions knotted in her chest, her vision blurred by a mix of rage and sorrow.

Eventually, at a turn of a deserted hallway, far from the lit rooms and muffled voices, she stopped. Her legs felt too weak to carry her any farther.

Dorothea crouched down against the icy wall, burying her head between her arms, trembling.

As always, there was no one there with her.

As always, she was alone.

And in the thick silence of the sleeping monastery, she couldn't escape that truth.

She needed someone.

Someone to love her.

Someone to touch her.

Someone to want her.

At that moment, a door opened quietly down the corridor. Sylvain, his hair tousled, stepped out of his room yawning, clearly having been woken up in the middle of the night. He froze when he saw Dorothea, curled up on the ground, a fragile silhouette in the dim light.

"Dorothea?" he said, surprised. "I... I was just heading to the bathroom, but I didn't expect to see you here."

He approached cautiously, crouching down beside her. He placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder, trying to catch her gaze.

"Hey... are you okay?" he asked softly, concern in his voice.

Dorothea said nothing. She remained silent, trembling, emptied out.

Then, suddenly, she grabbed the collar of his shirt, pulling him towards her with desperate strength, and pressed her lips against his.

Sylvain, stunned, froze for a moment. Then he responded to her kiss—awkwardly at first, then with growing fervor as he sensed the urgency, the despair in Dorothea’s touch.

She needed someone.

Anyone.

She didn't care that it was him.

She didn’t care if she felt filthy afterward, didn’t care if she felt empty.

She didn’t care if she ended up hating herself for it.

She let him unbutton her cardigan, then her nightshirt, his movements hesitant at first, then more certain as he realized she wasn’t pushing him away.

She wasn’t in love. She wasn’t happy. She was just desperate.

It didn’t matter if she was pathetic.

It didn’t matter if she knew she would regret it.

It didn’t matter what it shattered inside her.

There was no way she was going to be alone.

Chapter Text

Ingrid threw the crumpled letter to the floor without even opening it. She already knew what it contained: another suitor, another noble alliance, another reminder that her future did not belong to her.

She collapsed onto her bed, arms spread wide, a long sigh escaping her lips. Her uniform was still stained with straw and dust—a result of an entire morning spent in the stables with Ashe. Well… alone, really. Ashe hadn’t truly been there.

He had held the pitchfork like someone clinging to a memory too heavy to bear. His gaze empty, his movements mechanical, and now and then, tears rising without warning. Ingrid had taken it upon herself, as always. She’d cleaned twice as fast to spare him the shame. She didn’t blame him. Not after what he had lost.

Lord Lonato, his adoptive father, had been tried and executed for treason against the Church. A crime impossible to ignore, yet hard to believe.

Ingrid frowned, her gaze lost on the ceiling. She had heard the whispers, fragments of half-spoken information. But no clear truth. No one really talked about it. Even Dimitri had avoided the topic. And as always, she hadn’t pressed.

But it gnawed at her. It haunted her.

Why? Why would a man like Lonato do such a thing? A respected noble, loyal, righteous. Everything she believed in. Everything she wanted to be. How could he throw all that away? His land, his title, his honor… for what? What cause could justify such upheaval? What pain was so great that it led to rebellion?

Her fist slowly clenched against the sheets.

And what if… what if everything she believed to be unshakable wasn’t? What if even the most loyal men could fall? What if the rules weren’t so simple? What if the line between good and evil wasn’t as straight as she had always been told?

She took a deep breath, but the air felt heavy, filled with doubt. She pushed the thought away—this fragility, this fracture in the order she fought so hard to uphold.

Ingrid sat up abruptly. The sheets slid down her legs, but she paid them no mind. She needed to understand. To have a rational answer. Something to hold on to.

She ran a nervous hand through her blond hair and stood up, her gaze steely. She couldn't keep going in circles with "what ifs" and "maybes." She had to know what really happened. Not in broad strokes, not through official accounts or diplomatic speeches. She wanted a testimony. A real one.

According to what Professor Hanneman had mentioned earlier in the week, it was the Black Eagles who had been sent to support the Church that day. Not the Blue Lions, not the Golden Deer. Just them. So logically, one of them had witnessed the battle. Witnessed Lonato’s death.

And maybe… maybe Lonato had spoken before dying. Maybe he’d left a final word. An explanation. A confession. A cry from the heart.

Or maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. A tragic mistake. That kind of thing happened in wartime, didn’t it? Miscommunicated orders, misread symbols… A good man could be taken for a traitor if the circumstances allowed for it. Couldn’t he?

She clenched her teeth. She needed to know the truth.

So, she was going to ask questions. And if anyone tried to stop her, let them try. Because this time, she wouldn’t let ignorance win.

The sun was slowly setting over the monastery, casting long shadows across the cobblestones. The murmur of conversations rose gently as students emerged from their dorms, all drawn by the scent of the evening meal. Ingrid closed her door just as Sylvain’s door opened.

She smiled faintly, relieved to see him. For the past few days, she’d felt like he was avoiding her. Maybe this was the chance to clear things up.

“Sylvain, hey! Do you want to—”

“I’ve got something to do, Ingrid.” Sylvain’s voice was curt, almost sharp.

He didn’t even really look at her and was already walking away down the hallway. Ingrid stood frozen for a few seconds, her smile fading. Her expression hardened.

No. It wasn’t her imagination. He was definitely avoiding her.

She crossed her arms, annoyed. Honestly, she deserved better. She had no idea what she could’ve possibly done to make him act like that. And Sylvain wasn’t usually the type to sulk… at least not like this.

She sighed, exasperated.

Let him sulk. When he’s done with his little tantrum, he’ll come talk to me. And when that day comes, maybe I’ll be generous enough to forgive him.

She walked through the halls for a while, letting her steps guide her, gradually drifting away from the crowd of students. Good. She preferred to talk in peace. Even if… walking away from the delicious smell of food wafting from the dining hall almost brought a tear of frustration to her eye.

Her steps took her to the first row of outer dorms, the ones near the greenhouse. Not a soul in sight. Well… maybe Bernadetta, locked behind one of those doors. But Ingrid knew the girl well enough to know that a surprise conversation wouldn’t be especially welcome. To be honest, she wasn’t particularly fond of Bernadetta’s behavior—always running away, hiding... That kind of attitude wasn’t going to get her far in life. But whatever. She’d deal with that later, if necessary.

She climbed the small stairs leading to the next row of dorms, slightly overlooking the courtyard. There, a glint of light caught her eye. At the very end of the corridor, a faint glow spilled through a cracked door, all the more visible now that night was falling. And in front of that light, a solitary figure sat, motionless.

Ingrid approached quietly, her boots barely grazing the stone floor. There wasn’t a sound around her, except for the faint rustle of leaves in the trees, and she didn’t want to be the one to break that calm. Just a few steps away, the figure became clearer in the golden light spilling through the door’s narrow opening.

She blinked slightly in surprise.

Edelgard.

The princess of Adrestia was there, sitting and slightly hunched forward, absorbed in something she held in her hands—a small rectangular object, barely visible in the shadow. Ingrid frowned. A book? No… a notebook? A journal.

She hesitated.

Should she interrupt Edelgard? It wasn’t trivial to disturb an imperial heir, especially in such an obviously private moment. But… she wasn’t doing anything wrong. And Edelgard had witnessed Lonato’s death. She might be able to give her answers.

With a soft sigh, Ingrid took the final step. Now right beside her, she gently placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

“Edelg—”

Edelgard jolted violently, as if coming back from a dream—or a nightmare. The journal slipped from her hands and hit the ground with a sharp sound. She turned abruptly, eyes wide, almost frightened, before her expression slowly calmed as she recognized Ingrid.

“Ingrid…?” she whispered.

Ingrid drew her hand back slightly, confused by Edelgard’s sharp reaction.

“Sorry… I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Instinctively, she bent down to pick up the notebook, but Edelgard’s voice snapped—sharper than usual.

“Don’t look.”

But it was too late.

The notebook had fallen open to a page still marked with the pressure of the pencil. Ingrid had already seen. The lines were a bit hesitant in places, but there was precision, a touching carefulness. The drawing showed the face of a sleeping woman, her head slightly tilted, her features relaxed. A face… Ingrid recognized.

Professor Byleth.

Edelgard had thrown herself to the ground to retrieve the notebook, looking suddenly embarrassed—something Ingrid would never have thought possible from her. In doing so, she moved aside slightly from the doorway behind her, and Ingrid caught a glimpse of what the princess had been watching: in the flickering light, Byleth was indeed there, asleep at her desk, one hand dangling in the air.

Ingrid froze, her gaze flicking between Edelgard, the half-closed notebook, and the quiet scene inside the room.

So that was it. She had been drawing her.

Why? It didn’t make sense. Not rational. Not from Edelgard, who everyone saw as cold, calculating, distant. A woman of ambition, not of sentiment. And yet… there was nothing cold in that drawing. Nothing political. It was almost… tender.

Edelgard stood up, clutching the notebook tightly to her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes avoiding Ingrid’s.

“You saw?” she asked, in a voice barely audible—but with the firmness of someone who hates feeling vulnerable.

Ingrid hesitated.

Should she lie? Pretend she hadn’t seen anything? Spare the princess’s pride?… No. One doesn’t lie to someone of her rank. More than that, Ingrid felt it would be insulting, beneath her.

So, arms crossed, standing tall and a little stiff, she slowly nodded.

“Yes. I saw.”

Edelgard avoided Ingrid’s gaze, her face turning an even deeper shade of red under the room’s dim light. She rubbed the back of her neck, as if searching for words that refused to come.

“Well, it’s… it’s just that…” she began, her eyes darting in every direction except Ingrid’s. “It’s not what you think. I mean, I… it’s just a drawing, you know? A portrait. I… I just wanted to try, that’s all.”

She shrugged, but her gestures were nervous, like she was trying to appear composed and failing completely. Her gaze flicked toward the notebook, then back to Ingrid, who stood silently, clearly unsure of what to make of the situation.

“It’s just… I wanted to capture, uh, her expression. Her calm, you know?” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I… I was just practicing, really! Yes, practicing drawing people asleep, nothing more.”

She let out a nervous laugh, her eyes still avoiding Ingrid’s.

“Yes, that’s it! Just an artistic exercise, nothing else. I’m not… I’m not about to start drawing people every day or anything, right?”

Ingrid watched her without truly understanding. Subtle social cues weren’t exactly her specialty—especially when it came to emotional nuance. Still, something about Byleth being the subject didn’t seem entirely trivial. But then again, maybe Edelgard was just… working on her technique?

“If you say so…” Ingrid replied, a little too seriously, before frowning slightly, unable to stop herself from asking, “But… do you often draw people?”

Caught off guard, Edelgard ran a hand through her hair, more nervous than ever.

“No, no! Not really. I mean, not often.” She forced a smile, trying to hide her discomfort, but Ingrid still didn’t seem to grasp the nature of her distress. “It was just… an exception. It’s just that I don’t often get to see the professor’s face when she’s asleep… the way her lashes fall, and those bluish strands of hair over her face…” Edelgard glanced down at her drawing and winced. “The drawing doesn’t do her justice at all—I completely messed up her nose and I…”

Realizing what she was saying, her cheeks took on the color of her stockings. “Please, Ingrid—forget I said any of that…”

Silence fell. Ingrid looked at Edelgard with calm curiosity, while Edelgard looked like she wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Finally, Edelgard stood up, and with a speed that betrayed her embarrassment, turned toward the door.

“Well, I… I have to go. I’ve got things to do.” She made her way quickly to the exit, and Ingrid, still somewhat confused, followed her with her eyes. “I’ll just… leave you to it.”

As Edelgard turned on her heels and vanished around the corner of the hallway, Ingrid stood still for a moment, thoughtful. Then she remembered the real reason she’d come: Lonato. Her eyes widened slightly, irritation flaring at herself — she had completely forgotten to ask a single question. But then again, she reasoned, Edelgard hadn't seemed in any state to talk about politics or betrayal. Sighing, she resumed walking, telling herself she’d try again later — with another one of the Black Eagles.

She had barely taken three steps when the soft creak of a door behind her caught her attention. She turned just in time to see a familiar figure step out of one of the rooms.

Dorothea.

The brunette noticed her immediately and offered a gentle smile — tired, perhaps, but sincere. “Good evening, Ingrid,” she said, her voice quiet and almost melodic.

Ingrid, caught off guard, gave a polite, somewhat stiff nod. She responded in a neutral voice — perhaps a little too neutral: “Good evening.”

And, as always, a strange tension settled in her chest.

It wasn’t just because of Dorothea — or at least not entirely. It was herself. She didn’t know how to behave around her since… that embrace. That unexpected warmth. That suspended moment they had shared. A moment that she, Ingrid, had initiated without even realizing it. She had thrown herself into Dorothea’s arms like a lost child, and in that instant, she had felt good. Too good. Dorothea had smelled like honey, lavender, comfort… And in her arms, Ingrid had, for once, felt she could just let go. She had even closed her eyes. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.

And since then, she hadn’t been able to shake the sensation. Nor the scent. Nor that strange, enveloping feeling of safety. And it bothered her. Deeply.

Ingrid cleared her throat, instinctively straightening her collar. She felt foolish. Childish. She had acted like a girl starved for affection, and now she was paying the price — torturing herself every time she crossed paths with Dorothea.

But she was an adult. A knight. She should be able to move past things like this.

So she lifted her chin slightly, stood a little straighter, and said — a bit awkwardly:

“You… heading out?”

Dorothea nodded gently, her dark hair swaying fluidly around her face.

“Yes, I was planning to head to the dining hall.” She paused briefly, her gaze lingering on Ingrid’s visibly tired face. “Want to come with me?”

Ingrid froze for a second, caught in a ridiculous — yet all too real — internal dilemma. Part of her wanted to refuse. To refuse because it was easier, because she didn’t know how to act around Dorothea since that damned moment. Because she didn’t like feeling confused. Because she didn’t want to think about the warmth of that embrace. Because she hated doubting herself.

But another part, more rational, more strategic, made itself heard. If she said no, she’d probably end up eating alone. Sylvain was clearly avoiding her, for no good reason, and she didn’t feel like being isolated tonight. And besides, Dorothea wasn’t a monster. She was… Dorothea. A bit odd, maybe, with unexpected reactions, but not unkind. And most importantly, she was one of the Black Eagles. She had seen what had happened with Lonato. Maybe, with a bit of tact, Ingrid could glean some information.

So she nodded, a little stiffly.

“Alright. I was heading there anyway.”

Dorothea smiled — simple, radiant, with no teasing comment or heavy insinuation. She turned on her heel, and Ingrid followed, still a little hesitant.

As they walked, Dorothea strolled calmly, arms crossed behind her back, her steps swinging lightly with carefree ease. Then, in a soft voice, she asked:

“And you, how have you been since… last time?”

Ingrid immediately felt heat rising to her cheeks. Last time… There weren’t many possible interpretations. Her mind went back to that embrace, to that strange feeling of comfort in Dorothea’s arms. She looked slightly away, trying to hide her unease behind a brief sigh.

“I’m fine. Nothing in particular,” she replied, a bit curtly, before quickly correcting herself by asking in return, almost too quickly, “And you?”

Dorothea seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if weighing her words. Then she smiled — that bright, deceptively nonchalant smile of hers.

“Me? I’m doing great, of course. As always,” she said with the lightness she wore like a mask.

Ingrid nodded softly. She didn’t quite believe her, but wasn’t sure she wanted to dig deeper. And then, Dorothea spoke again with that flirtatious tone that was so very her:

“In any case, I’m happy to see you again. I was starting to miss you, seriously.”

Ingrid frowned, discomforted by the comment — not serious enough… or maybe too serious. She was about to reply when Dorothea burst into a clear, ringing laugh, almost childlike.

A laugh… melodic.

Ingrid, despite herself, paused for a moment. That laugh was… beautiful. Truly beautiful. It had a lightness that contrasted with the weight that so often pressed on her chest. She caught herself thinking she could probably listen to Dorothea laugh for hours and not get tired of it. It’s probably just because she’s a singer… all singers must have laughs like that, right?

Trying to steer the conversation toward something more serious, Ingrid cleared her throat and asked:

“By the way… how did your last mission go?”

Dorothea let out a theatrically frustrated sigh.

“Horribly! I broke a nail tripping over a root.”

Ingrid turned her head sharply toward her, visibly bewildered by the response.

Dorothea caught her gaze and raised her hands, laughing again.

“No, really — there was fog! You couldn’t see more than a meter ahead, and I swear, the enemies could see perfectly! So yes, I tripped over a root… Not my finest moment, but between staying alive and saving my manicure, I did what I could.”

Ingrid stared at her for a second, half-exasperated, half-amused despite herself.

Ingrid tilted her head slightly, perplexed. “I’m sorry about your nail,” she said, with a trace of barely hidden irony, “but… you still managed to complete your mission, right?”

Dorothea nodded gently, her smile slowly fading. “Yes… unfortunately.”

Ingrid stopped in her tracks. “Unfortunately?” she repeated, frowning. “What do you mean ‘unfortunately’?”

Dorothea sighed, arms crossed against her chest. She glanced away toward the stone floor, as if carefully choosing her words.

“I mean… I won’t pretend I knew him personally, but… Lord Lonato…” She hesitated. “It’s no small thing, taking up arms against the Church. That kind of decision isn’t made lightly. And yet… he did it. He must have had a good reason.”

Ingrid pressed her lips together, unconvinced. “Maybe. But he betrayed his vows, caused chaos, and attacked the established order. It’s only right he was punished.”

Dorothea gave her a sad look. “But death, Ingrid… is that really a just punishment? Final, yes. Just? I’m not so sure.”

Ingrid crossed her arms tightly, tense. “He had no right to betray the Church. He made his choice.”

“And what if it was because he thought he was doing what was right?” Dorothea countered softly. “Sometimes what looks like a crime to us is actually a reaction to an even greater injustice.”

Ingrid, her gaze hard, clenched her fists. “It doesn’t matter. He betrayed us. And betrayal is wrong. It’s breaking the trust of those who gave it to you.”

Dorothea looked at her for a moment, her smile slowly fading. Then, in a calmer, almost distant tone, she replied, “You know, for me… the notion of right and wrong is incredibly fragile.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“It all depends on perspective,” Dorothea said with a shrug, her gaze drifting off. “What one sees as betrayal, another might see as justice.”

“No,” Ingrid interrupted sharply, her voice tense. “If a man kills another, everyone agrees it’s wrong. No matter the point of view.”

Dorothea laughed softly, without mockery, but with a trace of amusement. “You’re right about that. Killing is wrong… But there are far murkier situations.”

Despite herself, Ingrid was starting to get intrigued. “What do you mean?”

Dorothea turned toward her, hands clasped behind her back, her expression thoughtful. “Imagine a war. One kingdom attacks another. Who’s the good guy, and who’s the villain?”

“The one who attacks first,” Ingrid answered without hesitation. “They’re the one responsible. Because of them, people die.”

“Alright…” Dorothea nodded. “But what if that kingdom attacked because the other was a tyrannical empire—one that starved its people, jailed dissenters, punished the poor? And the attack was meant to free the oppressed… then who’s the good guy?”

Ingrid opened her mouth to reply… but nothing came out. She frowned, caught off guard. “I… I don’t really know…”

“Exactly,” Dorothea murmured. “If you ask those who are attacking, they’ll tell you they’re risking their lives to save others, to free a suffering people. But if you ask those being attacked, they’ll tell you it’s an unjust invasion, that innocent lives are being lost.”

She met Ingrid’s eyes. “It all depends on where you’re standing.”

Dorothea continued, observing Ingrid’s reactions with a mixture of softness and seriousness. “You know… personally, if tomorrow the Adrestian Empire went to war, I’m not sure I would want to fight for it.”

Ingrid stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide. “What?! But… you were born there, right?”

Dorothea shrugged lightly, as if it didn’t matter. “Yes. I was born in the south of Fódlan, in Adrestia. But I could’ve just as easily been born elsewhere. In Faerghus. In Leicester. What’s the point of tying my entire life to the first cloud I saw at birth?”

Ingrid opened her mouth, then closed it. It made no sense. “But… don’t you owe everything to your country? It saw you born, it raised you…”

“That’s false,” Dorothea cut in softly. “I owe nothing to the Empire. It didn’t raise me. It didn’t protect me. It didn’t love me. What I have today, I earned on my own. So why should I risk my life for it?”

Ingrid felt something crack in her convictions. “But… then why do you refuse so much to fight for it?”

Dorothea sighed and answered without hesitation: “It’s not a question of refusal. I don’t have anything against the Empire itself. But I want it to be my choice. If I have to fight, it will be for a cause I believe in. Not because I was born there.”

Ingrid felt a fire rising inside her. “You mean you could die for anyone, as long as you think it’s right?”

Dorothea burst out laughing. “You’re exaggerating, but… yes. In theory, that’s it.”

A silence passed, then Ingrid lowered her gaze, staring at the ground intensely. She was thinking. Then she raised her head, her green eyes shining with determination. “I could never fight for anyone but the kingdom of Faerghus. I will never raise my weapon against Dimitri. Never.”

Dorothea stared at her for a long time, silent. Then she asked more gently, “And what if… and I mean, what if, in an alternate world… Dimitri became a monster? The worst king imaginable for his people? And his opponent held values you defend. What would you do?”

Ingrid opened her mouth, outraged. “Dimitri would never do that!”

Dorothea raised her hands, peaceful. “I know, I know. But just imagine. Just imagine.”

Silence settled again. Ingrid finally murmured, “Even then… I couldn’t face him. Faerghus is the land that saw me born. You might not care about that kind of thing… but I do. So… I would do nothing. I wouldn’t defend the kingdom. But I wouldn’t attack it either.”

Dorothea stared at her again, then burst into a soft laugh. “So, you’d rather run away than choose. I’m not judging you, alright? I’d probably do the same. Or worse…”

Then, more calmly, she added, “But if you refuse to serve your kingdom in such a moment… isn’t that a form of betrayal?”

Ingrid froze. Dorothea was right. But then… what was she supposed to do? What could she do in such a situation? Her mind was spinning at full speed. She wasn’t even sure why this conversation had started… She had come to ask about Lonato. Not to debate loyalty, war, and death.

So, she raised her head, locked her clear eyes onto Dorothea’s, and said, in a calm but firm, almost icy voice:
“Then in that case… I will take my own life.”

A heavy silence fell. Brutal.

Dorothea stood silently for a moment, her eyes wide, her smile fading. She looked at Ingrid as if she had just heard her say something unreal. Her arms folded slowly, as if she were suddenly thrown off balance.

"Ingrid..." she murmured finally, her voice soft, but with a palpable concern. "That's not... that's not the solution."

Ingrid, frozen in her decision, clenched her fists. "You don’t understand." Her eyes shone with cold determination. "If I have to choose between betraying everything I believe in and death, there’s no choice. Betrayal is a defeat."

Dorothea looked at her for a moment, as if trying to understand this deeply rooted conviction. Then she stepped closer, gently placing a hand, almost timidly, on Ingrid's shoulder.

"But Ingrid..." She sighed. "Loyalty isn’t just measured by following orders or dying for something. Sometimes, it’s more complicated than that. Sometimes, true loyalty is fighting for the values you believe are right, even if they push you to question everything you’ve always defended."

Ingrid looked away, feeling warmth rise to her cheeks. She hated that feeling of vulnerability, that fragility she didn’t want to admit to herself. But Dorothea’s words... they touched her in a way she couldn’t explain.

"You talk about values..." Ingrid responded, her voice softer, but not quite sure of herself. "But do you really have any? When it’s your country, your family, everything you’ve known that’s at stake... how can you just detach from all that?"

Dorothea looked at her for a long time, then lowered her eyes before answering slowly, almost as if sharing a secret:

"Because sometimes, Ingrid... we need to detach in order to see more clearly. Loyalty to a kingdom, a king, an empire... it’s nothing but an illusion... The most important thing is to be loyal to yourself..." She smiled, but it wasn’t a light smile. "You’re right, it’s complicated. It’s even painful. But sometimes, it’s the only path that really matters."

Silence fell again, heavy and tense, but this time, it was a different kind of silence. Ingrid felt a slight easing of the weight, but she wasn’t ready to accept everything Dorothea had just said.

She looked down, her thoughts spinning. Then, finally, she murmured:

"I don’t know." She shrugged, as if trying to give herself some sense of detachment. "I think I’ve never really wanted to know. Maybe... maybe I’m afraid of what I’d discover if I started questioning all of this."

Dorothea nodded gently. "And it’s normal to be afraid. It’s human. But that doesn’t mean you should avoid that question forever." She added, in a lighter tone, as if trying to ease the atmosphere: "Maybe that’s one of the reasons we’re here, you and I, right? To help each other understand what it means to be loyal to something."

Ingrid looked at Dorothea, a mix of confusion and admiration in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she understood everything the young woman was telling her, but one thing was certain: this conversation, as strange and bewildering as it was, had pushed her to ask questions she had never dared to consider.

She took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. Then, without warning, she gave a small smile.

"Maybe you’re right. But... we’ll see. I’m not ready to turn everything upside down just yet."

Dorothea returned her smile, a knowing, companionable smile. "You’re right, and fortunately, a war isn’t about to break out anytime soon."

Chapter Text

Ingrid let out a long sigh as she poked at her steak with the tip of her fork, her gaze a little distant. Across from her, Dorothea was enjoying her meal, but neither of them had really brought up their earlier exchange again. A slightly heavy silence had settled between them since their debate, and Ingrid didn’t particularly feel like breaking it. She didn’t know what to say, or even how to say it. So she chose instead to focus on her plate.

It was Dorothea who eventually spoke, her voice soft and calm.

“So? Were you planning on asking me about the mission with Lonato or not?”

Ingrid looked up, a little surprised. “How did you know I wanted to ask you that?”

Dorothea shrugged with a small smile. “Earlier, you seemed more curious than usual about this month’s mission, and now you seem hesitant to ask something. I just figured it out.”

Ingrid lowered her gaze and sighed again, setting her fork down for a moment. “You’re right. This whole thing is bothering me. I want to understand what happened that day. Dimitri won’t talk about it—he avoids the subject whenever I bring it up. So I thought… maybe someone else, someone who was there, could help me see things more clearly.”

A brief silence followed before Dorothea raised an eyebrow and put on a mock-offended expression, placing a hand over her heart in theatrical fashion.

“So... any of the Black Eagles would’ve done?” she said in a dramatically wounded tone.

Ingrid blinked, confused. “Huh?”

Dorothea continued, exaggerating her diva act, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I see, I see… I’m nothing to you, then! Just another student in the crowd! You’d have gone and asked Petra or even Ferdinand, as long as you got your precious information!”

Ingrid opened her mouth, still lost. “But… that’s not…”

“No, no, I get it,” Dorothea cut in, pulling a dramatic pout. “I’m just an anonymous voice in the masses. You don’t need me.”

Ingrid stared at her, mouth slightly open, unsure whether she should apologize or laugh. She chose the latter, despite herself, shaking her head in exasperation. “You’re impossible…”

Dorothea smiled—a real smile this time, softer. “But you’re laughing. That’s something.”

She picked up a piece of bread from her plate and added more quietly, “And you can ask me anything you want, Ingrid. I’ll answer… not because I’m a Black Eagle, but because it’s you asking.”

Ingrid frowned slightly.

“I’m trying to be serious.”

“I am serious!” Dorothea replied.

Ingrid slowly set down her fork, her brow still furrowed, taking on her usual serious expression.

"Who… killed Lord Lonato?" she finally asked, her voice low.

Dorothea looked up at her before answering simply:

"Catherine."

Ingrid looked surprised. "Catherine? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. I wasn’t far at the time—I was trying to wake up Linhardt, that slacker had decided the danger was over and had fallen asleep against a tree…" Dorothea said with a blasé expression. "Anyway, while I was yelling at him, I saw Lord Lonato dueling the professor. It was an impressive fight, really… The professor eventually disarmed him and brought him to the ground. And then Catherine arrived. She took over… and finished him off."

Ingrid stayed silent for a moment, taking in the information.

"There wasn’t anything else… remarkable?"

Dorothea seemed to think, her gaze drifting off for a moment.

"Hmm… Actually, yes. Before dying, Lonato said something. He mentioned his son. And… he called Catherine 'Cassandra', if I remember right."

"Cassandra?" Ingrid repeated, confused.

Dorothea shrugged. "That’s what I heard. Maybe it’s her real name? Or a nickname. I didn’t really get it, to be honest."

Ingrid frowned.

"And… what did he mean about his son’s death?"

Another shrug from Dorothea, this time more irritated. "Honestly, who knows… Nobles and their complicated family drama. I can’t make sense of it. It’s like they spend half their lives marrying their cousins—an actual headache."

Ingrid shot her a glare.

"That’s a very rude thing to say. I’ll have you know I’m a noble too." She added more quietly, almost to herself, "Even if it may not be obvious at first glance."

Dorothea burst out laughing, placing a hand over her mouth.

"I know, I know! You’re the adorable exception."

Ingrid crossed her arms with a grumble. "Besides, incest is forbidden now, in Seiros."

Dorothea raised a finger as if she’d made a discovery.

"Now? So it used to be allowed!"

Ingrid rolled her eyes. "That’s not the point… even if yes, it was a dark time. Anyway! We were talking about Lonato’s son’s death."

Returning to a slightly more serious tone, Dorothea nodded slowly.

"All I know is that Lonato blamed Catherine and Rhea. He held them responsible for his son’s death. That’s why he attacked the Church."

A silence settled in. Ingrid was pensive, her eyes lost in the bottom of her plate. Something didn’t add up. And the more she learned, the more she felt that a more complex truth was hidden behind that mission.

Then she felt, under the table, as if by accident, Dorothea’s foot brushing against hers. She looked up, surprised, meeting the singer’s emerald gaze, who gave her an innocent smile.

"Oops."

Ingrid tried to refocus on what she was chewing, her mind still stirred by their recent exchanges. Lord Lonato… her father had often spoken of him. Loyal to the Church, honorable, a righteous man. He had served King Lambert’s older brother, Rufus, and had earned considerable recognition for it. How could such a man have fallen so far? All for revenge? But revenge for what, exactly?

Ingrid frowned. Which child had he lost? A memory resurfaced. She had once, out of sheer curiosity, flipped through the Church’s register of executed traitors over the past decade. And there… in the year 1176, execution of Christophe Gildas Gaspard. Found guilty of treason, supporter of the Western Church. Christophe… Gildas Gaspard. The name came back to her clearly. Lonato’s son.

Then everything made sense: Lonato had sought to avenge the death of his son, accused of treason. But why wait four years? Why act only in 1180? It was irrational. Unless… it hadn’t truly been his idea. Maybe… someone had reignited his anger. The Central Church didn’t have many enemies—except for the Western Church. And Christophe was connected to them. So… what if it had all been orchestrated? What if Lonato had been manipulated?

She was about to push her reasoning further when she felt something under the table. Dorothea’s foot, bare of its usual boot, slowly slid against her leg. Ingrid tensed slightly. At first, she thought it was another accident… but the touch lingered. Gentle. Intentional.

She looked up at Dorothea, who was sipping her tea with carefully studied innocence, as if nothing had happened. Ingrid felt her cheeks flush. She opened her mouth, ready to say something, when a familiar voice shattered the tension.

"Ingrid, come spar with me?" called out Felix as he approached their table. "I need a lancer to try out a move, and there’s no way I’m stooping to ask Sylvain or the boar."

The boar, of course, being Dimitri.

Ingrid straightened slightly, about to tell him it was too late to train… but Dorothea’s foot slid a little further up her leg, slow and deliberate.

She nearly choked on her own saliva.

Ingrid sighed softly, setting down her fork. Her thoughts were completely clouded by Dorothea. “Yeah, I’ll come, Felix,” she replied stiffly, hoping to end this strange moment quickly. As Felix walked off, Hilda burst onto the scene, a pink ribbon tied in her hair.

“Hey, Dorothea, do you happen to know what Marianne’s favorite color is?” she asked cheerfully.

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, her foot still in discreet contact with Ingrid’s leg. “Hmm, no, sorry.”

Hilda immediately turned to Ingrid. “And you? Any idea?”

“Not really, no,” Ingrid replied more curtly than she intended, her focus entirely on ignoring the troubling sensation under the table.

Amused, Dorothea asked, “Why do you want to know, Hilda?”

“I wanted to make her a custom necklace,” Hilda said with a soft smile.

A loud voice suddenly rang out behind her. “I know!”

It was Lorenz, who had stood with all the pomp of a noble on display.

Hilda narrowed her eyes. “You?! And how would you know, exactly?”

He straightened even more, as if challenged. “I overheard her telling her horse.”

No one would’ve believed Marianne to share personal details with people… unless that person was an animal—especially one of the horses she loved so much.

“And?” Hilda pressed.

“Pink,” Lorenz declared, confidently.

“Perfect!” Hilda beamed. “Thanks, Lorenz!” She rushed off, caught up in her creative enthusiasm, and Lorenz sat down again, looking like a proud peacock after a successful display.

Ingrid felt relieved to see the table emptying. She could finally whisper to Dorothea to stop what she was doing with her foot—even if… it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

What?! Of course it was unpleasant! she scolded herself mentally.

But she didn’t have time to speak before another shadow loomed beside their table. Hubert.

Inwardly, Ingrid grimaced. I must really have awful karma today.

“Dorothea, have you seen Lady Edelgard recently?” Hubert asked, voice clipped.

“Not since this morning. Why?”

“Nothing urgent,” he said curtly before turning on his heel, his dark cape flaring behind him.

Ingrid watched him go, her mind drifting back to the strange conversation she’d had with Edelgard earlier that day… but the moment passed quickly—Hubert was already gone.

She turned back to Dorothea, who gave her an innocent smile. Their legs still touched beneath the table.

“Are you going to stop that at some point?” Ingrid murmured, cheeks flushed.

Dorothea tilted her head, mock thoughtful. “Hmm… maybe. But only if you beg.”

Ingrid looked away, biting her lip.

She wasn’t going to beg.

But she didn’t move away either.

Ingrid looked away, staring at an imaginary spot on the table, her heart strangely unsettled. Dorothea, meanwhile, calmly resumed sipping her tea as if nothing had happened, her foot still resting gently against Ingrid’s leg—now softer, almost tender.

Silence fell for a moment, broken only by the chatter and clatter of other students in the dining hall. Eventually, Ingrid spoke in a low, almost too-calm voice:

“You know this is really weird, right?”

Dorothea gave a mischievous smile. “Weird… but does it really bother you?”

Ingrid gripped her fork a little tighter. She wanted to say “yes,” to shrug it off, to laugh at the absurdity of it all. But the words stuck somewhere between discomfort and… something else. Something she couldn’t quite name.

“I don’t know. But it’s weird…” she finally admitted.

Dorothea set her teacup down. “That’s already part of an answer.” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You know… I’m not necessarily trying to fluster you. Sometimes I just like… being close to someone I really like.”

Ingrid finally met her eyes. Those eyes—so bright, so sure of themselves. She felt her guard falter.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then said simply:

“I have training with Felix. I’ve got to go.”

She stood quickly, grabbing her tray.

Dorothea followed her with her eyes, saying nothing, but a soft, tender smile played on her lips. Ingrid stopped, cheeks burning, hesitated a moment, then spoke without looking at Dorothea.

“If you ever need to be close to someone… platonically, of course! You can always ask me… I’d be happy to help… and be… your friend!”

And without waiting for a reply, she rushed off.

Dorothea, now alone at the table, chuckled softly, resting her chin on her hand.

“What a strange little noble… Being friends with a commoner isn’t something they talk about every day…” she murmured with an almost affectionate sigh.

At the same moment, as Dorothea followed Ingrid with a faint smile still lingering on her lips, a familiar figure approached her table. Edelgard.

The future empress sat down silently across from her, her expression as impassive as ever. They hadn’t really spoken since their last conversation—the one where Edelgard had put an end to their discreet, nighttime meetings. Dorothea, a skilled actress, put on a flawless smile despite the pang in her heart.

“What can I do for Her Majesty today?” she said lightly, half amused, half mocking.

Edelgard stared at her for a moment before responding calmly, “You’re a romantic, Dorothea. A true one.”

The singer raised an eyebrow, amused. “Is that a fault or a compliment?”

“A simple observation. You know how to seduce, you know how to read the signs, you know when someone likes you…”

Dorothea crossed her arms, adopting a mock-modest air. “It’s true, I admit it. My natural charm and my dream body help me a lot.”

Edelgard didn’t react to the teasing tone—especially since she knew that what Dorothea said was true. She continued more slowly, as if weighing every word: “And above all, you know when you please someone.”

Dorothea felt a slight warmth rise to her cheeks despite herself, but kept her playful tone. “You’re going to make me blush… But why all the flattery? Do you want me to help you seduce someone?”

Edelgard hesitated for a second, then asked in a barely audible whisper: “If… someone was caught drawing us while we slept… Would that mean that person loves us?”

Dorothea was silent for a moment, unsettled. Then a slow smile spread across her lips. “It would mostly mean… they can’t help but watch you. Even when you don’t see it.”

Edelgard lowered her eyes, silent. Dorothea simply looked at her, mischievous yet softer than ever.

Edelgard remained silent, her gaze fixed on her interlaced fingers on the table. Dorothea tilted her head slightly, intrigued by this sudden vulnerability. She had a good idea of what was happening, but… something felt off.

“And this person… did you catch them recently?” she asked, her voice soft but curious.

Edelgard nodded slowly. “They were asleep. And… I couldn’t help myself.”

Dorothea’s brows furrowed slightly. Her smile became more subdued.

“So it wasn’t someone drawing you. You were the one drawing.”

Edelgard looked up at her. It wasn’t a confession, but in that calm and yet burning gaze, Dorothea understood.

“It’s the professor, isn’t it?” she said bluntly.

Edelgard didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to.

A silence settled. Dorothea took a long breath and stretched slightly in her chair, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling as if searching for words up there.

“You know, I wish it had been someone else. That it had been me... I mean, being loved by a future emperor must be something incredible.” She laughed softly, a laugh without bitterness. “But we don’t get to choose, do we? Not what we feel, nor for whom.”

Edelgard looked as though she was about to speak, but Dorothea reached out across the table and took the lead.

“So… I hope that one day, you find the courage to tell them. And if it’s mutual, that you’ll know.”

Edelgard looked at the offered hand, then took it briefly.

Edelgard remained silent for a moment, her fingers unconsciously brushing the rim of her empty cup. Her gaze drifted far away, as if she were searching for the right words in a sea of disordered thoughts. Then, almost in a whisper, she said:

“I’m not sure what I feel.”

Dorothea didn’t answer right away, simply watching her intently. Hesitant Edelgard was a rare sight. Usually, she moved forward with an almost cold certainty, as if everything in her mind had been carefully calculated, sorted, mastered—similar to Ingrid, though in a different way. Seeing her like this… unsettled, was almost tender.

“It’s strange,” Edelgard continued, her eyes still lowered to her hands. “I think I’ve loved before. Maybe. But this time, it’s… different. It’s not distant admiration or a fleeting crush. It’s… calm. Steady. And that’s what troubles me—because it doesn’t consume me like in the stories.” She sighed. “I don’t even know if it’s truly love or just a kind of dependency on her presence. Her gaze. Her voice.”

Dorothea still didn’t reply. Her thoughts were elsewhere now.

Calm. Steady.

That was exactly what frightened her. With Ingrid… there hadn’t been any dramatic declarations. No uncontrollable passion, no heart-wrenching confessions. Just a string of suspended moments, glances, silences heavy with meaning, gestures too subtle to be certain. It wasn’t the kind of love that made her tremble or soar. But then why did she think of her every night before falling asleep? Why did her heart race when, like earlier, her foot sought Ingrid’s?

She refocused on Edelgard, who continued, her brow furrowed in doubt:

“Sometimes I wonder if I feel these things for her just because she’s there. Because she looks at me as a person, not as an empress-to-be. Or if it’s… more.”

Dorothea crossed her arms on the table, a faint, almost melancholic smile on her lips.

“You know, Edie… we always think love has to be grand, loud, that it should shake us. But sometimes, it’s just there. Quiet. Steady, like you said. And that calmness… that’s the scariest kind. Because it doesn’t demand, it seeps in.”

Edelgard looked up at her, slightly surprised by the gentleness in her tone.

“And you speak of admiration, of presence, of being troubled… don’t you think that’s already a kind of love? Not the love they sing about in operas, but the kind that can last. The kind that doesn’t make the world fall apart, but helps you carry it.”

Dorothea realized, as she spoke those words, that maybe… that’s exactly what she was trying to understand, too. With Ingrid. It wasn’t a passionate romance like the ones she’d known before. But every moment with her—even the awkward silences, even the averted glances—left a mark.

And she still didn’t know if that comforted her… or scared her.

Edelgard took a slow breath, as if trying to absorb Dorothea’s words, then murmured:

“What if I’m wrong? What if it’s not that?”

Dorothea smiled, this time more softly.

“Then you’ll learn. We always learn through love. Even if it’s not mutual. Even if it’s not the right time. Even if it hurts.”

She paused, then added with a small, bittersweet laugh:

“But believe me… it’s better to be wrong while trying than stay frozen, always wondering.”

Edelgard lowered her gaze again, deep in thought.

And Dorothea, for her part, thought of a blonde girl—always composed, always certain. A girl afraid of what she couldn’t understand, but whose laugh, sighs, and furrowed brow when thinking too hard, she knew by heart.

And she wondered, suddenly, which of the two of them was really more frozen.

Edelgard stared at an invisible point on the table. Her fingers clutched the porcelain of her empty cup, unmoving. Then, in an almost whispered voice:

“And what if I’m still not sure… what I feel?”

Dorothea didn’t respond immediately. She observed her, patient. Edelgard continued:

“Sometimes I think it’s attachment. Other times… admiration. And then there are moments where nothing else matters but that person. As if… even my goal, even what I’m fighting for, becomes blurry. And I hate that. I hate losing control.”

Dorothea inhaled softly, a sad smile touching her lips.

“You know… I think the heart enjoys mocking our will.”

She spoke calmly, but deep down, a memory scraped at her. A blurry face, without a name. That boy she had given so much to. Too much. Her time, her body, her energy. And yet… she had never really loved him.

Not the way one truly loves.

She had thought that if she gave enough, he would eventually see her, want her, choose her. But he had done nothing. He took everything and gave nothing back.

So, looking at Edelgard, she almost wanted to laugh. Not from joy, no. A dry, nearly painful laugh.

“You know what’s worse than loving someone so much you lose your way?” she asked, her tone a little lower. “It’s giving everything to someone… when you don’t even love them.”

Edelgard looked up, intrigued.

“I’ve been there,” Dorothea went on, straightening a bit. “I wanted to be seen. To be chosen. So I smiled, I flirted, I gave… because I thought it would protect me from loneliness. That it would give me a place, somewhere. But you know what? He never did anything for me. He never lifted a finger.”

She shrugged, as if to shake off the bitterness.

“And during all that time, I lost myself. I forgot what I really wanted.”

Edelgard listened silently. Touched, maybe. Or simply shaken to hear so much all at once.

Dorothea continued, more gently now:

“So if what you feel for that person troubles you, it’s normal. But that kind of trouble… it’s sometimes a sign that it matters. That it’s real. The real question, El, is: can you imagine continuing to live… if you had to walk away from her?”

Silence. Long. Edelgard lowered her eyes slightly, clearly caught in an inner storm.

Dorothea leaned in, and without sarcasm, without a mask this time, she added:

“Love can be a light, but it can also burn everything. It can make you abandon your cause, or turn you into the worst version of yourself… But if it’s mutual, if it’s sincere… then maybe it doesn’t destroy. Maybe it saves.”

A pause, then she concluded in a breath:

“I lost myself trying to be loved. You… just try not to lose yourself in loving.”

Edelgard raised her periwinkle eyes to her, looking more fragile than ever.
And Dorothea, without saying it aloud, hoped that she, at least, would find the courage not to give everything to someone who would never reach back.

Chapter Text

It had been several weeks now since Sylvain had started avoiding her, and Ingrid no longer knew what to make of it.

At first, she had just shrugged it off, deciding to let him sulk in peace. After all, if he wanted to act like a pouting child, let him. But as time passed, not only did Sylvain not come back to her, but none of the monastery girls seemed to have anything to complain about lately. No crying in the dormitories, no rumors of broken promises or abandoned love letters left on the cloister benches. Nothing. And that, frankly, was strange.

Sylvain without a conquest was like a cloudless sky in Faerghus: rare, suspicious, and often a sign of an incoming storm.

Ingrid had tried not to think about it. She wasn’t alone, after all. There was always Dimitri or Felix to train with—each with their own temperament, between one’s calm intensity and the other’s silent brutality. She often ate with Mercedes and Annette, sometimes even with Dorothea, with whom a strange sort of connection had formed—made of subtle jabs and shared silences.

But despite all that… she missed Sylvain. Or rather, Sylvain’s absence bothered her. He was annoying, frivolous, sometimes unbearable, and yet, he had always been there. He was the one giving her teasing glances during class, barging into her room to complain about his latest rejection, or finding some ridiculous excuse to drag her on a walk into town.

And she had to admit it: despite all his flaws, despite everything she had sworn never to accept from a man like him… Sylvain was her best friend.

Ingrid sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
It wasn’t the silence that bothered her the most—it was the not knowing. Why now? Why this sudden distance? She thought back to that ridiculous time he had tried to charm her own grandmother—he’d earned himself a legendary slap, and yet by the next day, he was back by her side like nothing had happened.

This time was different. It wasn’t sulking. It wasn’t a game.
It was… distance.

And she didn’t like it one bit.

Ingrid closed the library door with an irritated gesture. She sighed as she descended the steps, lost in thought, when a familiar voice called out to her.

“Ingrid.”

She looked up. Felix was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed.

“If it’s about training, I was just heading there,” she said, eager to avoid yet another issue.

“It’s not about that.”

She stopped, intrigued. “Oh?”

Felix looked at her for a moment before saying in his usual neutral tone:

“It’s about Sylvain.”

Ingrid raised her eyebrows in surprise. She said nothing, so he continued:

“He’s been acting weird lately. Do you know anything?”

“No, not at all. But you’re right—he’s… different.” She frowned. “To be honest, he’s outright avoiding me.”

Felix nodded slowly.

“That’s what I thought. It’s like he’s avoiding everyone, but you especially.”

Ingrid looked at him, taken aback. It wasn’t like Felix to show concern openly.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Because I’m not going to talk to him. It’s not my style. And if anyone can get through to him, it’s you. It won’t be me or that wild boar.”

Ingrid sighed. “I’d like to, but he’s avoiding me, Felix. He won’t even talk to me. I don’t know what I did.”

“You have no idea? Nothing at all?”

She thought for a moment, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe… Maybe it has to do with that girl. The one I told to stay away from Sylvain because he was bound to break her heart.”

Felix raised an eyebrow. “You told her that?”

“Yeah. But it’s not the first time. I’ve done it plenty of times before. And he’s never held it against me. So why now?”

“Who knows,” he said, shrugging again. “I’ve said what I came to say. If you want to do something about it, go ahead. If not, oh well. Maybe he’ll sulk in his corner forever.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“But if you really want to know what’s going on, go ask him. Even if you have to force it out of him.”

And with that, Felix walked away, leaving Ingrid alone in the hallway.

Ingrid remained there, alone in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed and eyes lost in thought. Felix's words echoed in her head, over and over. “It’s you he’s avoiding the most… You’re the one who can do something.”
But why her? Why now? And why did it affect her so much?

A cheerful voice broke through her thoughts.

“Hey, Ingrid!”

She started slightly and turned. Hilda was approaching with her usual smile and bright energy. Ingrid attempted a polite smile.

“Hello, Hilda.”

But her tone was distant. Hilda stopped beside her, head tilted slightly.

“You okay?” she asked, eyes scanning Ingrid’s face. “You look… weird. I mean, weirder than usual.”

Ingrid shook her head gently. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking.”

Hilda narrowed her eyes, crossing her arms.

“Mmhmm. You can say what you want, but I know when something’s off. I may not be great at training, but I can read moods.”

Ingrid let out a small sigh. She hesitated, then finally murmured:

“It’s Sylvain. He’s ignoring me. And I don’t even know why…”

Hilda raised her eyebrows. “He’s ignoring you? Like, really?”

Ingrid nodded. “It’s been weeks. I thought it would pass, but now… it’s strange. Like I did something wrong. And when I ask him, he acts like nothing’s wrong. Says he’s not ignoring me.”

“Well then,” Hilda replied, feigning outrage, “I’d go and push. Honestly.”

Ingrid looked at her, puzzled. “Push?”

“Yeah! You think I’ve never dealt with that? Marianne, for example—sometimes I feel like she’s mad at me. I never know why. So I go talk to her and push a little. I ask questions, I circle around the topic. Though with Marianne it’s tricky because she’ll apologize even when she’s done nothing wrong.”

She paused for a moment, looking dreamy.

“But Sylvain isn’t Marianne. He’s outgoing, he likes to talk. If you push a little, he’ll eventually say what’s bothering him.”

Ingrid seemed thoughtful. Hilda gave her a playful nudge with her shoulder.

“And if he still says he’s not ignoring you, rub his nose in it.”

Ingrid frowned. “…Excuse me?”

“Well yeah. You tell him: ‘You haven’t looked me in the eye in days. You don’t eat with us anymore. You’re not acting like yourself. So stop pretending you’re not ignoring me.’ Boom. Don’t let him wiggle out of it.”

She finished with a pleased smile, clearly proud of her strategy.

Ingrid sighed… then gave a faint smile.

“You have a strange way of giving advice, Hilda.”

“Maybe. But admit it, I’m not totally off.”

Ingrid nodded slowly.

“No. Not totally.”

She straightened up, breathing in a little deeper. Maybe Hilda was right. Maybe it was time to stop waiting for Sylvain to come back on his own. Maybe she had to go and get him. Even if it meant forcing things a little.

And this time, she was determined to get an answer.

 

Ingrid gently opened the door to Sylvain’s room. The familiar scent of polished wood and worn pages greeted her. He was lying on his bed, a book open in his hands, legs crossed. When he looked up and saw her, a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

“Ingrid? What are you doing here?”

His voice wasn’t aggressive, nor was it welcoming. Just… neutral. Too neutral.

She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her.

“I’m done, Sylvain. This situation… you pretending I don’t exist—I’ve waited long enough. I want to talk.”

He slowly closed his book without sitting up.

“I don’t really see what you mean,” he said flatly. “And right now, I’m busy. Maybe we can… talk later?”

Ingrid crossed her arms, her gaze hardening.

“With you, there’s never a ‘later.’ All you do is avoid, dodge, lie. Stop denying it, Sylvain. You’re avoiding me, and it’s obvious.”

He looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You won’t even look me in the eye,” she shot back. “It’s been days—weeks, even—since you’ve really spoken to me. You don’t eat with us anymore, you leave the moment I show up… and frankly, I’m sick of it! At first, I thought I could live without you. But the truth is, you’re my best friend. And I need to understand what’s going on. So talk.”

He clenched his jaw. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he let out a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees.

“You didn’t do anything, Ingrid. Really. It’s not you.”

“Then what is it?” she replied, softer now but no less determined. “If it’s not me, what is it? You have no idea how frustrating it is to keep wondering what I might have done wrong.”

Sylvain ran a hand through his hair, clearly uneasy.

“It’s stupid… and I don’t even want to talk about it. It won’t change anything, and I already know you’re not going to like it.”

Ingrid stepped closer.

“I have no reason to believe you, Sylvain. And I’m tired of being kept in the dark. You were always the one who said too much, even when you shouldn’t. So why are you staying silent now?”

He looked up at her, with a tiredness in his eyes that didn’t suit him.

“Because it’ll make you mad. And I’d rather not see you look at me like that.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“With you, I’m ready for anything. You think I haven’t seen the worst of you? You’ve embarrassed me, made me laugh, made me cry… and yet, I’m still here. So believe me, I can handle it.”

A sad smile tugged at Sylvain’s lips, but it vanished just as quickly.

“You say that, but you tend to freak out over nothing.”

Ingrid pressed her lips together, stung. She was about to snap back, but he raised a hand.

“Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

A long silence settled. She was waiting. He knew it. And he knew she wouldn’t leave without an answer.

Finally, he took a deep breath, lowered his gaze to the floor, and in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:

“I slept with Dorothea.”

The silence that followed was ice-cold. Ingrid stared at him, frozen. No words came. Just… emptiness.

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she took a step back, as if his words had struck her like a blow.

Apparently, keeping her promise not to get angry was going to be harder than she thought.

Ingrid stood frozen, still leaning against the door, eyes wide, her breath shallow.

“W-what do you mean… you slept together?” she stammered.

Sylvain finally looked at her. He frowned slightly, clearly uncomfortable.

“Well… we slept together, that’s what I mean.”

She shook her head, as if unable to process it.

“You kissed, right? Just that?”

“No, Ingrid,” he replied gently. “We had sex.”

She blinked. She stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

“No… that’s not possible. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Sylvain sighed and looked down. Then, with a weary voice and a hint of irony, he said:

“We had sexual intercourse, Ingrid. Want me to draw you a picture? Because I honestly don’t think I can be any clearer. I… let’s just say, I released the sauce, as they say. That’s it.”

Ingrid stayed silent for a second, then slowly slid down against the door, as if her legs couldn’t support her anymore. She murmured, almost to herself:

“This isn’t real… This can’t be happening… You’re not married… You’re not in love…”

Her voice trailed off. Then, suddenly, she looked up at Sylvain, panic in her eyes:

“You’re not in love, right? You… you don’t love her?”

Sylvain shook his head slowly.

“No. No, we don’t love each other. I mean, not romantically. That I can assure you.”

A sigh of relief slipped from Ingrid’s lips. But it was quickly followed by a frown and a sharp question:

“Then why did you do it? You have to be in love to… to do that. That’s normal. That’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s not optional.”

Sylvain ran a hand down his face, already tired.

“No. Everyone does things their own way.”

Ingrid looked at him, shocked.

“What? No, you’re just saying nonsense. That’s disgusting. That’s not normal! It’s not normal for Dorothea to do that…”

Sylvain looked at her, now clearly irritated.

“You can’t judge everyone by your rules, Ingrid. Not everyone thinks like you.”

Ingrid straightened up, still leaning on the door, her voice shaking with anger:

“I don’t think this is the first time you’ve slept with someone. So why are you telling me now? Why is this the one that’s weighing on you? You’ve slept around before—this isn’t new! So why now? Why Dorothea?!”

Sylvain crossed his arms, avoiding her gaze.

“Because… it’s Dorothea.”

She stared at him, not understanding.

“I don’t get it. What difference does it make that it’s her?”

He remained silent for a moment, as if hesitating. Then he shook his head, eyes far away.

“You know exactly what I mean. Even if you don’t want to admit it. I shouldn’t have… not with her. Not when I know what’s between you two.”

Ingrid frowned.

“There’s nothing. NOTHING.”

She took a step forward and slammed her hand against his chest, pinning him to the wall. The sound cracked through the room like a thunderclap.

“I don’t care, Sylvain. You can do what you want with your body. Sleep with whoever you like—it’s none of my business!”

He looked at her, unmoving.

“You’re lying.”

She pulled back slightly, as if burned. Her face twisted, anger rising like a tide.

“If Dorothea wants to act like a whore, let her. But she can do it far away from me. And you—don’t you dare come bragging about it to my face.”

He stared back at her, this time with a hard expression.

“Dorothea isn’t a whore. And that’s beneath you to say. Beneath a knight.”

Ingrid went quiet. She turned her gaze away. Her breathing was fast, erratic. She didn’t answer.

A long, heavy silence fell over the room. The air seemed frozen.

Ingrid, still facing Sylvain, felt a warmth rising in her chest. It wasn’t anger this time. It was something deeper. Something more fragile. Her eyes began to blur, her lips to tremble.

“Tell me, Sylvain…” she murmured in a hoarse voice, “do you think I’m… too quick-tempered?”

Sylvain stared at her, surprised by the question, and saw tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He gently shook his head.

“No. I think you’re just… emotional. And your heart is going through a big upheaval. It’s normal, Ingrid.”

She looked up at him, tears streaming freely now, without her trying to hold them back.

“But I… I don’t want to change. I don’t want to become someone else…”

Sylvain took a step toward her, slowly, without force. He opened his arms and hugged her with rare tenderness, without any malice, without any insinuation.

His voice was low, almost a whisper:

“You haven’t changed, Ingrid. Not really. You’re still you. You always have been, even if you tried to bury it all. Now it’s up to you to decide if you’re ready to accept that part of yourself. But no one but you can make that choice.”

She froze for a moment, then collapsed against him, her arms clutching his back like a lifeline. Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, she burst into tears.

“I just want to… make everyone proud…” she sobbed. “My family, my people… I want to help others, I want to protect them. I want to be like those knights we admire, the ones brave enough to bring a smile wherever they go! So why… why is it so hard? Why can’t I make people happy? Why doesn’t anyone say: Thank you, Ingrid, you saved us…”

She held on even tighter, as if saying it made the pain more real, more alive. Then her voice cracked:

“Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I make people proud…?”

Sylvain squeezed her tighter, his hand slowly sliding down her back to comfort her.

“You make people proud, Ingrid. Just by being yourself. Even if you don’t see it yet, even if they don’t always say it.”

Ingrid pulled back slowly, her eyes red, her breathing uneven. She stared at him for a long moment, as if trying to hold on to every word, every feeling of this moment.

Then, in a tiny voice, she whispered:

“I’m not ready… I don’t think I ever will be…”

She looked away, adding in a breath:

“So I’d rather keep lying. Pretending to be the person I need to be… just to be sure I can save my home.”

She broke free from his embrace as abruptly as she had clung to it. Without another word, she turned and left the room, leaving Sylvain standing alone, still warmed by the intensity of her pain.

The door closed softly. Silence fell again.

Ingrid was a coward.

And she knew it.

Chapter Text

Dorothea walked briskly beside Byleth, her smile pinned to her lips like an overly flashy brooch.

"Honestly, Professor, did you see that sword? You were already intimidating before, but now? With Nemesis’s sword? You look like a heroine straight out of a Greek tragedy. It’s..." She snapped her fingers theatrically. "Sexy. Powerful. A bit dramatic... I love it."

Byleth sighed, hands clasped behind their back, gaze fixed straight ahead. "Dorothea, don’t you have something to do?"

"Well, yes, technically. But everyone’s avoiding me right now." She threw her arms in the air, exasperated. "Manuela’s back on her manhunt, and honestly? She’s worse than me these days. That says a lot."

She raised one finger to count.

"Petra’s mad because she walked into an enemy ambush at the Goddess Tower, so now she’s training with Caspar and Ferdinand. Well, Ferdinand isn’t exactly my friend, so him being busy? Can’t say I mind."

A second finger.

"Felix? Completely unreachable. But hey, it’s not just me he’s avoiding—he’s avoiding everyone."

A third finger, more hesitant.

"Sylvain, though, he’s definitely avoiding me. And that’s insulting, you know? I mean, sure, what we had wasn’t serious, but come on—I wasn’t that bad in bed, was I? Bad enough for him to run away like I’m some sort of traumatic memory? That’s just rude!"

Byleth cast her a surprised glance but said nothing. Dorothea shrugged, laughing softly to defuse her own awkwardness, and raised a fourth finger.

"Ingrid’s avoiding me too... Which is annoying, because I thought we were finally getting closer. And Hilda? She’s glued to Marianne these days—which, okay, I respect that, they’re adorable—but still, she shuts me down anytime I bring up dresses or balls."

A deeper sigh this time, as she dropped her hand, having lost track of her own list.

"And even Edelgard is avoiding me, but... that—that I can’t tell you why."

Byleth stopped in the hallway and turned to her, finally intrigued.

"Why not?"

Dorothea smiled, almost too cheerfully. Her eyes sparkled with a mysterious gleam.

"Ah, now that, Professor, is a secret." She held a finger to her lips. "A very good secret."

A silence passed. Byleth frowned slightly but asked nothing more.

Dorothea continued, now with a more playful air:

"I talk a lot, don’t I? I’ve been following you around, dumping all my drama on you. Maybe I’m a bit... suffocating?"

Byleth looked at her, expression unreadable.

"You’re not suffocating. Let’s just say... you’re hard to ignore."

Dorothea looked at them for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"I’ll take that as a compliment."

And with a wink, she resumed walking beside them.

Then Dorothea glanced around before leaning toward Byleth with curiosity:

"Say, Professor… where exactly are we going?"

Byleth, still standing straight with hands clasped behind their back, answered calmly:

"Jeralt asked me to check on his horse. He thinks it might be sick, but he has a meeting with Seteth and Catherine, so he asked me to handle it."

Dorothea's eyes widened, touched.

"Aww, that’s adorable. That whole father-daughter bond you two have… It melts my heart. You're the silent type, but always there when he needs you. That’s really sweet."

Byleth turned their head slightly toward her, expression neutral but with a flicker of interest in their eyes.

"You don’t have a good relationship with your father?"

Dorothea froze for a moment. Her smile remained, but a bit of color drained from her face.

"Mm… Let’s just say I never really knew him." She shrugged, pretending to be casual. "And from what I’ve gathered, that’s probably for the best. I don’t think he was a very… decent man."

A silence followed, then she lifted her chin with a more dazzling smile.

"But hey! I should probably thank him anyway. Thanks to him, I likely inherited what makes me one of the most beautiful faces in all of Fódlan, right?" she said with a wink.

Byleth stared at her for a moment. It was clear Dorothea was hiding more than she let on. But they said nothing.

They reached the stables. The place was quiet, nearly empty at that hour.

Dorothea wrinkled her nose at the first whiff of the air.

"Ugh… Horse manure really isn’t my favorite scent… And heels in straw? Bad combo." She was about to turn back.

But Byleth came to a sudden stop.

"Hello, Ingrid."

Dorothea blinked, surprised.

A blonde head rose out of a pile of hay. Ingrid stood up abruptly, clearly caught off guard.

"Hello, Professor." She hesitated for half a second. "...and Dorothea."

“Ingrid!” Dorothea exclaimed.

The brunette rocked slightly on her heels, hands behind her back, all smiles as they approached the stables.

“So… how have you been lately?” she asked with mock nonchalance, casting a glance at Ingrid. “Almost feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Ingrid replied too quickly, almost defensively: “I’m not avoiding you.”

Dorothea tilted her head, puzzled, but didn’t push it. She raised her hand to point at one of the pegasi.

“Is that your mount?”

Ingrid nodded. “Yes. My father sent it from Galatea. He was… pleased with my recent results.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “Results? Wait, I didn’t know about this!”

She turned to Byleth, who was gently brushing a warhorse, and called out:

“Professor, what about me?”

Without looking up, Byleth replied in a calm, almost mechanical tone:

“Good marks in offensive magic. Average with the sword. Below average in most other areas, especially healing magic. You could do better, Dorothea. You have the potential.”

“I am trying!” she complained, hands on her hips, before turning to Ingrid. “And what about you?”

Ingrid straightened up a bit, clearly proud.

“Second-highest grade in lance work after Dimitri. Near top score in riding. Top marks in flying unit command. Decent with the bow. Average elsewhere… except offensive magic. That one was rough.”

Dorothea applauded with genuine enthusiasm.

“Wow! What a champion!” She noticed Ingrid’s cheeks flush pink. Interesting, she thought. She likes compliments.

With a playful smile, she let her hand slide gently along Ingrid’s arm.

“Of course you did so well… with a body like that.” Her voice dropped lower, more sultry. “So beautifully sculpted…”

Ingrid pulled away, her cheeks crimson. “Dorothea… what are you doing?”

Dorothea stepped closer, a sly smile forming as she leaned in near her ear.

“I was just wondering if I’d ever get the privilege of seeing it up close… in detail.”

Ingrid yanked her arm back, flustered and thrown off balance.

Dorothea, fascinated, couldn’t help but marvel at that red face, that pure, startled confusion. Irresistible, she thought. I want to see that expression more often…

“What are you doing?!” Ingrid nearly shouted, stepping back.

“Nothing at all,” Dorothea replied innocently. “We’re just talking. Girl talk.”

Ingrid lowered her gaze. “It doesn’t feel like just talk…”

Dorothea leaned in to catch her eyes—so close now. Ingrid’s were green too… but hers held a unique depth, almost painful to stare at for too long.

“If it wasn’t just talk… then what was it, do you think?”

Ingrid turned away. “I… I don’t know.”

Dorothea stepped forward, playful, her breath brushing Ingrid’s cheek.

“You must have some idea… don’t you?”

“No.” Ingrid pulled away again, voice taut.

“You know you can tell me anything. I won’t judge you.”

“I said I wasn’t thinking anything!” Ingrid snapped, stepping back sharply—only to hit the wall behind her.

Dorothea didn’t stop. She placed her hand against the wall near Ingrid’s head, leaning in again, very close now.

She could feel Ingrid’s breath, fast and uneven, almost against her lips.

“Well… whatever you were thinking earlier…” she murmured, locking eyes with her, “It can’t possibly be worse than what I’m thinking now, looking at you like this.”

Ingrid, now beet red, practically shouted:

“Leave me alone!”

And she shoved her—harder than she meant to.

Dorothea lost her balance, tripped on a patch of hay, her heel snapped, and she fell backward into the straw with a loud poof. Her hat flew off, her hair got tangled with bits of hay, and her dress ended up with an ugly stain. She lay there, dazed, limbs tangled, her hairstyle ruined.

Ingrid froze, then stammered:

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to, I swear…”

Then she turned and fled the stable in hurried steps.

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the soft clop of a hoof on straw.

Byleth approached, arms crossed, speaking in a neutral but firm tone:

“Dorothea, you should learn to respect other people’s boundaries. No means no. Just because you're a woman doesn’t mean that rule doesn’t apply to you.”

Dorothea, still on the ground, opened her mouth… but no words came out.

She let out a long sigh… and dropped her head back into the hay.

“Great… and now my hairstyle’s ruined too.”

 

Dorothea’s brisk pace through the halls of Garreg Mach matched the sharpness of her frustration. Her arms were crossed, her chin tilted up, a frown etched on her face.

What the hell is going on right now?

She sighed, irritated. Was her charm... fading? That seemed absurd. Impossible, even. Usually, with a well-placed gesture, a slightly overdone smile, she could be sure that she wouldn’t be sleeping alone that night. But now? With the professor treating her like a lovesick teenager, and Ingrid pushing her away as if she were... a threat? No. It was insulting. Very insulting.

Okay, sure, there was the possibility: maybe Ingrid wasn’t attracted to women. But honestly... we were talking about Ingrid here.

A young woman with no interest in men, who dreamed of becoming a heroic knight to save princesses in distress. Honestly, it was hard to get more gay than that, without waving a rainbow flag from the top of the Goddess Tower.

Well, of course, making generalizations was wrong—Dorothea was aware of that. But she didn’t boast for nothing: she had the best gaydar in all of Fódlan. And as soon as she got near Ingrid? Alarm. Siren. Purple lights. The whole shebang.

The problem was, Ingrid wasn’t out, that’s all. And judging by how things were going... she probably never would be.

Dorothea grimaced. It was sad, really. Ingrid, who was doing everything to harden herself, to fit into a rigid, cold mold... when she was clearly made for something else.

She wanted to help her. Sincerely. Not just to get her into bed (okay, that would be a bonus, sure), but to help her love herself. Dorothea knew all too well what it felt like to be ashamed of yourself, to twist yourself into a shape that didn’t fit, and most of all, to disgust yourself with your choices.

But Ingrid, she still had time. She could still accept herself.

And Dorothea... was going to help her.

Even if it meant pushing a little.

Even if it meant looking like a forceful one.

She was going to do it. Because she had made it her mission.

At that moment, a guard passing by in the gardens approached her and tapped her on the shoulder. Dorothea had already flashed him a smile that was a little too eager once or twice, and the guy remembered that well.

“Mademoiselle Arnault! Would you like to spend some time together tonight?”

She waved a distracted hand, not even looking at him.

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

She resumed her determined pace, her mind already elsewhere.

Ingrid...

She was going to help her open her eyes.

 

Ingrid slammed the door to her room behind her, panting, and hurriedly turned the key in the lock.
She leaned against the cold wood for a moment, her heart pounding like a drum. Then, without even removing her boots, she threw herself face-first onto her bed.

Her cheeks were still burning. Her breath came in short bursts. She buried her face in the pillow and let out a muffled groan of frustration.

What the hell was wrong with her?!

Dorothea made her panic. Clearly. And that was not good.
She knew it. She knew she had blushed. And of course Dorothea had seen it — how could she not? Ingrid was blushing like a schoolgirl. Ingrid, the stoic one, the rigid one, the one who could face down dragons without flinching... reduced to a bundle of nerves by a glance, a smile, a voice.

But not just anyone’s voice.

Dorothea’s.

She flipped abruptly onto her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it might provide a miraculous answer.

Why her? Why was she the one who could do this to her?
Around others, Ingrid kept her composure. Always. Even Sylvain, with his lewd comments and charming smiles — she could shut him down without blinking.
But Dorothea? With her, everything crumbled.

And she knew. Dorothea knew.

She was toying with her. That much was obvious. It wasn’t real. Dorothea was just playing, like always. She flirted with everyone, flitted from one person to another without ever settling — Sylvain was living proof of that. Ingrid was probably just a new challenge, some exotic little target to seduce for fun... or just to kill time.

No. Ingrid wouldn’t be that. She refused to be a distraction.

And besides, it wasn’t like she even liked Dorothea. No. Absolutely not. She was... insufferable. Too confident. Too provocative. Always putting herself in the spotlight. Always talking, laughing, shining...

Ingrid winced.

...with her long hair, so soft, so perfectly silky... that almost unreal shade of auburn.

She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts growing darker.

...and her eyes. Piercing green. Deep. Mocking. Sometimes gentle. Too gentle.
Her full lips that always seemed to be smiling.
Her hands — slender, graceful, delicate.
Her hips, her chest, the way she moved... her voice...

Ingrid swallowed hard.

She shut her eyes. But the images refused to go away.

Gods, help me...

Finally, Ingrid let her hand slide with deliberate slowness along her body, an almost timid caress that traced an invisible but burning line on her skin.

The fabric of her dress brushed her fingers as she descended, finally reaching the softness of her thighs. There, her hand paused, suspended in the air, a palpable moment of hesitation where doubt and desire clashed. A part of her begged her to stop, to pull back, but the other, deeper and more insistent, pushed her forward.

Finally, without a word, she made her decision.

Her hand moved gently upward, slipping with new boldness under the hem of her skirt, then insinuating itself inside her blue tights, whose cool lycra contrasted with the rising heat of her skin.

She was already wet, a treacherous dampness that made her grit her teeth. She hated herself for this involuntary reaction of her body, for this weakness she couldn't control. But it was too late. The gesture was initiated, the path traced, and stopping now seemed an impossibility, a torture.

Her fingers grazed the delicate fabric of her panties, a contact so light it almost went unnoticed, and yet, a sigh, a barely audible moan, escaped her lips. Goddess, how sensitive she was. Ingrid very rarely masturbated; she wasn't the most familiar with the nooks and crannies of her own pleasure, the winding paths of her desire. But tonight, the need was there, pressing, a hunger she couldn't ignore.
She moved her finger with a little more assurance, her head still flooded with images of Dorothea, of her smile, her gaze, her simple presence.

A new moan, deeper this time, escaped her. Her restraint collapsed.

She parted her legs slightly, offering more direct access, and her hand plunged unhesitatingly into her panties, her fingers immediately finding the small, sensitive bulge of her clitoris.

At the same instant, an illusion so powerful that she was disturbed by it, she could have sworn she heard Dorothea's voice, soft and husky, whisper in her ear that she was a "good girl."

Of course, Ingrid was alone in the room, the silence broken only by her own panting breath.

But imagining it was Dorothea's fingers, and not her own, that were touching her, only intensified the sensation, eliciting more moans, more urgent, more liberated.
She let herself be carried away by the fantasy, building a world where Dorothea would compliment her, tell her how wonderful she was, that her help was essential to everyone.

In this vision, Dorothea would insert two fingers at once, a bold gesture, then whisper how happy she was that Ingrid was there, that her presence was a blessing.

And of course, in contrast to these sweet and comforting words, Dorothea's hand would be wilder, more imperious, adapting perfectly to Ingrid's desires, to her slightest shivers.

She would even let her touch her chest, that part of her that Ingrid loved so much, that she couldn't help but discreetly look at, hoping Dorothea had never noticed.

It would be wonderful…

The tension mounted, each caress of her fingers, each image of Dorothea, pushing her further, deeper into pleasure.

Her body tensed, her muscles contracted. And with one final, precise, and intense stroke on her clitoris, Ingrid arched her back, a muffled cry escaping her throat as she reached orgasm, a powerful wave that completely submerged her.

It took her a moment to compose herself, breathless, a long sigh of satisfaction mixed with confusion escaping her lungs.

She brought her fingers to her face, a grimace of disgust mixed with surprise seeing their liquid and shining state.
What she had just done, this explosion of desire, proved nothing of a potential homosexuality. And even less, she told herself with a firmness she tried to believe, feelings for Dorothea.

Chapter Text

Dorothea let out a long sigh, her head resting in her hand, her plate still half full in front of her. Across the table, Linhardt and Caspar were deep in conversation—or rather, Caspar was animatedly carrying on a passionate monologue about ice cream.

"I’m telling you, the cows in Faerghus aren’t like the others, Lin! It’s so cold up there, their milk comes out frozen already, I swear."

Linhardt, clearly more focused on his meal than the conversation, rolled his eyes.

"Caspar, that’s literally impossible. You're confusing ambient temperature with the laws of nature... again."

But Caspar kept talking as if his friend hadn't said a word. Dorothea watched them for a moment: the bickering, the teasing glances, the effortless way they shared the moment... it went beyond friendship. A true bromance, as people say.

And it annoyed her.

Not because they got along well—no, not that. But because she, herself, was alone.

She pushed her chair back without a word. Neither of them seemed to notice her leaving, and she picked up her plate to go sit somewhere else. She just wanted to eat without feeling jealous of other people’s happiness.

She scanned the hall, looking for a free seat.

Hilda? No, she was sitting next to Marianne, and from how close they were, it looked more like a date than a casual lunch between friends. Dorothea turned her head.

Over there, a free seat! Across from Felix. Perfect. Felix seemed entirely incapable of romantic feelings. If he had ever smiled at a living being, it was probably by accident. She walked over, almost relieved.

But just as she reached the spot, Annette slipped into the seat across from him.

Dorothea was about to keep walking when she froze in place: Annette was cutting a piece of bread... and holding it out to Felix.

...Was she about to feed him?!

Dorothea felt a chill of despair crawl up her spine.

Even Felix?!

Even he had a more active love life than she did?!

What kind of twisted world had she ended up in?

On the verge of defeat, she finally spotted another empty seat, right in front of Lorenz.

She had never really talked to him, but everything about his posture and perfectly groomed hair screamed “pretentious.” Still, it was all that was left. She shrugged. Clothes don’t make the man, right? She, of all people, knew that well.

She approached.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

Lorenz slowly looked up at her, observing her for a few seconds, which immediately made her uncomfortable. Then he gave her a near-ceremonial smile.

"Of course, Lady Arnault. I would be honored."

She returned a polite smile, set down her plate, and sat. She cut a piece of fish, trying to focus on her meal and ignore the awkwardness in the air.

But Lorenz spoke again, his voice as solemn as if he were reciting a poem:

"You intrigue me greatly, Dorothea."

She looked up slowly, offering a measured smile.

"Oh? And why is that?"

He straightened his shoulders, eyes serious.

"Well... for a commoner, you are surprisingly elegant."

Dorothea slowly lifted her eyes from her plate, her gaze slightly narrowed, not quite sure she had heard correctly.

“What was that?” she asked, her tone calm but cold.

Lorenz, with the smug confidence of someone who never doubts their own righteousness, responded as casually as if commenting on the weather:

“Well… you know, commoners are often… unclean. But you’re an exception. Clearly, you’ve figured out how soap works.”

Dorothea frowned.

“Not all commoners are dirty. It’s just that they don’t have the luxury of bathing in golden tubs every day. There’s a difference.”

Lorenz shrugged indifferently.

“Perhaps. But some of them almost seem to take pride in it. It’s odd, really.” He paused, then looked at her more closely, his gaze drifting over her with something like clinical curiosity. “And your family? Were they like that too?”

Dorothea felt her stomach tighten. She stared him straight in the eyes, ready to reply with the weight of a slap.

But before she could speak, Lorenz chuckled softly, as if he had just told a harmless joke.

“Oh come now, don’t look at me like that! I’m saying you’re the exception. A commoner… with refinement.”

She clenched her jaw, swallowed her anger, and forced a smile.

“Thank you… I guess.”

Lorenz continued, still perfectly composed.

“By the way, how did you get into the Academy? I mean, I was already surprised that Leonie got in—but after all, she’s from the Alliance, and we’re much more lenient on that sort of thing, so fine! But you, you’re from the Empire! And their policies are much stricter regarding people of your class, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dorothea hesitated. Part of her wanted to throw her plate in his face. Another part wanted to prove she was better than him—not by title, but by dignity. She chose that path.

“I was lucky enough to meet the right people. People who helped me prepare for the entrance exam.”

Lorenz studied her for a moment. Then he said, with casually cruel certainty:

“Oh! So you must’ve played the courtesan.”

Her eyes widened, her stomach turned to ice.

“What did you just say?”

“Oh come now, don’t be offended,” he replied calmly. “You’re charming. You know how to use that. It’s not surprising. What is surprising is that the Academy allowed it. That’s exactly why I oppose this kind of mixing between nobles and commoners.”

Dorothea felt her heart pounding in her chest. He went on, undisturbed, wrapped up in his own monologue.

“This kind of egalitarianism is an illusion. You and I… we were never meant to walk the same path. I was invited here. My place was destined. You… well, you had to become someone’s plaything to earn yours.”

A wave of rage, shame, and disgust surged through her. Her throat tightened. But she didn’t look away.

“I’m not some cheap whore.”

He ignored her, as if she hadn’t spoken.

“But really, it’s for your sake that I worry—for commoners. You’re given false hope, and then it shatters against reality. No matter how hard you try… you’ll always be beneath us. Making you believe otherwise… is cruel.”

As Dorothea prepared to respond—likely louder than she intended—a sharp noise cut through the tension: a plate was set down forcefully on the table, right next to Lorenz. A chair scraped back. Someone sat down.

Ingrid.

She wore a polite, perfectly controlled smile—almost too smooth.

“Lorenz Gloucester,” she greeted in an even tone.

Dorothea looked between them, confused, as Ingrid slowly turned her head toward her.

“May I join you?” she asked pleasantly. Yet Dorothea sensed a chill beneath the courtesy. Ingrid hadn’t come just to share a meal.

Lorenz answered immediately, his voice suddenly sweeter than usual:

“Miss Brandl Galatea, it’s an honor to dine in such charming company.”

Ingrid gave him a brief smile, then turned her head again.

“What were you two talking about? I thought I heard something about the differences between nobles and commoners.”

Lorenz nodded earnestly.

“Indeed. Miss Arnault and I come from very different backgrounds, and that naturally reflects in our values.”

Dorothea glanced at Ingrid, uncertain where this was going.

Ingrid’s smile didn’t waver.

“Really? And how exactly is Dorothea different from us who were born into nobility—beyond wealth, I mean?”

Lorenz hesitated for a moment, but answered:

“Well… it all comes down to education. Nobles and commoners don’t grow up with the same foundations.”

Ingrid slowly nodded.

“I see.” She turned to Dorothea. “Where did you spend most of your childhood, Dorothea?”

Dorothea was silent for a moment before answering, slightly guarded:

“Mostly in the capital’s streets, before I was discovered by Manuela and joined the Mittelfrank Opera at the start of my teens.”

Ingrid smiled at her—this time, almost warmly.

“So, outside, playing with the other children? Just like me.”

She turned to Lorenz.

“I was born a noble, and yet… my childhood wasn’t so different, was it?”

Lorenz raised a brow.

“No offense, milady, but House Galatea holds onto nobility in name only.”

Ingrid nodded, unfazed.

“That’s no secret.”

Lorenz continued:

“As for me, I was raised surrounded by tutors, scholars, and instructors. Hardly the same as an upbringing spent running through the fields.”

Ingrid looked at him for a moment, still perfectly polite.

“So let me get this straight. Because you spent your youth locked away reciting lessons, that makes you somehow more noble than me?”

Lorenz, without a hint of doubt, replied:

“Objectively, yes.”

A brief silence followed. Then Ingrid spoke again—calm, but sharp as a blade:

“Fair enough. But in that case, there’s something I don’t quite understand.”

Her gaze fixed on him, now more intense.

“When I was a child, the one I spent the most time playing outside with… was Dimitri. Crown prince of the Kingdom. Are you saying you’re more noble than he is?”

A chilling silence fell over the table. Even Dorothea, no stranger to social sparring, felt the air freeze.

Lorenz opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Dorothea, stunned at first, felt a slow smile creep onto her lips. She couldn't quite decide what she admired more: the surgical precision with which Ingrid had turned the conversation around… or the way she'd done it without ever raising her voice.

She glanced at Lorenz. He was staring blankly, as if trying to recalculate his entire value system on the spot. He finally opened his mouth, ready to defend himself—but Dorothea was faster.

“That’s true, Lord Gloucester. Unless, of course, your tutors were so illustrious they somehow made you more royal than the Crown Prince of Faerghus himself?” she said sweetly, though the irony was sharp and unmistakable.

Lorenz straightened in his seat, clearly offended.

“That’s not what I meant. I...”

“It is what you said,” Ingrid interrupted, still perfectly calm. “You claimed that education alone defines nobility.”

“It’s not only about education,” Lorenz tried. “There’s also blood, duty, tradition...”

“Which you just discredited yourself, by saying a house like mine no longer holds true nobility despite its lineage,” Ingrid replied, her tone composed, stating a fact, without a trace of anger.

A heavy silence followed.

Lorenz, now red as a beet, stood up abruptly.

“I… I realize I have an appointment with Professor Hanneman.”

“What a shame,” Dorothea said with mock disappointment.

Lorenz turned on his heel, leaving behind his plate—and his dignity.

A brief silence.

Dorothea finally exhaled.

“Well… thanks, Ingrid. Without you, I probably would’ve punched that idiot.”

“I don’t like people who think their status makes them better than others,” she replied simply.

Dorothea nodded.

“In any case, it’s nice to eat with someone who doesn’t look at you like you need to apologize for existing.”

Ingrid didn’t respond right away, focused on her food.

Then, in a steady voice, she said:

“I didn’t like the way he spoke to you.”

Dorothea looked up, surprised. It wasn’t just polite filler—it was sincere. She searched Ingrid’s eyes, and found them unflinching. Calm, clear, and unwavering.

Suddenly uneasy, Dorothea reached for lightness.

“Should I take that as a chivalrous gesture? You know I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

Ingrid shrugged, unbothered.

“I know. That doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. But something stirred in Dorothea’s chest. That kind of line… it was usually hers. She was the one who charmed, who disarmed. Not the other way around.

And yet, in that moment, facing Ingrid’s quiet confidence, she felt… seen. Not as a flirtatious silhouette or a hallway heartbreaker. But as someone worth standing up for.

Dorothea looked away, just a bit too quickly.

She speared another piece of fish without a word.

Her smile had faded.

But the faint blush on her cheeks remained.

 

A few days later, the sun beat down harshly on the training grounds. Dorothea, breathing heavily, stepped away from the center of the field to rest in the shade. She had been sparring with Petra for over an hour, and each minute had drained her a little more. When she finally asked for a break, Petra merely nodded and moved on to fetch a bow, joining Bernadetta, Ashe, and Mercedes over at the archery range.

Both classes had taken over the field, each absorbed in their own drills. Dorothea sat beneath a tree, watching the scene with a distant gaze, wiping the sweat from her brow. Maybe she should’ve gone to join Hubert and Annette, who were casting spells off to the side. Then again… maybe not. She liked observing, sometimes. Slowing down.

But apparently, not everyone shared that sentiment.

Ferdinand appeared in front of her, arms crossed, chest puffed out like he’d just stepped out of an Imperial recruitment poster.

“What are you doing, Dorothea?” he asked, with the concerned tone of a general catching a lazy recruit.

She looked up at him, unimpressed. “Taking a break. I’m exhausted.”

Ferdinand raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised—almost offended.

“You’re the only one resting. The training session is far from over.”

Dorothea shrugged.

“Then I guess I’m the only one who’s tired.”

“Or the only one lacking proper conditioning.” He frowned, insistent. “It just proves you’re not training enough.”

Dorothea sighed.

“I mostly fight using magic, you know. It’s not quite as draining as dodging blades for an hour.”

“That’s no excuse,” Ferdinand replied immediately. “And I’m not here to lecture you—though clearly you could use one… but if you keep this up, you’ll never make any real progress. You’ll never be among the best.”

She turned her head to him, tired but amused.

“But I don’t want to be among the best, Ferdinand. Being average suits me just fine.”

He let out an exasperated sigh, clearly irritated by her attitude.

Then, suddenly, as if struck by divine inspiration, he marched to the weapon rack, grabbed a spear, and—before Dorothea could protest—tossed it at her.

She caught it midair, eyes wide.

“Excuse me?!”

Ferdinand drew his own lance with a gleam of excitement in his eyes.

“I’m going to make you move. You’re training, now.”

“First of all, I don’t use a spear. Second, I don’t even know how to hold one!”

“Then this is the perfect time to learn!”

He charged without warning. Dorothea barely had time to leap aside to avoid the blow.

“Ferdinand!” she shouted, furious. “I said I wanted a break!”

“Your level is insufficient!” he retorted, not slowing in the slightest. “And you already stand out as the only commoner among the Black Eagles. You don’t need to be the weakest on top of that!”

The next strike hit her in the side, not hard, but enough to make her grunt in pain. She stumbled, gripping the spear awkwardly, completely overwhelmed. She had no idea what she was supposed to do.

“You’re fighting like you’re holding a broom !” Ferdinand cried, practically scandalized.

Dorothea clenched her jaw. The fight was unfair, ridiculous. She hadn’t come here to prove anything. But now, humiliation was bubbling inside her, burning with every heartbeat. She didn’t yet know if she was going to explode in rage… or break down in tears.

And still, Ferdinand kept coming.

As the redhead raised his spear for another strike, Dorothea clenched her teeth and shut her eyes, bracing for the blow.

But it never came.

A sharp clash of metal rang out in the air.

She opened her eyes just in time to see Ingrid standing between her and Ferdinand, her own spear raised, having blocked the strike. The wooden shafts of their weapons still trembled from the impact.

Ingrid.

Her again? Dorothea blinked, stunned. But… why? What was she doing here? She could’ve sworn Ingrid had been training with Dimitri and Sylvain earlier... unless she saw Ferdinand walk off? He had been with them, if Dorothea remembered right...

“I don’t like what I’m seeing, Ferdinand,” said Ingrid, her tone calm but sharp as steel. Her eyes were steady, her brow slightly furrowed. “Dorothea told you to stop. You didn’t listen. And on top of that, this ‘fight’ is anything but fair.”

Ferdinand looked thrown off by her sudden appearance, lowering his spear just a fraction.

“But I… I just wanted to get her moving! It wasn’t anything bad! I was doing it for her!”

“It’s not up to you to decide what’s good for Dorothea,” Ingrid replied, still without raising her voice, but with a firmness that brooked no argument. “Only she can say that. And you should know that pushing someone too far in training is a serious mistake. If you wanted to help her, all you did was humiliate her.”

Ferdinand opened his mouth, then closed it again. Words seemed to escape him.

Ingrid took a step back, lowering her spear slightly—then lifted it once more into position.

“If you’re so eager for a fight,” she added, “I’d be more than happy to be your partner.”

She shifted into a ready stance, feet planted, gaze unwavering.

“Well? Are you ready?”

Ferdinand clenched his jaw. He hesitated… but pride, his ever-faithful companion, made him nod.

“I am.”

And without another word, he charged.

The clash of spears echoed across the field. A few students paused, turning to watch. The duel quickly drew attention, an icy tension radiating from the two fighters.

Ferdinand attacked with force, wide, powerful strikes, executed with discipline, but Ingrid had the precision of a scalpel. She evaded by a hair’s breadth, deflecting blows with minimal movement, each counter sharp, deliberate, surgical.

When Ferdinand struck diagonally, Ingrid turned her spear, guiding his weapon down and away before riposting with a clean thrust that made him stagger back.

Her style was fluid, methodical, controlled. Ferdinand’s, though impressive, left openings, a fact the aspiring knight did not miss.

Within minutes, it became clear: Ingrid had the upper hand. She didn’t overpower him. She outclassed him. She read every move he made, forcing him onto the defensive until fatigue began to creep into his arms and his breath came shorter.

In a final attempt, Ferdinand tried a feint, quick slash, then a thrust, but Ingrid saw it coming. She stepped aside and placed the tip of her spear right at his chest, ending the match.

“Touch,” she said simply.

Ferdinand stood frozen, breathless. His eyes moved from the spear, to Ingrid… then to Dorothea, who stood off to the side, watching silently.

Ingrid lowered her weapon, but her tone remained firm.

“Training isn’t a license to impose your will on others. Strength means nothing without control.”

Ferdinand nodded slowly, visibly shaken by the outcome. He turned to Dorothea.

“I’m sorry, Dorothea. I swear, I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

She looked at him for a moment. Normally, she might’ve told him that maybe he hadn’t meant to—but that’s exactly what he’d done. Still… Dorothea, still quietly reeling from Ingrid’s intervention, simply nodded.

Ferdinand gave a polite bow and walked off, leaving the other onlookers to return to their training.

Ingrid turned to Dorothea. Her expression had softened, though she remained composed.

“Are you alright?”

Dorothea gave a small nod. She had stayed silent through the entire duel, eyes fixed on Ingrid’s figure. She should’ve said something snide by now—teased, flirted, said something clever.

But instead… she just felt moved.

Ingrid hadn’t said anything grand. No dramatic declarations. She had simply stepped in, because what was happening wasn’t right. Because she refused to look the other way.

And that, to Dorothea… was more disarming than she’d expected.

 

That day, Dorothea had decided to cross the gardens alone, a stack of grimoires in her arms. Hubert had lent—well, forced—them upon her: a series of obscure tomes on advanced magical theory, insisting she “cultivate her intellect” if she wished to “remain worthy of Lady Edelgard’s attention.”
Charming.

The sun beat down mercilessly, and the air was so heavy it felt like a damp blanket closing in around her. She sighed, walking in slow, careful steps, her arms numb from the weight of the books.

And, of course, her foot caught on a root.

A short yelp escaped her as she pitched forward, books already flying from her grip. She shut her eyes, bracing for impact, face-first into the dirt…

…but the ground never came.

Two strong arms caught her mid-fall, steadying her gently. Her body leaned into someone’s chest, and when she opened her eyes, she found herself looking into a face she’d recognize anywhere.

Ingrid.

Ingrid, arms still around her, brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering in her usually composed gaze, as if rescuing people was just part of her daily routine.

“Are you alright?” Ingrid asked, calm and direct.

Dorothea’s breath caught. The sunlight, the arms holding her, the closeness, Ingrid’s slightly husky voice… It was too much. Far too much.

She blinked, quickly regaining her composure, a playful smile already forming on her lips.

“Well… Ingrid, if you wanted to hold me, you just had to ask. I’m very open to such things, you know.”

She expected Ingrid to blush as usual, look away awkwardly, mutter something incomprehensible. But no.

Ingrid, unbothered, simply let go and bent down to pick up one of the fallen books. She handed it back to Dorothea without the slightest hint of reaction.

“I just did what anyone would have done. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Dorothea froze for a second, her smile faltering slightly. That was… it? No blushing? No awkward silence?

She accepted the book, feeling more unsettled than she cared to admit.

“Well!” she chirped with a forced little laugh. “Look at you, Ingrid. Between heroic duels and rescuing people in gardens—or in the dining hall, for that matter, I might start thinking you’re a proper knight in shining armor!”

Ingrid answered with simple honesty, her tone natural and free of irony:

“Good. That’s exactly how I want people to see me.”

She gave a slight shrug, not to impress, but because she meant it.

Dorothea blinked. A blush crept uninvited to her cheeks. Without another word, she scrambled to pick up the rest of her grimoires, stacking them haphazardly in her arms.

She turned on her heel quickly, tossing a vague “Thanks, by the way!” over her shoulder before striding off in a hurry.

What is wrong with me today? she thought, cheeks burning. I’m the one who’s supposed to do the charming! I’m the one with the clever lines! And she, she just stays calm, as if none of this is unusual?

She shook her head, muttering under her breath:

“This isn’t normal. This is so not normal. I’m supposed to make her blush, not the other way around! She’s flirting with me, I swear... or... maybe she’s not? But still!”

Lost in her spiraling thoughts, she turned a sharp corner, and walked straight into someone.

The books slipped from her arms again as she stumbled back with a stifled grunt.

“Ow, oh come on, not again, !”

“Ooooh, Dorotheaaaaa!” came a falsely cheerful voice.

Sylvain grinned at her, arms out as if she’d flung herself at him in some grand romantic gesture.

“Throwing yourself at me now? Is this a new seduction strategy? ’Cause I’ve gotta say, it’s working.”

“Ah! Sylvain! Perfect timing! I’ve got a huge problem. With Ingrid.”

Sylvain—who had been oddly discreet around her lately, which, coming from him, was borderline alarming—raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking very... invested.

“Ingrid?” he said, intrigued but clearly pleased. “What’s going on with her?”

Dorothea narrowed her eyes, glancing around to make sure no eavesdroppers were nearby. Then, in a hushed voice, she declared:

“I think she’s flirting with me.”

Sylvain stared at her, mouth slightly open, then frowned in confusion.

“Wait… what? Ingrid? Flirting with you? Are we talking about the same Ingrid here? Blonde, average height, super bossy? Though... maybe that’s just how she is with me.”

“Yes, Sylvain! Ingrid Brandl Galatea!”

“So that Ingrid is flirting with you?”

“Yes! Well… I think so!” Dorothea crossed her arms, clearly frustrated by her own uncertainty. “She shows up out of nowhere to save me from the dumbest things, she responds with all this confident knightly nonsense, and she doesn’t blush at all anymore. It’s deeply unsettling! I used to have the upper hand! And now… now I’m the one blushing like a fool! Suspicious, right?”

But when she looked up at Sylvain again, Dorothea paused.

His face had gone still, almost horrified, his eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“What?” she asked, concerned. “You’re not… happy for us or something? I thought you were supportive!”

Suddenly, Sylvain stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, looking uncharacteristically grave.

“Dorothea. This is bad. Really bad.”

She blinked, baffled.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Sylvain shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear it.

“Ingrid’s not flirting with you. What you’re describing… that’s just how she is with everyone.”

“Wait, what?” Dorothea said, stunned. “But… she wasn’t like that with me before. She was stiff, flustered, less… perfect.”

Sylvain let go, placing a hand to his temple like the weight of the world had just dropped onto his head.

“Exactly! Ingrid’s usually all knightly and uptight, like a steel rod in human form. Never says a word she doesn’t mean. But with you? From the start… she relaxed. She let the mask drop. She was more like… herself.”

He gave her a serious look.

“And that’s what tipped me off.”

Dorothea stood there, stunned.

“So… you mean I was… special to her?”

“Totally,” he nodded solemnly. “But if she’s suddenly treating you the same way she treats everyone else…”

Dorothea’s face froze. Her complexion paled slightly.

“...then that means her feelings faded, and she’s putting me back on the same level as anyone else…”

Sylvain took a deep, dramatic breath, then nodded again, almost with a theatrical finality.

“Maybe not completely… but yeah. It’s not a good sign.”

“But why now?” Dorothea cried, panicking. “I haven’t changed, have I? Tell me! I order you to tell me if anything about me looks different!”

Sylvain raised his hands, clearly overwhelmed.
“No, nothing! I swear! You’re still as stunning, as captivating, as..”

“Then what happened?!” she interrupted, groaning and placing a hand dramatically on her forehead.

Sylvain scratched the back of his neck, just as lost as she was. Then suddenly, as if struck by lightning, he clapped his hands.

“That’s it!”

Dorothea’s head snapped up.
“What?! What is?!”

Sylvain leaned in, looking a little sheepish, but determined.

“I told her we… you know… slept together.”

Dorothea stared at him. Her mind blanked.

“…You told her?”

“Well… she’s my best friend. I felt bad hiding it.”

She exhaled, a little annoyed but mostly disoriented.

“It wasn’t a secret, sure… but you could’ve not mentioned it.”

Then, frowning, she added:

“And how would that even make her act like this?”

Sylvain ran a hand through his hair, hesitated… then finally said, almost gently:

“She’s scared.”

“Scared?”

“Yeah. Ingrid’s the kind of person who buries everything under duty. She doesn’t listen to her heart—because it terrifies her. And with you? She liked you. Maybe more than she wanted to admit. But then she finds out you slept with me, the academy flirt... So what does she think? That you weren’t serious. That it was all a game. Just like she always feared.”

Dorothea opened her mouth to reply…

…but no words came out.

She was stunned.

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” Dorothea asked, nearly in despair.

Sylvain shrugged, looking resigned.

“Not much, unfortunately. Ingrid’s as stubborn as they come. Once she makes up her mind, it’s like carving it in stone. But... she respects honesty. And she forgives. Especially when the apology is sincere.”

Dorothea lifted her head slightly.

“In that case, I’ll apologize! No matter what it takes, I want her to look at me like she used to!”

A genuine smile spread across Sylvain’s face, and he clapped softly, almost touched.

“That’s the spirit I like to hear.”

But just then, Dorothea froze. Her eyes widened as though a silent bolt of lightning had struck her. A thought had crept into her mind—and she couldn’t push it away.

Sylvain didn’t notice the shift in her expression immediately. He glanced up at the setting sun.

“Well, I’ve got a date with Constance…” he said, already beginning to walk off. “I’ll leave you to your existential crisis.”

Dorothea didn’t respond. She merely nodded vaguely.

“See you later, Dorothea!”

She remained there, alone in the empty courtyard, while the sky above the monastery turned a soft orange.

And one question kept spinning in her mind:

Why did she want Ingrid to care so badly?

She had everything. Dozens of admirers. Compliments for days. Her voice turned heads wherever she went. She could make hearts flutter with a glance.

So why Ingrid?

Why her, so straight-laced, so rigid, so... far from what Dorothea usually went for? She wasn’t even a wealthy noble. No lands, no fortune, nothing to offer by traditional standards. Linhardt had confirmed it the other day, digging through some old registry in the library: House Galatea had little left but its name.

And yet...

“I don’t like people who think their status makes them better than others.”

That sentence echoed in her mind. An honest sentence. A just one. A... real one.

It was the kind of thing the Ingrid she cared so much for would say.

And in that moment, she understood.

Ingrid hadn’t pulled away.

Ingrid had simply gone back to treating her like everyone else.

Once, Ingrid had awkwardly told her she found Dorothea’s determination impressive.

How long had it been since someone complimented anything other than her figure, or her face, or her voice?

How long since someone had looked at her as a person, and not as some beautiful fantasy?

“You’re impressive.”

She had said it. Ingrid had said it.
Not about her beauty. Not about her dress. Not about her posture.
But about her.

Dorothea slowly curled her fingers against her chest. There was a strange pressure there. A knot tightening slowly.

Her heart had skipped a beat.

And now it was beating faster.

She was afraid. Afraid of understanding.

Because deep down, she knew what it meant.

She was falling in love with Ingrid Galatea.

And so, Dorothea smiled, foolishly.

Love was such a beautiful feeling.

Chapter Text

Love must be earned, right?

Dorothea had always believed that.

Since childhood, she clung to that idea like a raft: that one day, maybe, if she became beautiful enough, gentle enough, desirable enough… someone would end up loving her. Truly.

A sincere love. Steady. Pure.

A love that doesn’t hurt.

But today, she’s not so sure anymore.

She looks at her hands.

They’re slender, elegant, always perfectly kept.
Stage hands. Parade hands. Not hands made for tenderness.

And she thinks of all the times she’s played a role.

Seduced just to feel alive.

Offered smiles she didn’t really feel.

Used her gaze like a weapon—because it was all she knew.

To be flattered, desired, chosen… and then forgotten.
Again and again.

Is that what it means to earn love?

Maybe she only knows how to be wanted.
Not how to be loved. Just… desired.

And over time, she confused the two.

She convinced herself that if someone wanted her, it meant she was worth something.

But deep down… she doesn’t believe her own illusion anymore.

Honestly, she kind of disgusts herself.

She sighs, lowers her eyes.

Maybe she doesn’t deserve love.
Maybe she’s been too selfish, and soon no one will want her at all.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know anything anymore.

Being alone in the world is awful… so painfully hard…

Dorothea looked out the window of her room. It reflected her face back at her—a face that lies just to love, as long as it can still seduce...

But does she really deserve love?

Goddammit, and now she was going to have to take another shower...

 

Ingrid walked with a determined stride through the halls leading to the dormitories.

The day had been long, but productive. At training, she had surpassed her own goals, and her report on historical battle strategies had received praise from Professor Hanneman.

A faint smile touched her lips—it wasn’t something that happened every day, and she had every reason to be proud.

As she reached the hallway to the rooms, she passed Marianne, who was clearly returning from the library, a thick book clutched to her chest.

Ingrid gave her a small nod and a quiet, “Good evening, Marianne.”

The girl replied with a quick, barely audible nod, her eyes darting away.

Ingrid didn’t take offense. She was used to it by now.

They had been neighbors for months, and despite a few discreet attempts on her part to make conversation, the distance between them had never truly closed.

Marianne seemed to live in another world—a quiet, often melancholic world, where only a select few were granted entry.

Ingrid was not among them. And maybe she didn’t truly want to be, either.

Truthfully, some people were just naturally better at socializing than others.

As she thought about it, she began forming two mental columns.

The extroverts:

Sylvain, of course, always surrounded by people;

Annette, warm and tireless;

Ashe, kind and approachable;

Dorothea, charismatic and always laughing with someone;

Ferdinand, who talked far too much to not be in this category;

Claude, unpredictable but charming;

Hilda, brilliant and carefree;

Caspar, loud but honest;

Balthus, too blunt for his own good;

and Constance... at least on sunny days.

Then there were the introverts:

Felix, who only seemed interested in sparring;

Marianne, obviously;

Bernadetta, who vanished the second anyone raised their voice;

and Linhardt… though she hesitated there.

He was quiet, yes, but not out of shyness—more like a fundamental disinterest in anything that required effort.

As for herself… she considered herself normal. Not shy, not loud. Just… balanced.

And she realized she preferred “normal” people.

Like Mercedes, for instance. Always gentle, but never weak.
Or Ignatz—quiet, but capable of deep passion when he spoke about art.

With people like that, everything felt smooth. Predictable. Steady.

And that was what she liked.

Because talking with someone like Claude was like walking a tightrope—you never knew where he was leading.

And with someone like Bernadetta, you had to constantly watch every word, every tone.

No, simplicity had its virtues.

And tonight, that was all she longed for:

a bit of silence, a bit of order, and a steaming cup of tea before slipping under the sheets.

Well… that was the plan.
Until she spotted a sealed envelope placed squarely in the center of her desk.

The handwriting on the front was unmistakably her father’s.

Ingrid sighed deeply, already feeling a headache coming on. She had promised herself she would deal with it today, despite the burning urge to ignore it for a few more days.

But procrastination, in her eyes, was one of the worst flaws a knight could have.

And she wanted to be a knight—not a coward.

She sat down at her desk and broke the seal, her heart already weary.

Inside, another list of potential suitors.

“Lord Theophil von Heinfelden,” she read aloud.

A renowned knight, decorated for bravery on the battlefield. Loyal, courageous, disciplined.

But apparently also a fervent supporter of the most rigid doctrines of the old nobility.

He believed women shouldn’t ride alone. That they existed solely to bear heirs…

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, then crossed out the name without hesitation.

Next: “Albrecht Darvel.”

According to the attached note, a wealthy merchant who had made his fortune in pottery.

But also, apparently, someone who had been accused several times of sexual assault…

Then: “Viktor von Neuschwan.”

A young lord from a minor house, recently enriched through savvy investments in mineral trade. Ambitious, eloquent, charismatic.

But his file also included mentions of excessive gambling, reckless spending, and a few incidents at noble balls.

Charming, no doubt… but about as trustworthy as a horse without a bridle.

Ingrid slumped back in her chair, arms hanging limp.

She had asked her father to give her time—to at least wait until she finished her studies at the Academy. He had promised.

But judging by the envelope lying there, plain and deliberate, that promise had evaporated like morning dew in the Faerghus sun.

She didn’t blame him.

Not really.

The Galatea estate was in such desperate condition that she understood him.

He wasn’t trying to sell her off to the highest bidder; he had never demanded she marry a stranger, nor tried to impose a name upon her.

He sent her suitors, yes—but he let her refuse. And when she did, he never brought it up again.

But it was all a façade.

There were too many. Far too many.

She wasn’t stupid.

She knew exactly what they saw in her: a name, a crest, a final glimmer of prestige on a faded noble banner.

And her? She was just a pawn. A doorway to noble land, even if it lay in ruin.

She set the list back down, her hand suddenly cold.

They don’t want me... They want what I carry.

And that night, tea felt pointless.

Nothing could warm up that truth.

 

Miklan was dead.

Ingrid hadn’t witnessed his end.

It wasn’t her class that had been sent—it was the Black Eagles, accompanied by a few knights. Their mission: recover the Lance of Ruin, a sacred relic of House Gautier, stolen by Miklan himself.

Sylvain’s older brother. Banished, disowned… and now, dead.

She had only seen him a few times in her childhood. But one memory, in particular, had never left her.

She must’ve been nine.

She was training with a lance in the courtyard.

Sylvain too. They’d sparred, like they often did. And that day, she had beaten him. She was proud, full of energy. Sylvain had laughed.

“Okay, okay, you win… You’ve really gotten better, Ingrid!”

She had smiled at him. She could still recall the warm sunlight on the stone, the smell of dust and leather.

But Miklan, leaning against a pillar, had rolled his eyes.

“Seriously? You got beaten by a girl? What a disgrace.”

Sylvain had shot back immediately:

“It’s Ingrid! She’s really strong—it’s not the same thing.”

But Miklan hadn’t smiled.

“First of all, she’s not that strong—you’re just useless. And second, she’s a burden to her family. Honestly, it would’ve been better if one of her brothers had gotten the Crest. Or a normal girl. Not… that.”

He had said it right in front of her. Without lowering his voice. As if she wasn’t even there.

That evening, she had returned home in silence. In her room, she cried for a long time. A servant had noticed, slightly worried.

“Is everything all right, Lady Ingrid?”

Ingrid had wiped her eyes and lied—she didn’t want to trouble others with what she saw as trivialities.

“It’s nothing… I just didn’t like dinner.”

From that day on, she had avoided Miklan as much as possible.

 

Now, he was gone.

Dead while trying to wield a relic he should never have touched.

When Dimitri broke the news, Sylvain had looked surprised.

Not broken.

Not like Ashe, after Lonato’s death.

Sylvain had just sighed.

“Can’t say I’m sad about it. I didn’t like him.”

Ingrid hadn’t replied. She had simply observed him—noticed the sharpness in his gaze, the tension in his jaw.

“He always hated me. And I get it.” He had told her later, when they were alone. “I have the Crest. I’ve got everything he wanted. He always saw me as the one who stole his place.”

He had shrugged—more bitter than sorrowful.

“Sometimes I wonder… if it had been me instead. If I’d been born with nothing, always in someone else’s shadow… Maybe I’d have snapped too.”

Ingrid hadn’t known what to say.

It wasn’t an excuse.

But it was true: not everything was black and white. Even Miklan, through all that hate, must have been in pain.

But she couldn’t pity him.

She remembered his words. The contempt in his voice. That day, she had felt so small.

That night, she gazed out the window, toward the armory—
Where the Lance of Ruin now rested, sealed for good.

At that moment, there was a knock at the door.

Ingrid stood up, a little surprised. When she opened it, she came face-to-face with Dorothea, who greeted her with an almost innocent smile.

Ingrid instinctively took a small step back, just a reflex. She straightened immediately. She had to remain composed. Especially in front of her.

"Good evening, Dorothea," she said politely. "Can I help you with something?"

Dorothea hesitated for a moment, then replied with a small laugh:

"I just wanted to talk… But I know it’s a bit late, so if you’d rather we do this another time, I understand."

Ingrid opened the door a bit wider, her expression calm and steady.

"No, it’s fine. Come in. I’m all yours."

"Oh, you really shouldn’t say things like that, Ingrid…" Dorothea said with a playful smirk. "If you keep that up, I might start to believe it. Might even do something reckless."

Ingrid clenched her jaw slightly, fought off a blush for half a second, then frowned just a little.

"If you came just to say nonsense, you can leave right now."

Dorothea raised her hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. I’ll stop. I’m serious this time."

She walked in without hesitation and sat down on Ingrid’s bed, crossing her legs with ease. Ingrid, meanwhile, silently prayed her brain would stop overheating at the sight of Dorothea looking so comfortable on her bed. She took a seat at her desk chair, back perfectly straight.

Dorothea let her gaze wander around the room. She paused on a stack of letters lying on the desk.

"What’s all that?"

Ingrid turned, saw what she meant, and picked up the letters with a tired gesture before putting them down again.

"A list of suitors. Sent by my father."

"That many, huh? I’ve always had people who desired me… but not so many who wanted to marry me."

Ingrid replied a bit sharply:

"That’s because you’re not noble."

Seeing Dorothea raise a perfectly arched, almost mocking eyebrow, she immediately corrected herself.

"I mean… sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant is, those men want to marry me for my name, my Crest. Not for… me. Not for who I am. Unlike your… conquests."

Dorothea chuckled softly.

"You know, if those nobles knew who they were really dealing with, I’m sure you’d have even more offers."

Ingrid blinked.

"What do you mean?"

Dorothea shrugged, a sincere smile touching her lips.

"If I were in their place—a noble, Crest or no Crest—just looking at you… I’d want to marry you. Who wouldn’t want to claim someone as adorable as Ingrid Galatea?"

Ingrid shot her a sharp look.

"I’m being serious, Dorothea."

Dorothea opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. Silence settled between them.

Ingrid continued, more calmly, but with firmness:

"Married or not, I’ll never belong to anyone. If I belong to anything, it’ll be the army. And that’s all."

Dorothea blinked slowly, a little taken aback.

"For me… love is that. Belonging to each other."

Ingrid pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly.

"That’s not love. That’s dependence. And it’s toxic."

Dorothea shrugged with a half-smile.

"I’ve never really had a good example of a couple, but… that’s part of how I see love."

Ingrid narrowed her eyes slightly. "So… you’re okay with belonging to someone?"

"Yes," Dorothea replied calmly, her gaze gentle. "If it’s someone I love, then I trust them. Completely. I’d know they’d never hurt me… So they could do whatever they wanted with me."

Ingrid looked away, uncomfortable.

"That’s hard for me to understand."

Dorothea gave a small laugh—low, almost bitter.

"Well, for someone to love me like that in the first place…" She lowered her eyes, a faint crease forming at the corner of her lips. "That’s not likely to happen."

Ingrid lifted her head abruptly, startled. She opened her mouth to reply, but Dorothea cut her off right away:

"But anyway, I mainly came to ask if you’re free on the 29th."

Ingrid blinked, caught off guard.

"The 29th? Uh…" She thought for a moment. "I think so. Why?"

Dorothea’s smile returned, this time brighter.

"Because it’s my birthday! And I’m throwing a real party."

Ingrid nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Sounds like a good idea."

"You’ll see—I'll show you how we used to throw parties back at the Mittelfrank Opera."

Ingrid chuckled softly, then asked:

"So… how old will you be?"

Dorothea rolled her eyes with a theatrical sigh.

"Nineteen... Racing toward the grave at full speed."

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"Wait, you’re two years older than me?"

"Looks like it, my dear," Dorothea giggled. "I’m the eldest—you should start treating me with a bit more respect. You could even call me Madame Arnault. Has a nice, sexy ring to it, no?"

Ingrid sighed.

"You seriously can’t stay serious for more than five minutes, can you?"

"But I am serious!" Dorothea protested as she sat up straighter, then asked with a more composed tone:

"And you? When’s your birthday, anyway?"

"The 4th of the Guardian Moon. I’ll have to be patient a little longer."

"Ah, so you’re an early-year baby!" Dorothea exclaimed. "That means there’s just a one-year gap between us, really."

Ingrid shrugged.

"If you say so. But at our age, whether it’s one year or two doesn’t really matter anymore."

Dorothea stood with a soft laugh.

"Well, I may be the older one here—but you’re definitely the more mature one!"

Then, more determined:

"It’s settled. I have four months to find a gift worthy of you."

That made Ingrid freeze. She frowned, suddenly aware that she, on the other hand, had less than a month to figure out what to give Dorothea.

A gift… But what does Dorothea even like? Where would she find it? And with what money, for that matter…?

Her thoughts were interrupted.

"Well… I should get going," Dorothea said as she stretched.

Ingrid stood too, walked her to the door.

But just as she was about to open it, Dorothea suddenly turned around—so quickly that they were now only inches apart.

Ingrid felt her heart hammering in her chest.

Saint Seiros, please don’t let her hear that…

But her expression stayed neutral. Composed.

Dorothea looked her straight in the eyes for a moment, then said gently:

"I’m glad you’re coming. Just having you there will already be the best gift I could ask for."

Ingrid clenched her teeth. She knew perfectly well Dorothea said things like that to everyone. That was her style—flirty, teasing.

But still… to say it that naturally…

"See you soon, my Ingrid~" Dorothea sang as she walked down the hallway.

Ingrid stayed there, frozen on the threshold. It was impossible not to connect that sudden possessiveness with the conversation they'd had earlier.

It took her a few seconds before she slowly closed the door, leaning back against the cold wood.

Her cheeks flushed without her permission. She let out a long sigh… then quietly congratulated herself.

She had managed, once again, to keep her composure.
A true knight's demeanor—untainted by any impure desire!

But how long could she keep her wicked thoughts at bay?

Chapter Text

Ingrid was thinking. Seriously. Intensely.

She had to find a gift for Dorothea.

Time had flown by since their last late-night encounter, and Ingrid hadn’t had a single second to herself. Between classes, missions, training, sorting through letters from suitors, dealing with Sylvain’s nonsense, impromptu duels with Felix, tending the stables, and cleaning weapons with the knights… she was everywhere. Always helping. Always available. Always in motion.

And she didn’t complain. Not at all.

But as a result, the month had sped by, and here she was already on Sunday the 21st. The only real day off in her week—and there was just one left, the 28th, only a day before the birthday.

She couldn’t wait until the last minute. That would be ridiculous, shameful, and above all, unworthy of a knight.

But even with more time, she wouldn’t have known what to give. Finding a good present had never been her strong suit. Ingrid wasn’t… intuitive, let’s say, when it came to other people’s tastes.

And Dorothea… Dorothea talked a lot, yes, but she always implied she liked everything. Absolutely everything. Which, for Ingrid, made things even harder. She didn’t want to give just anything. It had to be something she would truly like. Something that mattered. Something that could… bring out that special smile Dorothea sometimes had.

But what?

Dorothea had invited everyone. Even the students from Abyss, from what Ingrid had heard. Hilda was already giggling about the fact they might come up to the surface for the occasion.

Even they probably had a gift.

Ingrid, for her part, had ended up asking Sylvain what he planned to give. He’d replied, grinning, that a bouquet of roses would be just perfect:

"Roses, because that’s what Dorothea makes me think of, and flowers always make women happy, right?"

She’d had to fight the urge to punch him in the face.

A bouquet. Honestly.

She wanted something more personal. More sincere. Not necessarily expensive—her father only sent her a modest sum each month, and there was no way she’d ask for more—but… a gift that had meaning. Something Dorothea would remember.

And besides, Dorothea had been a diva. A real one. Pampered, showered with luxurious presents by wealthy nobles… How was she supposed to compete with that?

No, no. There was no need to impress. Just… to make her happy. To make her smile for her.

That thought alone was enough to bring a little warmth to her cheeks.

Ingrid didn’t even feel the cool breeze or the shy autumn sun.
All she could see was that cursed date drawing closer—and that cursed gift idea she still hadn’t found.

She startled slightly when she sensed someone beside her.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

She turned her head. It was Mercedes, who had just sat down with a gentle smile.

“Oh—hello, Mercedes…” Ingrid replied, a little surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I was passing by and saw you sitting alone. You looked worried.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

“Worried? But… how can you tell that just by looking at me?”

Mercedes tilted her head slightly to the side, still wearing that same soft smile.

“I’ve always had a little knack for noticing when someone isn’t doing well. It’s instinctive, I suppose.”

Ingrid sighed, gazing straight ahead.

“I wish I had that knack too…”

Mercedes looked momentarily surprised.

“But you already help everyone, Ingrid. You’re always there for us.”

Ingrid shook her head.

“No, it’s not the same. You can feel when someone isn’t okay. I just react when someone asks me for help. If they don’t say anything, I don’t notice.”

Mercedes lowered her eyes for a moment, then placed a light hand on the bench between them.

“What you do is already very precious, you know. You give your time, your strength…”

But Ingrid cut her off, her hands tightening on her knees.

“It’s not enough.”

Mercedes fell silent for a moment, a little surprised by Ingrid’s sharp tone. Then her smile returned, softer than before.

Ingrid sighed.

“Anyway… that’s not even what’s stressing me right now,” she went on. “It’s Dorothea’s gift. I still haven’t found anything. And her birthday’s coming up fast.”

She turned her eyes toward Mercedes.

“Do you already know what you’re going to give her?”

Mercedes nodded gently.

“I’m going to make sweets from Enbarr. They’re specialties from there, so I thought it might bring back good memories for her.”

Ingrid stared at her in silence. The idea struck her as both simple… and perfect. Well thought out, personal. Exactly the sort of thing she could never seem to come up with.

She sighed again.

“How do you always manage to have the best gift ideas?”

Mercedes shrugged slightly, looking a bit shy.

“Oh, I don’t know if they’re the best, but I just try to think about what would make the person happy. That’s all.”

Ingrid crossed her arms, looking a little sulky.

“Last time, for Sylvain’s birthday, you gave him an amazing cologne. And honestly, he didn’t deserve it…”

Mercedes let out a soft laugh, her hand covering her mouth.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Maybe. But still…” Ingrid muttered.

She looked straight ahead again, her face troubled.

Mercedes folded her hands on her knees and turned her head slightly toward Ingrid.

“You know… to understand how others feel, you have to start by observing.”

Ingrid frowned.

“Observing? I already do that. I’m always watching people—especially on the battlefield.”

Mercedes shook her head gently.

“It’s not the same thing. Watching to track movement and watching to understand emotion… are very different.”

Ingrid narrowed her eyes.

“But how am I supposed to know what someone’s feeling just by looking? I can’t read minds, Mercedes.”

Mercedes smiled, amused by the response.

“You don’t need to read minds. Look at their posture, their face, their gestures… For example, if someone keeps their shoulders low and avoids eye contact, they might be sad or embarrassed.”

Ingrid crossed her arms.

“Or maybe they’re just tired.”

Mercedes laughed softly.

“That’s true… but that’s why you also have to listen. Not just to what they say, but how they say it.”

Ingrid shrugged.

“I don’t see how that’s supposed to help me figure out what kind of gift to give…”

Mercedes calmly continued:

“Because if you know how someone is feeling or what they’re going through, you can guess what might bring them a little joy.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, your way of thinking sounds way too complicated for me.”

Mercedes tilted her head, still smiling.

“It’s not complicated, but it does take patience… and a bit of sensitivity.”

“Sensitivity…” Ingrid repeated, looking doubtful. “I’m not sure I have much of that.”

Mercedes shook her head softly.

“You have more than you think. You just need to stop focusing only on what people do, and start asking yourself why they do it.”

Ingrid stayed silent for a few seconds, then sighed.

“I’m not making any promises. But… I guess I can try.”

Mercedes smiled, though she knew Ingrid didn’t yet see exactly where she was going with this.

Ingrid lowered her head, looking a little hopeless, then finally turned her eyes toward Mercedes.

“And you… do you ever not say exactly what you’re thinking?”

Mercedes gave a small, amused smile.

“Of course. I think everyone does… and for lots of different reasons.” She tilted her head slightly. “And you, Ingrid… you don’t always say what you’re thinking, do you?”

Ingrid stayed silent for a moment. She felt her heart quicken. The answer was obvious. Ever since she was a child, she’d kept to herself anything she considered unworthy. Of course she didn’t say everything.
She simply nodded.

Mercedes smiled warmly.

“I thought so.”

Ingrid looked up, surprised.

“What do you mean, you thought so?”

“I’ve seen you do it before…” Mercedes replied gently. “And I’d bet it’s not just a few feelings you hide from others, but a whole inner world.”

Ingrid wanted to argue, but Mercedes went on in the same calm tone:

“You know, there are some secrets that are better left to come out on their own… when the person carrying them is ready. You have to give them time.”

Feeling a little awkward, Ingrid tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

“And what about you, then? What are you hiding?”

Mercedes gave a slight start, surprised by the question.

“Oh… I think I hide far fewer things than you do. I always try to be honest with my friends. But… sometimes, when I’m not feeling very well, I’d rather lie so I don’t worry anyone.”

Seeing the concern on Ingrid’s face, she quickly added:

“It’s never anything serious, I promise.”

“Then why do you get sad sometimes?” Ingrid asked, still looking straight at her.

Mercedes gave a faint, melancholy smile.

“It’s often when I think about my little brother. Emile.”

Ingrid blinked.

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He’s actually my half-brother… but to me, he’s like a real one.” Mercedes hesitated for a second before asking, “And you, do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Yes, two older brothers,” Ingrid replied. “There’s sixteen years between me and the oldest, and nine with the younger of the two. I get along well with the second one… but we’ve never been really close because of the age gap. And with the oldest, I think we’ve only had maybe five real conversations since I was born.”

She paused for a moment before asking:

“But… why does thinking about your little brother make you sad?”

Mercedes lowered her gaze a little.

“Because… it’s been more than twelve years since I last saw him. I don’t even know how he’s doing. I haven’t had a single bit of news…” Her voice grew softer. “Sometimes, I miss him terribly. And… I’m starting to lose hope of ever finding him again.”

Mercedes didn’t let Ingrid answer and, smiling, said:

“As for your gift for Dorothea, you should just trust your instincts. Knowing Dorothea, anything that comes from you will make her happy. And besides, despite her sophisticated diva air, she’s not the kind to be picky about presents.”

She added with a gentle smile:

“Give her something with real sentimental value. That will please her much more. There’s no need to make things complicated.”

Then she went on:

“You can also start from her tastes.”

Ingrid sighed, feeling a little ashamed.

“The problem is, I don’t actually know what she truly likes… It’s bad, I know, considering we’ve known each other for months, but I have no idea what she enjoys—other than flirting.”

Mercedes chuckled softly.

“Well, in that case, you can start from that. Give her something seductive. But most importantly”—she repeated—“it should have a real meaning for you.”

Suddenly, an idea struck Ingrid. She stood up abruptly to face Mercedes, who was still sitting on the bench.

“I know what I’m going to get her!”

She grabbed Mercedes’ hands, pulled her to her feet, a wide smile lighting her face.

“It’s thanks to you—thank you, Mercedes!”

Mercedes, startled by the sudden burst of energy, stammered:

“Oh, it’s nothing…”

But Ingrid frowned slightly, took on a serious look, and said:

“Once I graduate, I’m going to search for Émile. I’ll find him, I promise you.”

Mercedes, confused, asked:

“Why is that?”

Still holding her hands, Ingrid drew them closer to their faces, looking straight into her eyes.

“So that you’ll never have to lie about your smile again. Because if there’s anyone who deserves to be happy, it’s you.”

Then she gently released her hands, gave her a quick farewell, and walked away, thanking her one last time.

Mercedes remained alone on the bench, as the paleness of her cheeks slowly turned a soft shade of red. She watched Ingrid leave, and a sigh escaped her lips.

“Dorothea is really very lucky…” she murmured.

Mercedes startled at the sound of hurried footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Annette approaching, grumbling.

“Hey, what are you doing out here all alone?” Annette said with a frown. “I just asked you to check with Raphael if he’d swiped our sugar, not to go off on some philosophical stroll!”

Mercedes let out a soft laugh before replying with a calm smile:

“I just needed a quiet moment to think a little—have a small conversation with myself, you know.”

Annette gave her a look that was half amused, half exasperated, then sighed:

“You’re my best friend, that’s for sure, but sometimes, I’ve gotta admit, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Mercedes nodded gently.

Annette went on, a bit more seriously:

“So, did you at least ask Raphael about the sugar?”

Mercedes shrugged, realizing she’d been putting it off for a while.

“Not yet, I’ll admit…”

Annette let out an exaggerated sigh, but a mischievous smile brightened her face.

“Well, I’m coming with you. That way you’ll have no excuse to get out of it.”

Mercedes teased her back:

“I’m not a child, but still… it’s always nice to have your company.”

Annette burst out laughing.
“And besides, I have to tell you how things went with Felix and the invitation! You’re not going to believe your ears!”

 

Sylvain was tightening Ingrid’s corset firmly, and she didn’t hesitate to complain about the pressure and pain.

“You have to suffer to be beautiful—that’s the rule,” Sylvain declared.

Ingrid shot him an exasperated look.

“First, that’s a completely stupid and misogynistic idea. And second, why is it necessarily you, the biggest Don Juan I know, who has to help me get dressed?”

“Because I’m your best friend, the one and only!” he replied busily. “And since I’m used to taking off corsets, I manage to put them on too.”

Without warning, Ingrid elbowed him hard in the stomach, making him double over.

The 29th had finally arrived. With Edelgard’s approval, Dorothea had reserved the Hall of the Jet Eagles for her party.

Everyone was supposed to meet at 7 p.m.; it was already 6 p.m., and while Sylvain helped Ingrid slip into her dress, her apprehension grew. Ingrid wasn’t really used to this kind of event.

Her dress, simple but elegant, had belonged to her mother at her age. A bit too tight for her since her mother had a less athletic build. Deep turquoise in color, it had long sleeves and stopped just above the knees. Extremely sober, and thank the goddess, with no frills.

Once ready, she waited for Annette and Mercedes, who were supposed to take care of her makeup and hair. Apparently, they were early.

Sylvain, meanwhile, wore a flawless suit. Ingrid, though she would never admit it—knowing his personality—thought it suited him perfectly.

But as she could do nothing more, the stress crept in. What if her gift idea wasn’t right?

Seeing her agitation, Sylvain laughed softly.

“Don’t worry, Mercedes and Annette will be here soon. And you’re going to look stunning for Dorothea.”

Ingrid frowned.

“Shut up. By the way, are you bringing someone?”

Sylvain hesitated for a moment, then an ironic smile appeared on his lips.

“The person I invited is already taken. So I’m going solo. Ironic, coming from me, huh?”

“I’m sorry for you, but also relieved to learn I won’t have to apologize on your behalf to some poor girl whose heart you broke,” Ingrid replied with a smirk. Sylvain shuddered, but she chose not to press the point.

There was a knock at the door.

Sylvain opened it to let Mercedes and Annette in. In an instant, Ingrid’s room was filled with four people, and she wondered if, with the amount of accessories Annette was carrying, they weren’t going to end up cramped.

Seeing Sylvain, Annette raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing here? A boy has no business here!”

Sylvain immediately raised his hands in a peace gesture.

“Promise, I’ll behave.”

Mercedes smiled at Ingrid.

“That dress really suits you.”

Ingrid, not used to receiving compliments, felt her cheeks flush.

“Thank you... You look very beautiful too.”

Mercedes tilted her head slightly, still smiling. Ingrid studied her for a moment: her long blonde hair braided into a wide plait resting over her shoulder. Her white dress, trimmed with delicate red and gold stitching, left her shoulders bare. The makeup was subtle, just enough to highlight her natural beauty.

Ingrid then turned to Annette. She had tied her red hair into a bun, with a few strands escaping at the nape of her neck. Her dress, shorter than Mercedes’s, was pink with thin straps. She’s going to freeze like that... thought Ingrid, before noticing a white wool jacket in the pile Annette was carrying. Her makeup, a bit more pronounced, especially emphasized her big eyes.

They’re beautiful... Women really are beautiful... Ingrid thought, before giving herself a couple of light taps on the cheeks to shake off the thoughts.

Annette spoke again:

“Okay, I’ll do your makeup and Mercedes will take care of your hair, is that okay?”

Ingrid nodded.

She sat down on the chair in the center of the room, Annette took her place in front of her, preparing brushes and powders, while Mercedes positioned herself behind and gently placed her hands on Ingrid’s shoulders.

“Can I undo your hair?” Mercedes asked.

“Yes, go ahead.”

The braid quickly came undone, freeing Ingrid’s long hair. On the couch, Sylvain had settled, watching the scene.

Annette showed a small satisfied smile as she began her work.

She had dreamed for months of doing Ingrid’s makeup, but Ingrid had always refused, finding it unnecessary. This time, she had no choice.

Behind her, Mercedes brushed her hair with incredible gentleness.

“How do you brush without ever pulling?” Ingrid asked.

“By practicing on myself,” Mercedes replied with a small laugh. Then she sighed. “Even though I love my hair, sometimes I wish it were shorter. It would save me time.”

Ingrid nodded in agreement... and immediately received a reprimand.

“Don’t move!” protested Annette.

While Ingrid closed one eye at Annette’s request, Mercedes said:

“By the way, Annette, what time is Félix supposed to come pick you up?”

Ingrid frowned.

“Don’t move,” insisted Annette.

Mercedes laughed softly.

“Annette asked Félix to accompany her to the party. And, against all odds, he agreed.”

“I had to insist a lot, and promise... let’s say, several things in return,” added Annette, a bit embarrassed.

Ingrid blinked, surprised. The idea that Félix would simply show up at a party already shocked her, but that he would come with someone? Unthinkable. With her only free eye, she glanced at Sylvain.

“You knew about this?”

Sylvain, lost in thought, took a few seconds before answering.

“Yes...” he said finally, with an almost sad expression.

Ingrid was about to open her mouth to ask Sylvain what was bothering him, but Annette suddenly grabbed her face, forcing her to turn toward her.

“Ingrid, if you keep squirming like that, we’ll never finish!”

Slouched on the couch and refocused, Sylvain raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Yet Mercedes is doing just fine.”

Annette shot him a black look.

“That’s because she’s too nice to tell him to stay still.”

“Oh, so you’re not nice?” Sylvain replied with a smirk.

She just stuck out her tongue at him before returning to her brush.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you put up with him and Félix every day.”

“Me neither,” Ingrid answered in the most expressionless tone she could muster.

A soft chuckle came from behind her—Mercedes was still gently brushing her hair.

The session lasted about thirty minutes, punctuated by Sylvain’s nonstop chatter, until Annette finally stepped back, satisfied.

“And voilà!” she declared proudly.

Frozen in her chair, Ingrid didn’t even dare blink, afraid of ruining their work. Mercedes circled around the chair to join Annette.

“I’m proud of us,” Annette announced.

“And I think she’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” added Mercedes with a radiant smile.

Ingrid furrowed her brows slightly — Mercedes was exaggerating a bit, wasn’t she? But Sylvain’s eyes widened.

“But… where’s the Ingrid who rolled in the mud and competed in our burping contests?”

Blushing, Ingrid shot him a glare.

“Shut up.” Then, to Annette who looked at her oddly, she explained, “That was when we were kids.”

Mercedes placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You should look at yourself.”

Ingrid stood up hesitantly and leaned toward the vanity mirror. She hesitated for a moment, closed her eyes, then opened them again. No, it really was her… but different.

Her eyes seemed brighter thanks to a light dusting of powder that made their green stand out. Her lashes looked fuller, her dark circles gone, and her lips showed a natural rosy tint. Her hair, slightly wavy, was half-up, held back by a white ribbon that perfectly completed the look.

“I respected your style,” Annette explained, arms crossed, chin high. “No need for layers of makeup to highlight a pretty face.”

Mercedes gave her a kind look.

“So? Do you like it?”

Ingrid shrugged slightly.

“Yes… but I feel like it’s not really me.”

“Why’s that?” Mercedes asked.

“I’m not beautiful like this,” she whispered.

Sylvain, behind them, burst out laughing.

“Oh, so you can say nonsense too, apparently.”

Annette shook her head.

“Stop doubting yourself. We just emphasized what’s already there.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow, not quite convinced.

Mercedes leaned in slightly, her face close to Ingrid’s.

“What Annie means is that if the result looks so good, it’s because you’re already beautiful to start with. It wouldn’t look the same on anyone else.”

Ingrid sighed, then finally said:

“Thanks… But this is a one-time thing, okay? No way these glam-ups become a habit.”

Annette rolled her eyes, and Mercedes let out a light, clear laugh.

There was another knock at the door. Sylvain got up to open it… and froze.

“…Félix?”

The newcomer stood there, wearing a simple shirt and a blue tie hanging crookedly. His gaze hardened slightly when he saw Sylvain, but he quickly got to the point:

“I came to pick up Annette.”

He explained that he had first knocked on her room door, but not finding her there, he had asked Bernadetta, her roommate, where she was. Upon hearing the name, his eyebrows briefly furrowed—a sign, according to Ingrid, that Bernadetta still had a… particular reaction to Félix’s personality.

“She told me you had gone to help Ingrid get ready,” he finished.

Annette, surprised to see him so early, stayed motionless for a moment. Félix then entered, slightly bumping into Sylvain, making Ingrid sigh — the room was seriously getting too crowded.

“It’s 6:50 PM,” he noted. “You told me to come fifteen minutes earlier, but I got delayed. Couldn’t find you.”

At those words, everyone except Félix widened their eyes. Ingrid would have sworn barely twenty minutes had passed since she last looked at the clock.

Félix sighed and turned to Annette:

“I’ll wait outside while you gather your things.”

He left again. Sylvain hesitated, as if wanting to say something, then finally followed him. Ingrid frowned — his behavior was definitely odd.

Annette then grabbed her bottles of nail polish… which slipped from her hands and rolled onto the floor.

“Oh, come on! At this rate, he’ll leave without me!” she exclaimed in panic.

“Breathe,” Mercedes said calmly. “Go join him, I’ll take care of tidying up.”

Annette looked up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks, you’re saving me!”

She grabbed her jacket and disappeared as well.

Mercedes crouched to pick up the scattered bottles. Ingrid joined her almost immediately.

“Thanks, but you don’t have to,” Mercedes said, seeing her move.

“You didn’t have to help Annette either,” Ingrid replied as she stacked some bottles in her hand. “But you did. So why wouldn’t I?”

Mercedes let out a small laugh. They had almost finished when she spoke again:

“By the way… did you find a gift for Dorothea?”

“Yes…” Ingrid hesitated. “Well… now I’m not so sure about my choice. But at least I have something. And that’s thanks to you.”

Mercedes’ smile softened.

“Then I’m glad I could help.”

“I admit I’m still a little nervous…” Ingrid murmured. “What if she doesn’t like it?”

Mercedes seemed to reflect for a moment. Her expression darkened, almost imperceptibly… then she pulled herself together and gave Ingrid a reassuring look.

“Dorothea is very lucky. I’m sure she’ll like it.”

“You don’t even know what it is, how can you be so sure?”

“Because I trust you. And personally, I would love to receive a gift you spent so much time thinking about.”

Ingrid sighed, a small smile playing on her lips.

“I hope you’re right… and that this evening goes well.”

Mercedes simply responded with a smile.

Chapter Text

Finally, when Mercedes and Ingrid left the room, Annette and Felix had already gone.

Sylvain had waited for them outside the door, and the three of them headed toward the courtyard, where the classrooms of the three houses were located.

On the way, they came across Hilda and Lorenz.

“I’m so disappointed,” sighed Hilda, speaking to the two girls.

“I did everything to convince Marianne to come, but nothing worked…”

Next to her, Lorenz had already turned to Sylvain, putting on his most distinguished air:

“This suit is from the best tailor in the Alliance. Custom-made, of course.”

Ingrid was surprised to see Lorenz on the guest list. But on second thought, it wasn’t that strange—Dorothea wasn’t the type to make distinctions. A concept that Lorenz, in fact, could have benefited from learning.

In any case, the two Golden Deer students were, it had to be said, very elegant.

The small group finally reached the courtyard. Night had already fallen some time ago, but torches fixed along the walls cast a warm light, illuminating both the outside and the inside of the Black Eagles’ hall.

Most of the students had already arrived. Some were chatting outside in small, lively circles, while others had taken seats inside around tables loaded with dishes. The smell of hot food lingered in the air, and Ingrid felt her stomach remind her of its presence.

She glanced toward the hall and thought she would soon join Raphael at the buffet.

Looking around, she noticed that almost everyone had taken care with their appearance… and, for the first time that evening, she thought that maybe she had been right to give in to Annette and Mercedes’ persistent requests.

Lorenz looked around, visibly annoyed.

“Honestly… when is someone going to come welcome us? We are a group of nobles, after all, and I would think...”

“Technically,” Sylvain cut in, “the only real host is Dorothea… maybe Edelgard too, at a stretch. But they can’t be everywhere at once.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow, arms crossed.

“And anyway, rank shouldn’t change how you’re greeted here at Garreg Mach.”

Lorenz let out a resigned sigh, saying nothing more.

Meanwhile, Ingrid scanned the crowd. Her eyes eventually found her—Dorothea, deep in conversation with Petra and Claude.

And suddenly, Ingrid’s heart skipped a beat.

Dorothea was wearing a long burgundy-red gown that hugged her figure perfectly. A delicate slit ran down the bodice, revealing just enough of her cleavage to stir curiosity. Lower down, an elegant cut up the side revealed her leg with every movement. The smooth fabric caught the torchlight, giving it an almost unreal sheen, and her brown curls cascaded over her bare shoulders. She had that kind of beauty that looked deliberate, polished… yet somehow effortless, as if she hadn’t even tried.

Behind Ingrid, Sylvain leaned in to whisper in her ear:

“Careful not to drool.”

Without taking her eyes off Dorothea, Ingrid replied in an icy tone:

“One more comment and I’ll make sure you can never have children.”

Sylvain stepped back immediately, hands raised in surrender.

Dorothea’s gaze then met Ingrid’s, and her face lit up. She said a few words to Petra and Claude, then headed straight toward their group.

“Good evening, everyone,” she greeted warmly.

Lorenz, true to himself, declared:

“I must admit… this evening has far exceeded my expectations.”

Dorothea gave a small, ironic smile.

“Well… thank you, I suppose.”

“You’re the one exceeding our expectations,” Sylvain said with his charming grin.

She laughed softly.

“Thank you, Sylvain.”

Then, turning to Ingrid, Dorothea took her hands.

“I’m really happy to see you. You look stunning.”

Ingrid, outwardly unfazed, replied:

“Thanks. That’s Mercedes and Annette’s work.”

Dorothea turned to Mercedes.

“Then I’ll never be able to thank you enough for this visual gift.”

Mercedes laughed.

“Oh, it’s nothing… and let’s just say it wasn’t entirely without self-interest.”

Hilda took the opportunity to chime in:

“By the way, Marianne didn’t want to come. Sorry about that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Dorothea replied gently. “I’m the one who’s sorry for you.”

At that moment, Lysithea, Leonie, and Cyril arrived. Dorothea excused herself:

“I have to go greet them. Enjoy the party, eat, drink… we’ll do the gifts at midnight.”

Ingrid felt a twinge of panic. Midnight? She wasn’t going to bed anytime soon.

Lorenz spotted Ferdinand and Constance and slipped away. Mercedes, meanwhile, spotted Annette and Felix.

“I’m going to join them. See you later, enjoy the evening, and most importantly, don’t doubt yourself, Ingrid,” she said with a soft smile before disappearing as well.

Ingrid didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply nodded.

Sylvain patted Ingrid’s shoulder.

“I’m going to see Dimitri and Dedue.”

And suddenly, only Ingrid and Hilda were left.

Ingrid had never really spoken to her one-on-one, but she knew Hilda was kind, loyal, and talented—even if… well… energy wasn’t always her strongest suit.

Hilda slipped an arm around her shoulders.

“Since Marianne isn’t here, I’m taking you with me. I want to test something.”

Ingrid narrowed her eyes.

“Test what?”

Hilda gave a small laugh.

“Let’s just say I’ve spent months trying to get Marianne to open up to the world. And I’m wondering if the problem is that I’m bad at it… or if Marianne is just an impenetrable wall. So…” She gave a sly smile. “I’m going to practice on you. Kind of like when you train against a weaker opponent to prepare for a boss that’s way too strong.”

“I’m not like Marianne!” protested Ingrid.

Hilda raised an amused eyebrow.

“No, that’s true… but when it comes to being uptight, you’re still pretty high on the list.”

Seeing Ingrid open her mouth to protest, she quickly added:

“Not on Marianne’s level, I’ll give you that.”

Ingrid took a breath, ready to reply, but Hilda didn’t give her the chance. She grabbed her by the wrist.

“Come on.”

Without further explanation, Hilda pulled her through the crowd toward a small group. Claude was chatting casually with Balthus, Caspar, and Hapi near a table loaded with drinks.

“Hey,” Hilda greeted.

Claude answered with a smile.

“Well, hello Hilda. And hello to you too, Ingrid—don’t see you together often.”

“Exactly,” Hilda went on, “you should start one of your games. And I brought Ingrid here on purpose for it.”

Claude turned toward her, intrigued.
Ingrid frowned.

“What games are you talking about?”

But Hilda ignored her completely.

“So, Balthus, Hapi, Caspar… how about a round of ‘Never Have I Ever’?”

Ingrid blinked.

“…A what?”

“I’m in,” Balthus replied without hesitation.

Hapi shrugged.

“Why not.”

Caspar opened his mouth—judging by his expression, to say he wanted to join—but a voice behind him cut in.

“You planning to put drinks in this game?” asked Linhardt, hands in his pockets.

Hilda gave a predatory smile.

“Of course. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Ingrid, puzzled, wondered what this game could possibly have to do with apple juice.

“In that case,” Linhardt went on, “Caspar had better not join.”

Caspar turned toward him, baffled.

“Huh? Why?!”

“Do you want to lose your mind?” Linhardt shot back.

“Well… no, not at all!”

“Then you’d better avoid playing.”

Caspar hesitated, then grumbled:

“Fine… okay.”

And he headed back to the buffet with Linhardt, looking a bit frustrated.

Claude, unfazed, simply said:

“All right, get ready. I know who to invite to round out the group.”

A little later, Ingrid found herself sitting in a circle with Hilda, Claude, Hapi, Balthus, Ferdinand, Yuri, Sylvain, and Petra.

“All right,” Hilda began, “who doesn’t know this game?”

Ingrid, Ferdinand, and Petra raised their hands.

“No problem, it’s simple,” Hilda explained. “We take turns saying something we’ve never done. Anyone who has done it has to drink. For example, I could say: ‘I’ve never gone rock climbing.’ If Claude has done it but Balthus hasn’t, then Claude drinks and Balthus doesn’t. Got it?”

Petra raised her hand, looking very serious.

“Wait, if I have gone rock climbing, do I have to drink right now?”

Hilda laughed.

“No, Petra, that was just an example. Otherwise, yes, you would drink.”

“Okay, I think I understand,” Petra said, nodding.

Ingrid raised her hand next.

“Uh… what’s in my glass?”

Sylvain burst out laughing, but Claude answered with a grin.

“It’s stormwater ale—a typical Alliance beer, and delicious too!”

Ingrid gasped, horrified.

“We shouldn’t be drinking alcohol! Not all of us are of age!”

She added, pointing at Petra:

“Petra’s barely sixteen, and most of us are only seventeen!”

Balthus shrugged.

“I promise, as a responsible adult, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

Yuri added calmly:

“Anyway, between Manuela and Seteth, there are enough responsible adults around.”

Hapi chuckled softly.

“Manuela’s already getting wasted with Dorothea.”

Yuri sighed, and Ingrid turned toward the table where, indeed, Manuela and Dorothea had already started drinking.

Ferdinand spoke up, as if to justify the situation.

“Where I come from, we start tasting wine in small amounts from the age of ten.”

Sylvain laughed.

“It’s a celebration tonight, so for once, it won’t hurt you, Ingrid.”

Ingrid suddenly remembered Hilda calling her uptight. She didn’t want people to think that about her—and if everyone here agreed they could drink… well, why not? A little alcohol wouldn’t hurt.

So she accepted, ready to play.

“Who’s going first?” Yuri asked.

Hilda answered with a smile:

“Since I’m the one who suggested it, I’ll start.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “I’ve never slept with a stranger.”

Ingrid nearly choked on her own saliva. She glanced around and saw Claude, Balthus, and Sylvain raise their glasses and drink.

She instantly understood this game was going to get… spicy. A sudden urge to leave came over her.

Hilda turned to her right, toward Balthus—thankfully not to her left, toward Ingrid, the latter thought.

Balthus declared proudly:

“I’ve never lost a fistfight.”

Ingrid felt relieved to hear that. Finally, something in which she could hold her ground… even if it meant she herself had lost before.

Hapi groaned teasingly:

“Balou, you just picked something to make sure everyone drinks!”

Balthus laughed loudly.

“That’s the game, plain and simple.”

So everyone drank again, and Ingrid sighed before doing the same. It wasn’t her first time tasting alcohol—the first had been with her father, at Glenn’s funeral.

This one tasted much better. She realized she liked it. But after one sip, she stopped.

Next, it was Yuri’s turn. Without hesitation, he said:

“I’ve never given someone a blowjob.”

Ingrid almost choked again. Seriously, what kind of questions were these?

Hapi, surprised, said:

“You? That surprises me!”

Yuri replied simply:

“It’s the truth.”

Hilda and Claude drank. Ingrid frowned when she saw Claude raise his glass, but quickly looked away when Sylvain drank as well.

“Sylvain?!” she exclaimed, shocked.

He replied, mischievously:

“I’ll explain that to you another time…”

Before she could process it, it was Claude’s turn.

He said, seriously:

“I’ve never fantasized about someone I first thought of as a friend.”

Ingrid’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced to her right. Hilda grabbed her glass, laughing, and drank before saying:

“My affection for Marianne isn’t exactly a secret.”

Well, it was to Ingrid.

On her left, Sylvain and Petra drank.

Sylvain chuckled:

“All I do is drink—I know, it’s a disaster…”

Then, seeing Ingrid’s panicked look, he reassured her:

“It wasn’t about you, don’t worry.”

Ingrid looked at her own glass. What was she supposed to do? No one truly knew. But everyone was being so honest… and the beer was so good.

Sylvain teased her:

“So, Ingrid… shouldn’t you be doing something?”

Finally, Ingrid took her glass and downed it in one go.

After setting it down, she exhaled:

“I was thinking of Glenn…”

Sylvain smiled.

“You couldn’t have fantasized about someone at just ten years old, surely!”

She shot back:

“You did the same thing with my grandmother. I was just an early bloomer.”

It was Petra’s turn.

She began by apologizing, her tone almost shy:

“My love life and sexual life are surely less full than yours… but I’ll try anyway.”

Ingrid immediately thought: If she thinks hers is empty, I can’t imagine what she’d think of mine…

“I’ve never read an erotic story,” Petra said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Hapi, a glass in hand, which she drank from, raised an eyebrow.

“How come?”

“It’s forbidden in Brigid,” Petra replied simply.

Hilda, Yuri, Claude, and Sylvain raised their glasses and drank.

Hilda, intrigued, looked at Balthus.

“You’re not drinking?”

Balthus shrugged.

“Why read about other people’s sexual adventures when I can live them myself?”

Ferdinand muttered, his face tight:

“Reading such things is unworthy… I should perhaps leave this game…”

Ingrid thought he wasn’t wrong.

Sylvain, sitting beside her, exclaimed:

“Ingrid, you have to drink too!”

She blushed instantly.

“I’ve never read anything like that!”

Sylvain gave her a smile that made her uneasy.

“False. About four years ago, I found a pretty spicy book in your room.”

Ingrid turned scarlet.

“I didn’t know there was a scene like that when I bought it! And as soon as I realized, I stopped!”

“But you still read a bit of it,” Sylvain shot back.

“That doesn’t count!” she protested.

Claude, amused, cut in:

“Petra didn’t say she’d never finished an erotic story… she said she’d never read one at all. Even a piece counts.”

Hilda, already a little tipsy, leaned toward Ingrid.

“Drink, come on!”

Ingrid sighed and took a sip. Her glass was already half-empty, and even if she wasn’t an alcohol expert, she could feel it was strong.

It was Ferdinand’s turn.

“I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’m loyal,” he said seriously.

Yuri raised his glass and drank. Balthus gave him a disapproving look, and Sylvain also lifted his glass.

“I really should stop drinking one day,” Sylvain commented with a laugh.

Hilda replied calmly: “Then you shouldn’t have been such a sex-hungry beast!”

Then it was Sylvain’s turn. He thought for a moment, a strange smile on his lips.

“I’ve never lied about my sexual orientation.”

Ingrid froze. What is he thinking?

Around her, no one moved… until Ferdinand took his glass and drank.

Hilda applauded.

“I knew it! You’re not straight!”

Ferdinand, visibly a bit tense, answered:

“Let’s just say… yes, I’m gay… But I’d appreciate it if my father didn’t find out.”

Claude laughed.

“And you, Sylvain?”

“Bisexual,” he replied without hesitation.

“What?!” Ingrid spluttered. “You never told me!”

“You never asked,” he replied casually.

Ingrid stared at him but chose not to pursue it. This wasn’t the time or place.

Then Sylvain asked her: “And you—why aren’t you drinking your glass?”

She stiffened.

“I don’t see why I should.”

“Stop pretending. You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he replied.

Yuri stepped in calmly: “If Ingrid says there’s nothing, then there’s nothing. It’s not for us to decide.”

But Sylvain insisted, his voice harder:

“There is something, and it pisses me off to see you keep acting like this, when this is clearly the time to talk about it. Almost everyone here is queer, so…”

“I have nothing to say!” Ingrid cut in sharply.

Petra tried to calm the atmosphere.

“If Ingrid has nothing to say, then we can keep playing.”

But Ingrid ignored her. She stood, still holding her glass.

“I’m done with this game.”

Hilda, half out of it, held out a hand to her.
“Don’t leave me too…”

Ingrid didn’t answer and walked away.

What’s wrong with him? Tears welled up in her eyes.
Did he really have to expose her like that?

“Everything alright, Ingrid?”

The voice made her jump. She turned and saw Dorothea, a glass of alcohol in hand.
Another one drinking… is everyone at it tonight or what?

Ingrid sighed.

“Yes… it’s just Sylvain being unbearable, that’s all.”

Dorothea gave a small amused laugh.

“And you’re only realizing that now?”

Ingrid allowed herself a slight smile.

“Let’s just say… alcohol doesn’t help. He’s already had plenty to drink.”

“And you?” Dorothea asked, a sly smile on her lips.

“A little, but nothing much. I’m still sober.”

“Good.” Dorothea brought her glass to her lips, took a sip, then asked, “So, are you enjoying the party?”

“Yes, very much. Was it you who organized everything?”

“I wish… but no. Manuela, Edelgard, Hubert, and Byleth helped me a lot.”

Ingrid nodded, impressed.

“Even with five people, that’s still a lot of work.”

Dorothea smiled.

“Oh, believe me, I’m proud of it. Especially since Seteth didn’t exactly make things easy for us.”

Ingrid let out a small laugh.

“I can imagine. And you—are you happy with your party?”

Dorothea locked eyes with her.

“Yes. And the fact that you’re here, by my side, makes it even more wonderful.”

Ingrid felt her cheeks heat up and cleared her throat.

“You should wait to see your gift before saying that… I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oh, Ingrid, come on! You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Ingrid frowned.

“Why? Because you think I’m too poor?”

“No, not at all.” Dorothea shook her head. “It’s just that your presence is already a gift. And besides, I know you—you probably spent hours trying to find what to get me.”

A little embarrassed at being found out, Ingrid denied it as best she could.

“Not at all! I sorted it out quickly, I’ll have you know! I’m not like that at all.”

“Good then,” Dorothea replied with a satisfied smile.

“When I dropped off your gift before coming, I saw a bunch of others… you’re going to be spoiled.”

Dorothea sighed.

“Most are from old nobles still hoping to court me.”

At that moment, Hubert’s voice rang out from the hall.

“Dorothea. We need you.”

She glanced toward him, then back at Ingrid.

“I’ll see you later.”

And she walked away, leaving Ingrid alone once more.

 

Ingrid sighed, standing alone amid the bustle. She didn’t know what to do.
To her right, Sylvain and the others were still laughing over their game. No way she was joining them.

To her left, Mercedes was talking with Constance, while Annette stayed close to Felix. She didn’t feel like interrupting them.

Farther off, Dimitri stood with Dedue and Edelgard, locked in a conversation that seemed… far too serious for her to intrude on.

She sighed again.

Then, suddenly, a delicious smell tickled her nose. Curious, Ingrid turned and spotted Raphael and Caspar busy exploring the buffet.

Well… if no one’s free to talk to, the food will do just fine. And at least it’s more pleasant than some people here.

She walked over. Caspar greeted her with an energetic wave, quickly followed by Raphael.

“I’m a little hungry,” she admitted.

“Then dig in, it’s amazing!” Caspar encouraged.

“Try the meat, it’s incredible,” Raphael added.

Ingrid didn’t need to be told twice. She tasted, she ate… a lot, in fact. And she drank too, especially after Raphael introduced her to a certain appetizer that paired perfectly with one of the wines on offer.

She was enjoying herself so much that midnight arrived before she even realized it.

The cake was then brought out.

Manuela, clearly tipsy, launched into a lively “Happy Birthday” for Dorothea. Very quickly, Dorothea joined in the singing herself.

Ingrid caught herself thinking that if she were ever to die, she hoped the last thing she’d hear would be Dorothea’s voice singing.

The cake was served, and then came the moment for gifts.

Dorothea was beaming, her cheeks faintly flushed from the alcohol—and that was a good thing, Ingrid thought. What mattered was that she was enjoying herself.

She smiled politely at every bouquet she received, and even mistook Sylvain’s for one from an old admirer, which annoyed the redhead a bit and made the other guests laugh.

Serves him right, Ingrid thought with quiet satisfaction.

She seemed genuinely touched by the gifts from Mercedes and Petra, while those from Ferdinand and Lorenz were met with polite distance… and a perfectly unreadable expression.

When her turn came, Ingrid drew in a deep breath and stood.

In her hands, the small package suddenly felt terribly heavy. Her vision was slightly blurred, probably the wine, but her steps remained steady.

Every meter that brought her closer to Dorothea seemed to stretch time. The laughter, the music, the conversations… all faded into a distant murmur. In that haze of sound, there was only her… and Dorothea.

When she reached her, Ingrid held out the package. Her fingers brushed Dorothea’s. That fleeting touch sparked a soft, almost unsettling warmth in her stomach.

Slowly, with deliberate care, Dorothea unwrapped the paper. Beneath the warm glow of the candles, the glint of a fine gold chain appeared.
She said nothing at first, her eyes lingering over the necklace as if it were something fragile and rare.

Ingrid forced herself to speak, her voice low, almost shy.

“It’s… an old necklace. I gave it to someone who once meant a lot to me.”

A brief silence.

“That person can’t wear it anymore. So… I’d like you to be the one to wear it now.”

Dorothea lifted her head. Her eyes shone with an intensity the alcohol couldn’t explain. Her lips trembled slightly, as if she had a thousand things to say but none could pass the barrier of her throat.

It was then that Felix, oblivious to the suspended moment, extended his own gift.

Dorothea glanced away, set the chain down with the other already-opened presents, and the moment vanished like a bubble bursting…

The party was in full swing.

It was nothing like the imperial balls Ingrid had heard about: here, nobody cared about grace or etiquette. People danced as they pleased, pressed close together, laughed loudly. The music throbbed in her chest, and the air, thick with alcohol and perfumes, made her almost dizzy.

Ingrid had no idea what time it was. Leaning against the now-empty buffet, she watched the room through a hazy gaze. Raphael had disappeared onto the dance floor with Ignatz; Caspar twirled with a half-asleep Linhardt.

She… was alone, still.

And the more she watched others having fun, the more tempting the idea of leaving seemed.

“Tired of dancing?”

The soft, slightly husky voice startled her. She turned and met Dorothea’s eyes.

“…A little,” she replied cautiously.

“Me too,” Dorothea said, then after a short pause added, “And… I wanted to be with you.”

Ingrid nodded, unable to find a response that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

Dorothea stepped closer, a sly smile on her lips, and pointed to her own neck with a gentle motion of her finger.

“Look.”

Ingrid lowered her eyes. The fine gold chain rested there, just above Dorothea’s neckline.

She recognized it immediately.

Her gaze slid downward despite herself, then snapped back up, burning with shame.

“I love it,” Dorothea said softly.

“That’s good,” Ingrid replied, her throat dry.

“You know… it means so much to me that you gave me something so precious.”

The scent of her perfume, mingled with wine, seemed to float all around her.

Ingrid barely stepped back, but Dorothea moved a step closer.

“Do you know how happy this makes me?”

Ingrid averted her eyes.

“…No.”

“Then give me your hand.”

Ingrid blinked, hesitated.

“Why…?”

“Trust me, please.”

She finally extended her hand. Dorothea took it, warm and supple, and brought it against her chest.

Ingrid froze.

“Do you feel it?” Dorothea whispered.

“…Feel what?”

“My heart. It’s beating fast, isn’t it? That’s how it is every time I’m with you.”

A wave of heat rose to Ingrid’s cheeks. Her mind felt muddled, words failing to form properly.

Dorothea then rested her head on Ingrid’s shoulder.

“Knowing that you entrusted me with something so important… it means I matter to you. That I have a place in your life.”

Ingrid’s head was spinning. Everything blurred together: the colored lights, the music, the chatter of conversations, the smell of alcohol, the warmth of Dorothea’s body…

It was as if the world around her had melted away.

“Y-you… should step back,” she whispered.

“No. I want to stay here. In your arms. Here… I think maybe I deserve happiness.”

Ingrid opened her mouth to respond, but Dorothea had already placed her hands on either side of the table, pinning her in place.

Her warm breath brushed against Ingrid’s skin.

“Step back…” she repeated, more firmly.

But Dorothea did not move. She tilted her head, and her lips brushed against Ingrid’s neck. A sharp shiver ran up Ingrid’s spine to the top of her head.

Then another, as a second kiss followed.

“No one’s ever made me feel like this…” Dorothea murmured between kisses. “I always thought I’d be alone, that no one would truly love me… but you…”

Her hands slid to Ingrid’s hips, and Ingrid, tense, didn’t know what to do with her own arms.

“Dorothea… Stop… it’s… too…” she managed to say.

“If I let go, I’ll be alone again…”

Dorothea lifted her head, her eyes shining with an almost painful intensity. Her voice had the fragile tone of a child:

“Can I hope to live by your side?”

“I… I don’t know… but please, step back…”

Dorothea stayed still, then her gaze fell on Ingrid’s lips.

“I want to kiss you.”

Ingrid’s heart raced even faster; her breathing became shallow.

“I… I shouldn’t…”

“Why?”

“Because… it’s wrong, and…”

She didn’t have time to finish. Dorothea’s lips pressed against hers.

Ingrid froze. The softness of the contact, the warmth, the mingled taste of wine… her thoughts melted like snow in the sun. Dorothea’s hands tightened on her waist, and she felt her legs buckle slightly. Was it the kiss… or the alcohol? She didn’t know.

Then Dorothea broke the kiss, a nearly timid smile on her lips.

“See… it’s not so...”

The slap came sharply. A sharp sound cut through the music and turned heads.

“I said I didn’t want this!” Ingrid shouted, tears blurring her vision.

Dorothea lowered her head, motionless, staring at the floor.

“What’s wrong with you…?! Why are you like this?! Never understanding boundaries?!” Ingrid’s voice cracked.

Without waiting, she shoved Dorothea and stormed out of the room, leaving her frozen, alone, in the heavy silence.

She heard Edelgard’s voice cutting through the murmurs around them:

“Return to your business.”

The music resumed, as if nothing had happened. But for Ingrid, everything still vibrated with the aftermath. She strode across the hall, heart pounding, hands trembling.

The corridor loomed ahead, dark and almost silent. She was about to slip into it…

“Ingrid!”

She froze. Turned around.
Dorothea was there.
Her makeup streaked down her cheeks, lips trembling, and her eyes—those eyes that normally shone—were swollen with tears.

Ingrid felt her stomach twist.

She had done this to her.

She felt like vomiting.

Dorothea stepped forward, her voice breaking:

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… I… it was my fault. Only my fault. I… I should never have… you made it so clear you didn’t want this and… it was wrong and…”

Her hands reached out to her. Gently. Trembling.

“Your apologies… don’t change anything!” Ingrid’s voice rang louder than she intended. “You didn’t have the right to do this to me!”

Dorothea choked back a sob.

“You’re right… you’re completely right… I should never have… It’s the alcohol, and…”

“Don’t make excuses!” Ingrid shouted.

“I know… I know… but… you have to forgive me… I’ll do anything… I don’t want you to… hate me…”

She grabbed her arm, as if her life depended on it. Her fingers squeezed tightly.

“Ingrid… I beg you… if you hate me… you’ll just be one more person… and I can’t take it…”

Something snapped inside Ingrid. A mix of anger, disgust, and… something else she refused to name.

She shoved her violently.

“Have you thought for more than two seconds?! If NOBODY has ever loved you like you say… maybe it’s YOUR fault, huh?!”

Dorothea stepped back, frozen.

“You… you don’t really think that…”

“Yes! I do! You disgust me, Dorothea! Hear me?! Nothing… nothing about you attracts me and never will!”

The words came out like blades, uncontrollable.

“If you need so much attention… go do the only thing you know how! Go be a whore in whoever’s bed you want! I don’t care!”

Ingrid’s breathing was ragged. She couldn’t stop.

“Edelgard… Sylvain… or even some noble you don’t even know!”

Dorothea had stopped crying. She stared at her, face pale, as if every word had struck her physically.

Ingrid trembled. Not just with anger.

With everything.

With what she had just said.

With what she had just done.

With what she had just felt.

And before Dorothea could respond, she turned on her heel, almost running, as if distance could erase the moment.

She was moving.

No.

She was running away.

Her steps slammed against the floor.

Her hands trembled.

She couldn’t breathe.

That kiss…

Damn it, that kiss.

She could still feel it.

On her lips.

In her skin.

In her bones.

She had loved.

She had loved.

She had loved.

She straightened abruptly, breath short.

It was disgusting.

It went against everything.

Against who she was.

Against what she believed.

But… she wanted more.

The thought alone made her want to vomit.

She pressed a hand against her mouth, shook her head.

No. No. No.

It couldn’t be true.

It was her fault.

Only her fault.

Dorothea had ruined everything.

She had planted this poison inside her.

And now it burned.

It took up all the space.

It erased everything else.

Ingrid wasn’t like this.

She had never been.

She never would be.

So why…

Why had she loved?

Rage rose.

Not against herself.

Not against her values.

Against Dorothea.

She had broken her.

She had changed her.

She had taken something Ingrid didn’t want to give.

And she had… loved it.

She felt like she was suffocating.

Every breath hurt.

She just wanted to be normal.

Normal, damn it.

Not this vile mix of shame and desire.

Not this thing she no longer recognized in the mirror.

Was that too much to ask?!

Damn it.

Was it really too much to ask?!

Chapter Text

Edelgard entered the room in silence, but her face already betrayed her irritation.

The stale, heavy air hit her nose at once. She frowned, crossed the room without a word, and threw the shutters open. The midday light flooded the chamber like a slap.

“Ugh…” Dorothea groaned, pulling the blanket over her face. “Edie… leave me… alone…”

Edelgard didn’t answer. She grabbed the blanket and yanked firmly. Dorothea resisted, her fingers clenched around the fabric as if her life depended on it. For a moment, the two struggled in silence. Then Edelgard pulled harder, and the cover slipped away, falling limply to the floor.

“You can’t keep burying yourself like this,” Edelgard said, her voice sharp as a blade.

Dorothea curled back into her pillows, hair disheveled, gaze averted. “Leave me alone… I said…” Her voice was hoarse, almost extinguished.

Edelgard planted her hands on her hips. “It’s been a month. A month I’ve let you wallow in the dark without a word. But enough. Do you really think this helps you—digging yourself deeper? Has it ever helped anyone?”

“I’m not in the mood…” Dorothea muttered, still not looking at her.

Edelgard clicked her tongue in frustration. “Not in the mood? And when, exactly, do you plan to be ‘in the mood’? When there’s nothing and no one left around you? I’ve been patient up to now, even understanding… but everything has its limit, Dorothea. It’s been a month and you’ve done nothing for the class! Even Linhardt has been more productive!”

Dorothea’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing with wounded pride. “That’s not true! I helped with the research! I helped with Manuela, I helped with—”

“Flayn,” Edelgard cut in, her tone razor-sharp. “You helped with Flayn, yes. And thank the goddess you didn’t completely forget what you owed Manuela. But where were you when the others went down into that damn basement? When the professor risked their life? Where were you, Dorothea?”

Dorothea clenched her teeth, her eyes hardening as she muttered bitterly:

“And you? You weren’t there either.”

Edelgard froze. Her lips parted, ready to snap back, but nothing came out. A shadow flickered across her eyes, one she quickly swallowed down. At last, she turned her gaze aside, crossed her arms, and replied in a cold, measured tone:

“I had other responsibilities. As class representative. At least I have an excuse.”

Dorothea let her head fall back onto the mattress, her hair spilling messily around her worn-out face. Her voice rose, weary, like a breath that broke apart:

“What’s the point… No one’s waiting for me anyway…”

Edelgard clenched her fists, her gaze hard.

“That’s enough. I know you’ve been doing this for almost half your life, Dorothea. That it used to be your job. Playing the drama queen, sighing like the whole world owed you its pity. But at some point, it has to stop. You’re not twelve anymore. This is real life.”

“Don’t talk to me about my age!” Dorothea growled. “My age just reminds me of my birthday, and I’d rather not think about that at all!”

“Honestly, you’re ridiculous, Dorothea.”

Dorothea rolled across the mattress, turning her face toward Edelgard with slow effort. Her eyes, shadowed, fixed on her without expression—a mixture of weariness and defiance.

Edelgard sighed in exasperation.

“I’m tired of having to lie to all your admirers, telling them you went on some sort of therapeutic retreat in the mountains!”

A bitter laugh slipped from Dorothea.

“I don’t care about them. You could tell them the truth, that I’m rotting in bed, and nothing would change.”

“Believe me, I didn’t wait for your approval to tell the truth to a few particularly insistent ones,” Edelgard snapped.

Dorothea didn’t react. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, indifferent.

Edelgard crossed her arms.

“And Professor Byleth may be letting you skip classes for now, but don’t push it too far. If you keep this up, you can kiss your diploma goodbye.”

Dorothea slowly turned her head, her voice rasping but laced with venom:

“Bernadetta skips half her classes, Linhardt sleeps through them, and no one says anything to them.”

Edelgard shot her a glare. “Linhardt has the best grades in the whole class. And Bernadetta complains, yes, but she always ends up doing the work. You… you haven’t done anything at all lately!”

She paused, her tone softening despite herself.

“The professor is worried about you. Truly. So I feel like, as class representative, I need to take some of that weight off her shoulders. To help you… get moving.”

Dorothea gave a twisted smile, almost cruel.

“I see. So that’s what this is. You just want to be the teacher’s favorite.”

Heat rushed to Edelgard’s cheeks. She turned her eyes away.

“That’s not it. I’m doing this because… you’re my friend.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Dorothea stared at her, her eyes glistening faintly, but her voice came out cold as ice:

“Then… if I’m really your friend… tell me, Edelgard. Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Can we sleep together?”

The heir’s eyes widened. Her brows knitted at once, and her voice cut sharp:

“We’ve had this conversation already. And I said no. I said it was over. And you, you really need to learn how to respect other people’s boundaries.”

Dorothea pressed her lips together. Her smile cracked, breaking into a pained grimace. She lowered her eyes, her trembling hands clutching the wrinkled sheet.

“No need to be so cruel… I know I’m terrible at this. Thanks for reminding me.”

Edelgard drew a deep breath, straightened, and walked toward the door. Her hand rested on the handle, but she turned back one last time. Her steel eyes locked onto Dorothea, her voice low and grave:

“You’re not alone. You think you are, but you’re not. All of the Black Eagles are waiting for you. The other houses too.”

Dorothea didn’t move. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall, as if the words bounced off armor far too thick.

Edelgard exhaled, her voice almost hesitant now:

“…I promised I wouldn’t tell you this… but… Ingrid is worried about you too.”

Dorothea shot up in bed.

“What do you mean by that?! Ingrid… what?!”

But Edelgard had already opened the door. She didn’t answer, leaving behind only the echo of Dorothea’s voice. She would not do all the work for her. If Dorothea wanted answers, she had to pull herself up on her own.

Out in the hallway, Edelgard drew a deep breath, regaining some composure. She hadn’t taken three steps before another door opened further down, the professor’s. Byleth was just stepping out of her room.

Edelgard greeted her with a brief nod.

“Professor.”

“Edelgard,” Byleth replied, her tone neutral but accompanied by a small nod of acknowledgment.

They naturally fell into step, walking side by side down the corridor bathed in midday light.

After a moment of silence, Byleth turned her eyes toward her.

“I saw you leaving Dorothea’s room… How is she?”

Edelgard sighed, her shoulders lowering slightly.

“Badly. She’s still depressed. But that’s nothing new, Dorothea has always been… emotional. She lives everything in extremes. So this fight with Ingrid… it shattered her completely.”

Byleth nodded, listening intently.

“And you, Edelgard… what did you think of that quarrel?”

The young woman folded her arms, her gaze hardening.

“To begin with, it’s obvious they were both at fault. And the alcohol didn’t help—neither for one, nor for the other.”

“But you were there for the second part of the fight, weren’t you?” Byleth asked gently.

Edelgard nodded, her eyes lowering for a moment.

“Yes… When I saw Dorothea run off in tears, I followed her. And when I heard what Ingrid said to her… I wanted to hit Ingrid…”

Her voice cracked sharply, almost too loud, but she didn’t take it back. She continued, lower:

“Dorothea was clearly in the wrong at the start. She never should have kissed her without consent. And Ingrid’s immediate reaction, as harsh as it was, could still be understood. But after that… her words…” Edelgard clenched her fists. “They were unforgivable. You can be angry, but to speak to someone like that… no.”

A silence stretched between them. Finally, Byleth asked calmly:

“Do you think they’ll be able to make peace?”

Edelgard turned her eyes away, her expression shutting down.

“I don’t know. They both regret it. But between Ingrid’s misplaced pride and Dorothea’s emotional instability… I doubt they’ll ever go back to what they had.”

A faint smile then curved Byleth’s lips.

Edelgard froze, startled.

“What…?” She frowned. “You’re smiling?”

“Yes.”

Edelgard’s eyes widened. “That’s… unsettling. We so rarely see you smile, and when you finally do… it’s while talking about your students’ misfortunes?”

“No,” Byleth answered softly. “It’s not their fight that makes me smile. That saddens me, actually. What makes me smile… is you, Edelgard.”

The young heir flushed scarlet and turned her eyes away, her pace slowing.

“Y-you’re just saying that to throw me off, aren’t you?” She furrowed her brows, trying to recover her usual cold tone. “What do you mean, me?”

“The way you take care of her,” Byleth explained, her gaze calm upon her. “It’s… beautiful to see.”

Edelgard stiffened at once.

“I-it’s nothing. Just my duty as class representative.”

“Really?” Byleth asked, her voice softer now, almost teasing. “If it were Flayn, who only just joined the class, would you have done all this as well?”

Edelgard narrowed her eyes, caught off guard.

“I… I don’t know.”

A small smile returned to Byleth’s lips.

“That’s what I thought.”

Edelgard felt her heart quicken, and for the first time in a long while, she had no idea what to say.

Edelgard kept walking, her measured steps echoing in the hallway beside Byleth’s.

“Do you think Dorothea will go to Ingrid? Or the other way around?” the professor asked suddenly, her voice calm.

Edelgard frowned slightly, thoughtful.

“Honestly… I doubt it. I don’t know Ingrid well, but from what I’ve seen and heard, she’s someone rigid in her principles. She either apologizes immediately, or never at all. And since she hasn’t sought Dorothea out by now, I don’t see why she would.”

Byleth nodded quietly.

“As for Dorothea…” Edelgard went on, her gaze drifting for a moment. “She’ll come out of her room eventually, of that I’m sure. She’s stubborn, for better or worse. But this time… after what Ingrid said to her…” She hesitated. “I doubt she’ll find the courage to face her.”

Byleth gave another small nod.

“In your opinion, should outsiders intervene?”

Edelgard thought for a few seconds before replying evenly:

“To push them into talking, yes. But what they say to each other… that’s theirs alone. If they want any chance to mend things, it has to come from them.”

“I came to the same conclusion,” Byleth said with a faint smile.

Edelgard glanced at her sidelong, wondering why she was asking all these questions. Then she realized she’d been following the professor without even knowing where they were going.

“Where are you headed, Professor?” she finally asked.

“To find two students. I need to speak with them.”

“Who?”

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd and Sylvain José Gautier.”

Edelgard was tempted to ask why, but held her tongue, not wanting to seem intrusive.

They walked in silence for a long while, their footsteps echoing in the empty halls.

It was Byleth who spoke first again.

“I’m truly glad to see you care so much for others.”

Edelgard let out a quiet sigh.

“I do it because it’s my duty. Nothing more.”

“Perhaps.” Byleth’s voice was gentle. “But I think there’s something else.”

Intrigued, Edelgard turned her head toward her.

“What do you mean?”

“Pure kindness.”

Edelgard gave a bitter, almost ironic laugh.

“You must be mistaking me for someone else.”

But Byleth shook her head.

“No. All my life, I’ve been a mercenary, first accompanying my father on missions, then on my own when I came of age. Out there, I saw how rare true kindness is. But you, Edelgard… you have it.”

The young heiress abruptly turned her eyes away, her face hardening.

“You’re only saying that because you don’t truly know me. If you knew everything… you’d change your mind quickly enough.”

Byleth lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug.

“Darkness doesn’t exist without light, and the reverse is true as well. Everyone carries their share of shadow. Me too—probably more than you could imagine.”

She paused, turning her gaze directly into Edelgard’s.

“But if your own darkness ever threatens to consume you… I’ll be there to stop it.”

Edelgard stared at her, stunned. Then a nervous laugh slipped past her lips.

“In that case, you mustn’t leave me.”

“That’s exactly what I intend,” Byleth replied simply, laying her hand on Edelgard’s shoulder.

A violent shiver ran through Edelgard from head to toe, but she forced her face to remain impassive. Her heart was pounding faster, her throat dry, every fiber of her body urging her to retreat or protest. But she did nothing. That warmth, that reassuring weight on her shoulder… she couldn’t help but crave it.

She turned her eyes away, her cheeks burning red.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Byleth smiled faintly.

“We’ll see what the future holds.”

Edelgard clenched her fists at her sides, as though to anchor herself to something solid. For only one thought kept echoing in her mind:

And what if I want her to keep that promise?

 

Sylvain staggered back from the force of Felix’s blow, his sword nearly slipping from his hands. He raised his arms in a weary gesture and took a step back.

“Alright, I’m done. I’m stopping here.”

Felix growled, his blade still raised.

“We’ve barely started.”

“I’ve already given enough for today,” Sylvain sighed, stretching.

“Given enough?” Felix clicked his tongue, irritation sharp in his voice. “You’ve done nothing. You never take anything seriously. Do you think you can stay carefree your whole life?”

Sylvain arched a brow, a mocking smile on his lips.

“Carefree, me?”

“Yes.” Felix lowered his sword with a sharp gesture. “You turn everything into a joke. You run from everything. It’s pathetic.”

Sylvain burst out laughing, but his eyes were hard.

“You sound just like Ingrid.”

“Exactly. You should listen to her more often,” Felix shot back dryly.

Sylvain’s smile faded.

“Ingrid’s been ignoring me for a month.”

“And I don’t blame her.” Felix sheathed his blade. “I should probably do the same.”

Sylvain clenched his fists.

“You’re harsh, Felix.”

“No. Realistic.” Felix swung his sword at a training dummy. Wood cracked under the strike. “Ingrid told me how you behaved at Dorothea’s birthday. Like a complete bastard.”

Sylvain let out a bitter laugh.

“Ah, so that’s it… But remind me, wasn’t it Ingrid who slapped someone that night? Not me. So maybe I wasn’t the only bastard there, huh?”

Felix’s black glare cut into him.

“If even she doesn’t want to speak to you anymore, then you really crossed a line. You’re a pain in the ass normally, but that night… you were worse.”

Silence hung between them. Sylvain lowered his gaze, shoulders slumping.

“I had my reasons for not being in the best mood.”

“Your reasons? So what?!” Felix snarled, slashing the dummy again with rage. “I don’t give a damn about your excuses.”

Sylvain’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing.

“You don’t give a damn?! You’re the reason, Felix!”

Felix froze mid-strike, his back to Sylvain, motionless.

“… What do you mean?”

“You really want me to say it?” Sylvain’s voice trembled with fury. “You accepted Annette’s invitation instead of mine. And what was I supposed to do, huh? Watch you laugh together? Watch you… and keep my mouth shut?”

Felix’s grip on his sword tightened until his knuckles turned white.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“The hell it isn’t!” Sylvain surged forward, grabbed Felix by the shoulder, and forced him to look him in the eye. His green eyes blazed with rage and hurt.

“You broke my damn heart!”

Felix growled, his face cold and closed.

“There was never anything between us. You’re imagining things.”

Sylvain shook from head to toe.

“Imagining things?!” he shouted. “You kissed me, Felix! After I told you I loved you!”

Felix wrenched himself free.

“I only did it to shut you up! Nothing more!”

Sylvain staggered back a step, as if struck.

“And after that… you go out with Annette?!”

Felix spat on the ground, offering no reply.

The silence was deafening. Sylvain’s fists clenched, his breath ragged.

“Tell me, Felix…” His voice cracked. “Who do you love? Me… or Annette?”

Felix didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and drove his fist straight into Sylvain’s jaw.

The blow made the redhead reel, his hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide.

“… Damn,” he breathed before hurling himself at Felix.

Their bodies collided, Felix’s sword clattering to the ground, and soon the two were rolling in a violent brawl.

Punches rained down, months of rage and resentment finally erupting.

Sylvain ended up on top, pinning Felix down, his fist slamming into his face.

“You think this is just a game to me?!” he roared, his voice raw with pain. “You think I’m making it all up?!”

Felix, his face bloodied, spat up at him, unable to answer in any other way.

“Ahem.”

Sylvain turned his head, alerted by the deliberate cough. He froze when he spotted Edelgard and the professor, who had clearly been watching for a while.

Arms crossed, Edelgard said coldly:

“I wasn’t aware you were planning to learn hand-to-hand combat.”

Sylvain was about to apologize, but at that exact moment Felix landed one last punch squarely on his jaw. The blow knocked him to the ground, and Felix, seizing the chance, sprang to his feet. Without a word, he stormed off, brushing roughly past Edelgard on his way.

Sitting on the floor, Sylvain blinked. The only guy in all of Fódlan capable of shoulder-checking the future Empress of Adrestia without flinching… of course it had to be him. Luckily for Felix, Edelgard didn’t seem to hold it against him.

Getting back up, Sylvain forced a light tone:

“Need a hand, ladies?”

Edelgard gave a curt nod.

“The professor actually needed to speak with you.”

“For a beautiful woman like her, I’d do anything,” Sylvain replied with his usual roguish smile.

Edelgard shot him a glare, but Byleth remained expressionless. Her voice was steady as she spoke:

“I’d like you to confirm something for me.”

“Alright… though you’ll have to be a little more specific,” Sylvain answered.

“I want to know if Ingrid would be willing to help some students learn how to ride pegasi. And if so, when she’s available.”

Intrigued, Sylvain thought aloud.

“So far, she’s only free on Sundays. And… yeah, I think she’d agree. Especially these days, actually.”

Edelgard raised an eyebrow.

“And what’s going on these days?”

“Just a hunch,” he shrugged. “We’re not exactly on good terms right now. But I’ve noticed she can’t sit still, always trying to help everyone… though I don’t know why.”

Edelgard folded her arms.

“Maybe it’s not zeal, but guilt. A quarrel with someone, a guilty conscience… so she makes up for it by being useful.”

Sylvain stared at her, thoughtful.

“A quarrel with someone…” he muttered. Then his eyes widened and he clapped his hands. “Of course! It’s obvious! She feels guilty about giving me the cold shoulder!”

Edelgard frowned.

“Giving the cold shoulder… to whom?”

“Well… to me,” Sylvain replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

A sigh of irritation escaped Edelgard. She turned to Byleth.

“Do you have all the information you wanted?”

“Almost,” the professor answered calmly.

“Almost?” Edelgard repeated with thinly veiled disgust.

Byleth didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer to Sylvain, silent. The redhead watched her curiously but didn’t move. When she reached him, she lifted her hand and gently pressed it against his bruised cheek.

Edelgard’s cheeks flushed slightly, her brow furrowing as she tried to understand what Byleth was doing. Sylvain, on the other hand, simply smiled his usual charming smile.

“Well, professor… I didn’t take you for the forward type. But if you’d like to continue, I won’t stop you!”

Byleth remained impassive, her eyes fixed on him.

“Does it hurt?”

Sylvain’s smile froze. He didn’t answer.

Does it hurt?

Of course it does. Every strike from Felix still rattled through his bones, his jaw screamed from the impact, but none of that compared to the pounding in his chest.

Of course it hurts. But he’s not allowed to say that, is he? He’s Sylvain Jose Gautier, after all. The guy who laughs everything off, who flirts with anyone, who pretends he doesn’t care about anything. The one who hops from conquest to conquest because it’s easier than risking real love. The one Ingrid despises, Felix scorns, Dedue merely tolerates, and Dimitri drags along because every group needs a fool, doesn’t it?

He clenched his teeth, but his expression stayed the same, playful, charming.

I crack jokes, toss out cheap compliments, because if I stop for even two seconds, if I let them see what’s underneath, I’ll fall apart. So I hide. It’s easier to play the bastard than admit I’m just… a lost little man.

His gaze flicked briefly toward Edelgard, then returned to Byleth.

And yet, even while playing that role, I still manage to hurt people. Ingrid. Felix. Everyone who ever mattered. Everything I touch, I ruin. And maybe… maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.

Byleth withdrew her hand.

“If you’re injured, go see Manuela. She’ll take care of you.”

She took a few steps toward Edelgard, then stopped, glancing back one last time.

“And if it’s your heart that hurts… you can talk to me about it too. Sometimes, talking helps.”

Then she turned fully to Edelgard, adding softly:

“Doesn’t it?”

Sylvain watched her walk away, a bitter laugh slipping from his lips.

So that was it… she wanted him to help Ingrid and Dorothea reconcile.

Of course he would. He wasn’t stupid: some people could actually bring something good into Ingrid’s life. Dorothea was one of them.

But him…?

He wasn’t so sure.

He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

 

9 years earlier

Year 1171

The tavern reeked of spilled liquor, the stale smoke of pipes, and the sweat of men slumped over their tables.

Dorothea wrinkled her nose but didn’t move. She knew that if she breathed too deeply, she’d start coughing, and coughing in a place like this was like ringing a bell: everyone noticed right away.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the loud woman.

She laughed too hard, her voice cutting through the half-asleep murmur of the room. Her hand, though, never strayed far from her purse. Of course… rich people never got rich by accident.

Dorothea bit her lip. She’d have to be clever, wait for the exact moment when the woman’s hand grew heavy, when her fingers slackened, when drink dulled the instinct to guard her money.

Her stomach growled again. Louder this time. She curled into herself, clutching her belly as if to quiet it. If only her body understood this wasn’t the time… but it never understood.

She pictured a cake. Just one. Just one, no more. She could almost smell its sweetness from here. She imagined the golden crust, the sugar that stuck to your fingers, and jealousy burned hot in her chest.

The “clean” children could have as many as they wanted.

They didn’t need to dig through trash or beg in the cold.

Her fists trembled.

Stealing was filthy, it made her exactly what she despised… but what else did she have? No one ever offered her a hand. Not once. All she had were her legs to run, her tricks, and this gnawing fear of starving.

And yet…

What if that purse carried someone’s memory, like her cap once had?

Her heart clenched. The image of her mother’s stolen hat struck her, raw and sharp. She had clutched it night after night, whispering to a mother who would never return. And then one morning it was gone, and it felt like losing her mother all over again.

Her eyes stung with tears.

If she stole this… would that woman cry, the way she had cried?

Dorothea shook her head.

No, she didn’t have the luxury of thinking. If she hesitated, she’d lose her chance. And tonight, she needed to eat.

The guilt was already heavy, but her legs moved on their own, as though they’d long ago learned to betray her.

She slid into the shadows, each step measured, breath held, eyes fixed on the purse.

Dorothea’s heart hammered as she finally reached out her hand. Her fingers trembled a little, but they found the leather strap, warm beneath her palm.

She tugged, slowly… ever so slowly… and the purse came free. Her stomach twisted with fear and excitement all at once. She had it. Now just back away.

Slowly… ever so slowly…

She took one step back, and everything collapsed. With a sudden, careless gesture, the woman flung her arms out mid-sentence, and her elbow smashed into Dorothea’s face. Pain exploded in her nose, tearing a muffled cry from her throat, and she fell backward, clutching the purse to her chest.

“Oh! Sorry, little one, didn’t see you there…”

The woman’s voice was hoarse, rasped raw by drink. But then she froze, her gaze falling to the object in Dorothea’s hands. Her face crumbled.

“But… but that’s my purse!”

Panic surged in Dorothea’s chest. She sprang to her feet, ready to bolt like a startled mouse, but the woman was surprisingly quick despite her swaying steps. A hand fisted in her hair, yanking hard. Dorothea let out a small cry, eyes blurring with tears.

“Stay right here, you!”

Dorothea struggled, clawing at the air, but the grip was iron. The armored man who had been with the woman stood, looking awkward.

“Sorry, Manuela… but I really have to go.”

He turned on his heel without another word. The woman, still clutching Dorothea, twisted toward him with a bitter pout.

“Of course… just leave. Like all the others…”

Her voice broke, but her gaze quickly hardened, pinning Dorothea in place.

“And this...this is your fault. You scare men away too!”

Dorothea stared at her, incredulous. Nonsense. Even she, a child, could see that man had just been looking for any excuse to slip away.

“Give it back. Now.”

The little girl knew the game was lost. Fighting would only earn her more blows. Her hands shook as she held out the purse. Manuela snatched it away in one swift motion, but still didn’t release Dorothea’s hair. Her eyes, glassy with drink yet oddly sharp, studied her.

Dorothea met her gaze head-on. She was used to it: men in the street stared at her more and more often. She didn’t know why, but she had learned never to look away.

“Why do you steal ?” the woman asked.

Dorothea shrugged, answering with dry sarcasm:

“Because I’m bored. Don’t you ever do that, too?”

A rough, almost sorrowful laugh slipped from Manuela’s lips.

“And your parents, do they know you do this?”

“My mother’s dead.”

Silence.

The woman narrowed her eyes.

“And your father?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Everybody has a father. Babies don’t just make themselves, you know?”

“Well… uh… maybe. But I never had one, anyway!”

The reply cracked like a whip, blunt and painfully honest.

Manuela froze, taken aback as though the words struck harder than expected. Then she sighed, and instead of releasing Dorothea, she stood, dragging her along like one might drag a stubborn kitten.

“Hey! Let me go!” Dorothea protested, panic rising.

“No chance,” the woman muttered. “You think I’m letting a girl of… what, ten? Eleven maybe?… sleep out in the streets?”

“I don’t know how old I am,” Dorothea snapped stubbornly.

Manuela stopped, staring at her for a long moment before grimacing bitterly.

“Your parents could’ve waited until you were a little older before dying on you…”

Her tone was harsh, but Dorothea caught something else in it. A pain that looked far too much like her own.

“You’re coming with me. Just for tonight. After that… you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t wanna!” Dorothea protested, struggling against her.

But the woman didn’t let go. Her grip on Dorothea’s small hand was unexpectedly firm.

“Listen, I won’t sleep easy knowing I left a kid out on the streets in this weather.”

Dorothea shot her a dark glare, her eyes burning with contained rage.

“There are plenty of kids like me out here! So your good conscience, you can shove it up your ass!”

The woman burst out in a rough laugh.

“In that case, consider yourself lucky. My troupe paid for me to have a fancy suite at an inn nearby.” She cast Dorothea a weary glance. “I was hoping to spend the night with a handsome man, but since thanks to you none followed me… there’s space left for you.”

Dorothea clenched her fists, snapping back, sharp as a blade:

“I don’t need anyone making space for me. And it’s not my fault that guy left, he’d been looking for an excuse to ditch you for a while!”

Manuela, Dorothea had remembered the name, shouted earlier by the armored man, frowned.

“Then that man is an idiot.” She paused, then half-turned toward her. “Remember this, kid. When you grow up, you’ll need to be careful. Men… most of them are idiots.”

Dorothea stayed silent, puzzled by a statement she only half understood.

They walked a few more minutes, until finally they reached the inn. Manuela bent down slightly, one painted finger pressed to her lips.

“Shhh. Not a sound.”

She let go. Dorothea felt the emptiness in her hand, and every instinct screamed at her to run. She knew it, if she bolted now, Manuela would never have the strength nor the will to chase her. But something held her back. Maybe it was the rain beginning to fall outside… or the faint, unfamiliar feeling that this time, maybe, she could trust. So she followed.

The door opened, and Dorothea froze, breath caught in her throat. It was enormous. The floor gleamed, the furniture shone with polish, and in the center spread a bed so wide it could have held five street children.

“Shocked, huh?” Manuela snickered, watching her reaction.

Dorothea didn’t dare answer, her eyes darting everywhere.

“All right, first step: you’re going to wash up.”

“Why?” Dorothea asked, genuinely confused.

“Because you stink!” Manuela replied bluntly.

Dorothea scowled, offended. She sniffed her sleeve. It didn’t smell that bad, no worse than usual.

But Manuela was already handing her a large, soft towel and a long silk shirt.

“Here. One of my shirts. On you, it’ll work as a nightgown. Go on.”

Dorothea took the fabric gingerly, as though afraid to damage it, and stepped into the bathroom.

She pulled the door shut and turned the lock. A reassuring silence fell. She placed the shirt on a stool and slowly undressed.

In front of the mirror, she froze. She hadn’t seen herself in years.

Her reflection showed a little girl with a bony frame. Her collarbones jutted out, her arms were nothing but thin sticks, and her legs, too long for her body, looked warped by fatigue. Her skin was covered in grime, streaked with old scratches.

She bent forward, staring at her flat belly, still growling. Her brown hair, greasy and tangled, clung in strands around her face. And yet, in the middle of that frail silhouette, her green eyes shone with a strangely intense light, as if all that remained of her pride and her life had taken shelter there.

A knot formed in her throat. She turned away, ashamed of what she saw.

“So, how’s it going in there?” Manuela called from the other side.

Dorothea jumped.

“Y-Yeah!” She lowered her voice, muttering, annoyed: “Old hag…”

“I heard that!” Manuela shot back. “Come on, start by getting wet. There’s a basin. Don’t be afraid, it’s hot water.”

Dorothea dipped her hand in, then yanked it back.

“It’s hot!” she exclaimed, eyes wide.

“Of course it’s hot! What did you think, I’d hand you a bucket of ice water? Put both feet in and sit down, you’ll get used to it.”

After a moment of hesitation, Dorothea climbed into the basin. Warmth wrapped around her legs, then her body. She let out a small sigh without realizing it, her cramped muscles finally relaxing for the first time in forever.

Her gaze drifted to the row of bottles. She picked one up gingerly, frowning. “What are all these bottles?”

“That? Shampoo. You pour a little in your hair and rub. Not half the bottle, just a little!”

Dorothea clumsily opened it and squeezed out a huge glob into her hand. “Oops.” She grimaced at the thick, slimy texture. “Ew, that’s gross.”

“Rub!”

She rubbed it into her hair. At first doubtful, her eyes suddenly widened as foam began to form. “Oh! It’s like… it’s like snow!”

Dorothea had seen snow only once in her life, the Adrestian climate was too warm for it to be common. At first, she’d found it amusing, watching it fall from the sky… until she realized snow came with the cold, and she’d liked it much less after that.

Manuela burst out laughing through the door. “That’s right, snow! You got it!”

Dorothea began playing with the foam, fascinated. She blew on it, popped the bubbles with her fingers, then kept piling it over her head. The sweet scent drifted to her nose, and she froze, entranced.

“It smells… nice…” she whispered, as if the word itself felt strange in her mouth.

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point!” Manuela answered, ever ironic.

Next came the soap, sliding across her skin. The white lather turned a dirty gray as the grime melted away.

Dorothea stared at her arms, now clean. She lifted her wrist to her nose, breathed in deeply, and gave a timid smile.

“It smells… like cake.”

From outside, Manuela roared with laughter. “Maybe, but don’t take a bite out of yourself!”

Dorothea spent a long while scrubbing every corner of her body, marveling at the strange, wonderful sensation of cleanliness.

When at last she stepped out, she dried off with the soft towel, slipped into the silk shirt that fell all the way to her ankles, and looked at herself once more in the mirror.

She was still thin, still exhausted… but no longer dirty. She almost looked like a normal little girl.

When Dorothea finally came out of the bathroom, her hair still damp and the oversized shirt falling all the way to her ankles, Manuela lifted her gaze to her and let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Well… that’s already a lot better.”

Dorothea pressed her lips together, uneasy under that gaze, but said nothing. Manuela stood, rummaged through a bag, and pulled out a large wooden brush.

“Sit on the bed.”

Dorothea frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to brush your hair. You can’t go to sleep with that bird’s nest on your head.”

The girl hesitated, then clumsily climbed onto the bed.

Manuela sat behind her and set the brush gently into her thick hair. At the very first stroke, Dorothea winced.

“Ow! That hurts!”

“Of course it does,” Manuela replied calmly. “Your hair is full of knots. But you should be glad: it’s long, strong, and beautiful despite everything. With a bit of care, it’ll become one of your greatest prides, I’m sure of it.”

Dorothea pouted. “What’s the point of taking care of it?”

Manuela’s smile dimmed a little. She kept brushing, slower this time, speaking in a steady voice.

“What’s the point? Because, sweetheart… for women like us, especially without a Crest, appearance matters more than anything. More than your wit, your kindness, your humor, your compassion… All of that comes second. But if you are beautiful, truly beautiful, the world will open up to you. Doors will unlock, eyes will turn. And with those eyes, opportunities will follow.”

Dorothea stayed silent, staring at her knees. She didn’t know what to say.

Manuela continued, a faint veil of sadness in her eyes.

“You’re already lucky, starting from where you did. If you regain your strength, you could become one of those rare women people call magnificent. And believe me… that’s worth more than all the prayers in the world. So use what you have, make it your weapon. It’s the only way to survive, and maybe even to get something better.”

For a few moments, only the sound of the brush tugging gently through knots filled the air. Then Manuela broke the heavy silence with a softer question:

“By the way, what’s your name?”

Dorothea hesitated. Her lips trembled slightly, as though saying her name cost her effort. But at last, she whispered:

“Dorothea. Dorothea Arnault.”

Manuela smiled faintly.

“Dorothea… It’s a pretty name, you know. It comes from the old tongue. It means ‘gift of God.’”

Dorothea lowered her head.

“A gift of God… That’s kind of cliché.”

“So what? Do you think you’ve got a gift?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. And anyway, I don’t believe in the Goddess.”

Manuela arched a brow.

“You don’t?”

“No.” Dorothea’s voice was sharp, trembling not with shame, but with anger. “I prayed… prayed with all my strength. I begged the Goddess to save my mother when she fell ill. And she did nothing. So what’s the point of believing? Believing in a Goddess who’s absent, or powerless? No thanks. I don’t have time for that.”

A heavy silence fell.

Manuela’s hand slowed, but she said nothing. She simply kept brushing Dorothea’s brown hair, each stroke like a quiet answer of its own.

Dorothea, surprised, felt her shoulders ease despite herself. She had spoken more than usual, much more easily. And strangest of all… she didn’t regret it.

 

Dorothea blinked awake at the first ray of light that slipped through the curtains. The oversized shirt still clung slightly to her skin, but she felt warm, almost too warm, a rare sensation for her. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and realized that Manuela was no longer lying beside her.

The woman was at the desk, elbows on the wood, leaning over a parchment. When she heard Dorothea stir, she looked up and smiled:

“You’re just in time. Before I go, I need you to do me a little favor.”

Dorothea stiffened instantly, wary.

“And why would I do that?”

Manuela shrugged, feigning innocence.

“Because I just gave you a warm, peaceful night. You could return the favor, couldn’t you?”

Dorothea squinted.

“I thought you were doing it just to ease your conscience. And warm, sure… but peaceful? Considering how you snore, I’d say that’s debatable…”

Manuela shot her a sharp, offended look.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that I need you. And I promise, it’s nothing difficult.”

The girl let out a loud sigh, then nodded.

“Fine… what do you want?”

The woman stood and handed her the parchment. Dorothea took it but immediately frowned. The symbols on it had nothing to do with the alphabet she vaguely recognized.

“I don’t know how to read…” she said sharply.

Manuela stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, and pointed at the paper.

“This isn’t writing. It’s a musical score.”

She pointed to two small signs, one after the other.

“This is a C. And this is an A.”

Dorothea raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“And I’m supposed to do… what with that?”

Manuela smiled mischievously.

“Sing. I’ll show you.”

She took a breath, then sang a few simple notes, her round voice filling the room. She gestured for Dorothea to repeat after her.

“Come on, try. You’ll see, it’s easy.”

Dorothea hesitated, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

She opened her mouth, but the sound that emerged at first was too low, almost a whisper.

“Louder!” Manuela encouraged.

Dorothea tried again, attempting to mimic the sequence of notes Manuela was showing her. Her voice trembled at first, but as she repeated the exercise, it grew clearer. She followed Manuela’s gestures for pitch, and without realizing it, she let herself be carried away.

Once, twice, three times… Gradually, she felt something ignite within her. The strange joy of letting her voice unfold, of hearing sounds rise from her like something she had never released. Her eyes widened slightly. She liked it. Truly.

“Again,” Manuela said softly, almost hypnotized.

Dorothea obeyed, repeating the sequence of notes. This time, her voice resonated through the room, clear, surprisingly accurate. She even found herself smiling without realizing it, her cheeks glowing with a new warmth.

When she finished, panting as if after a run, she looked up at Manuela… and stepped back a little.

The woman was staring at her, lips slightly parted, almost shocked. Her eyes shone with a light she rarely showed—a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

“Dorothea…” she murmured. “By the Goddess… do you realize what you just did?”

Dorothea frowned, offended, and snapped back:

“But… this is the first time I’ve ever done this! Of course it’s not perfect right away, but you...”

She didn’t get to finish. In a sudden movement, Manuela crouched down, set her hands firmly on Dorothea’s frail shoulders, and locked eyes with her.

“Listen to me carefully, Dorothea. I’m going to ask you one single question. And I want you to answer only with yes or no.”

Dorothea swallowed, intimidated. Against her will, she nodded.

“Do you want to live a life different from this one? Maybe better, maybe worse… that will depend on you. But a new life, nonetheless.”

The girl blinked, her lips parted. Silence dropped over the room like a heavy blanket.

A new life?

Her gaze fell to her thin knees, to her hands nervously clutching the oversized fabric of Manuela’s shirt. Her heart pounded hard in her chest.

She thought of her mother, her feverish skin, her wheezing breaths in the darkness of a too-cold alley.

She thought of her whispered prayers in the dead of night, begging the Goddess to save her… and of the evening when she had found her body cold, holding her tightly as it no longer breathed.

Since that day, Dorothea had done nothing but survive. Steal, run, sleep on hard stone or in mud when it rained.

She knew too well the taste of hunger, that gnawing hollow in her stomach like a fierce little beast.

She remembered the looks of passersby: some full of pity, others indifferent, some disgusted, and others unsettling in ways she didn’t want to think about.

Was that her life?

Walking every day in the shadows, waiting for the end?

But then… there had been something else.

That song. That warmth in her chest when her voice had risen.

As if, for a moment, she had breathed a new kind of air. As if her heart itself had been singing.

A new life.

The thought frightened her. Like a leap into the void.

But at the same time… wasn’t it worse to stay on the edge of the cliff, waiting for everything to fade away?

She clenched her fists, lifted her head to Manuela. Her wide green eyes gleamed with a wavering, but resolute, light.

“…Yes.”

Chapter Text

Year 1175

Dorothea sang her final notes on stage.

A fragile silence hung in the air, suspended, before it shattered.

Then came the thunder. Applause erupted across the hall, echoing off the gilded walls and ornate balconies. Her name was shouted at the top of adoring voices. Roses, thrown by admiring hands, fell at her feet like a perfumed rain.

She bowed, a radiant smile lighting her face. Her heart pounded so hard she could almost feel the music still coursing through her veins, every beat an echo of pride and joy.

The sweetness of this moment was sharpened by the knowledge that it came from nobles—those who once looked down on her, the poor, invisible little girl she had been.

In that instant, every mocking glance, every scornful whisper, every door slammed shut in her youth seemed to dissolve into the air, replaced by admiration and respect.

Dorothea felt like a bird freed, finally able to soar into the sky that had always been forbidden to her.

The curtain closed and she left the stage, the theatre still vibrating with the warmth of applause.

Backstage, one of her assistants handed her a towel, congratulating her:

“Miss Arnault, as always, you were magnificent!”

Dorothea smiled, letting out a soft laugh of satisfaction.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

She walked past the other performers waiting for their turn.

They all greeted her, congratulated her—some even with stars in their eyes.

It had been four years since she had joined Mittelfrank’s troupe, and she had blended into it as though she had always belonged.

Others naturally gravitated toward her, drawn to her presence, her energy. Dorothea had discovered hidden sides of herself: a gift for connection, for charm, for inspiration. The timid, clumsy child she had once been now seemed far away, like a shadow behind the light she had chosen to embrace.

Today, she was called the Mystical Songstress, the great Dorothea, rising star of the Mittelfrank Opera. And she felt whole, vibrant, fulfilled.

In her dressing room, new bouquets, letters, and gifts awaited her.

Dorothea delighted in the letters, all filled with tender words and admiration.

Thanks to Manuela, she had learned to read, and every word felt like balm over the scars of her lonely past.

At last, she could feel she was loved, that her existence mattered. Loneliness, the silent companion of her childhood, was now nothing but a distant memory.

She let herself fall onto her bed, still slightly breathless from the performance, but with a smile tugging at her lips and her heart full of gentle warmth.

And yet, a shadow lingered at the back of her mind: Manuela had left the opera a year ago. She had never explained why, or where she was going. Dorothea had overheard a conversation between two colleagues suggesting that Manuela was now teaching in an academy for rich children.

She couldn’t help but feel a small pang, a quiet sense of abandonment.

But it didn’t matter. Dorothea was no longer alone. And with Manuela gone, the number one spot at the opera was within her reach. The thought of receiving even more admiration and love, of filling the void left by Manuela’s absence, made her both excited and determined.

 

Dorothea yawned as she gazed out the carriage window. She turned her head toward Rosalie, one of her companions of the same age, and asked,

“Where are we going again?”

Rosalie smiled gently and replied,

“To a minor noble of the Empire, Duke von Valtoria. He adores opera and requested that part of our troupe perform a private show, just for him and his family.”

Dorian, another of the singers, exclaimed,

“We’re really lucky to have been chosen! It’s rare for someone to be able to afford a private performance at home. The experience is completely different from when we’re at the opera house.”

Curious, Dorothea asked,

“But what exactly will we have to do?”

Marguerite, an older actress, answered sternly,

“First, we’ll have lunch there, and I expect you all to behave properly. After that, we’ll perform, and then we’ll be free to return.”

Dorothea nodded and rested her head against the glass once more. The steady rocking of the carriage lulled her gently, and she felt her eyes drift shut for a moment, while a mixture of excitement and unease swirled in her chest.

 

Duke von Valtoria was tall and smiling, barely into his fifties.

His wife stood beside him, though she seemed to fade into the shadow of her husband’s imposing presence.

The duke shook hands with each member of the troupe. When it was Dorothea’s turn, he clasped her hand firmly, shaking it with warmth, and declared:

“I am truly delighted to finally meet you, Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea returned a polite smile, though a strange shiver ran down her spine. She couldn’t quite explain why, but this man stirred in her a peculiar mix of curiosity and unease, as though some forgotten wind had blown across a memory she thought buried.

A thought crossed her mind: It’s stupid to panic over nothing… She forced her features to relax, pushing aside the unsettling feeling. The duke released her hand and turned to greet someone else.

The Von Valtoria residence was impressive. Tall walls of white stone, gardens trimmed to perfection where fountains whispered softly, and wide windows with colored glass that let the light spill through like strokes of paint across the marble floor.

As they entered, several servants hurried over to take their coats and cloaks with flawless efficiency. The duke, meanwhile, had launched into an animated conversation with Marguerite.

As one servant carried a large pile of garments, several slipped from her arms and fell heavily to the ground. Dorothea, the only one to notice, felt her instincts stir.

She crouched down and gently asked,

“Do you want me to help you?”

The woman lifted her head, and for a brief, breathless instant, time seemed to stop. Dorothea froze under her gaze, the woman’s eyes widened, her lips parted.

“Ophélie?!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling.

“Huh… what?” Dorothea stammered, bewildered.

The servant blinked, regaining her composure.

“Oh… forgive me. That’s kind, but I can manage,” she said, rising and gathering the clothes once more.

She walked away, leaving Dorothea motionless, her fingers still suspended in the air.

And in the silence of the hall, a question etched itself into her mind:

Why did she say my mother’s name?

 

Ophélie… yes, Dorothea was almost certain now, that was her mother’s name: Ophélie Arnault.

A gentle name, fragile as a summer breeze, yet to Dorothea it sounded like a distant bell, a fading echo she could barely discern.

A beautiful young woman, people used to say. Beautiful enough to leave her mark upon her daughter’s flesh, her face, her features, those green eyes inherited from her, like a final gift before vanishing.

But what is beauty, when breath grows thin, when illness hollows the skin?

Dorothea didn’t truly remember Ophélie bathed in light. Her memories were only fragments dulled by time: a cough, a hand too cold brushing through tangled hair, a weary smile that already seemed to apologize for leaving.

All she carried with her was the scent of sorrow, and the silence of afternoons when fever kept her mother confined to bed.

So how… how could that woman have spoken the name? Ophélie.

As though she had known her. As though she had seen in Dorothea the reflection of the mother she had lost too soon.

A mistake? A coincidence? Or… a hidden bond?
Dorothea felt her heartbeat quicken, curiosity and fear intertwining within her chest.

What if this stranger held fragments of her past, of her mother? What if, behind that single word, Ophélie, lay a truth she had never dared to hope for?

Her thoughts shattered at the sharp sound of Marguerite’s voice.

“Dorothea!”

The girl lifted her head, torn from her reverie, her gaze still adrift.

Marguerite, stiff and severe, gestured toward the duke with a tilt of her chin.

“The duke asked you a question.”

Dorothea finally tore her eyes away from her plate. The fish before her suddenly tasted of nothing.

The duke chuckled, amused by her slowness, then repeated calmly:

“How old are you, young lady?”

For a moment she froze. Since meeting Manuela, she finally knew her true age, but the calculation still felt uncertain.

She began counting clumsily on her fingers, focused, fully aware of the eyes fixed upon her.

Marguerite immediately leaned toward the duke with a contrite air.

“Please forgive Dorothea, my lord. She has never received a proper education, I trust you’ll understand her hesitation.”

But the duke raised a hand to silence her.

“It’s nothing—quite the opposite, in fact.” A wide smile split his face. “I enjoy the ignorance of commoners. It’s raw, natural… entertaining.”

A surge of anger rose in Dorothea’s throat, violent, searing.

Yet another noble treating them like circus beasts, delighting in what they lacked.

She clenched her jaw, inhaled. No, she couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not before him.

So she forced a polite smile.

“I’m fourteen… but I’ll be fifteen by the end of this moon.”

The duke’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Fourteen?” He burst out laughing. “By the goddess, I would have sworn you were at least eighteen!”

His gaze lingered on her, trailing from her features down the lines of her body.

“You’re very mature for your age.”

Dorothea met that gaze head-on, her lips still curved in a flawless smile.
But under the table, her hand clenched tight, driving the knife into the flesh of the fish with sudden violence.

This man, behind his flatteries, was nothing but a predator in disguise.

Vile.

 

Dorothea carried the stack of plates to the sink, the sound of porcelain against stone echoing softly.

She stretched her arms, watching the servants bustling around her, some stealing glances at her from the corner of their eyes, as if she were some oddity that had stumbled in by mistake.

She answered with a polite little smile, though inside she felt, as often. out of place.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a group of older maids entered, led by the one who had earlier let slip that name. Ophélie.

They froze at the sight of Dorothea, as though time itself had stopped.

“Oh, you were right…” one whispered, her voice trembling. “She really is the spitting image of Ophélie.”

Dorothea frowned, caught off guard.

“Yes… but with dark hair! And younger too!” another added, her hands clutching at her apron.

With every word, they drew closer, as if drawn to her by an unseen magnet. Dorothea stepped back, caught between their burning gazes and the suffocating heat of the kitchen. Yet this wasn’t the same unease she felt around the duke.

Here, there was something softer, more genuine, almost dangerous in another way.

“Tell me, child… do you know a certain Ophélie Arnault?” one finally asked.

Dorothea narrowed her eyes and answered, her tone sharp but firm:

“Of course I do… she was my mother.”

A shiver ran through the group. They exchanged glances, as if a miracle had just unfolded.

“I knew it!” one exclaimed, clapping her hands.

“It’s obvious… the same grace, the same face!” another said, nearly moved to tears.

“And those eyes! Green eyes… Ophélie had the very same when she was angry. Rarely, but I remember it as if it were yesterday…” added a third.

Dorothea no longer knew where to put herself.

Their fervor was overwhelming. They had known her mother, more than that, they had loved her. But how?

One of the maids, bolder than the rest, stepped closer and asked:

“Did she ever speak to you about us, child? About her years here?”

Dorothea shook her head.

“No… never.”

An incredulous silence. Then protests.

“Oh, that’s just like her…” one sighed.

“Perhaps she didn’t want her little girl to know she’d once been a servant…” another ventured.

And then they all spoke at once, so much that Dorothea could barely follow: Ophélie had worked here, for years.

They described her as radiant, gentle, shy yet generous, always ready to help. A jewel. Their jewel. And then, one day, without warning, she vanished.

“She was pregnant then, I’d swear it on my life,” said one.

“No! I could have sworn I heard a baby crying in the halls one night… but they told me I had dreamt it!” protested another.

“In any case, that baby… it was you, of course.”

Dorothea felt her heart hammering too fast.

A hundred questions buzzed in her head like furious bees.

It hurt. She didn’t even know what to ask first.

Then, like an icy blade, came the question she dreaded:

“And… how is she now?”

The world stopped. Dorothea stared at the floor, her feet pressed to the cold tiles.

She drew in a breath and exhaled softly.

“She’s dead, actually.”

Silence. A heavy, cutting silence.

“What do you mean… dead?” one voice murmured, nearly broken.

Dorothea lifted her head, her green eyes shining with a strange hardness.

“Dead. Her heart stopped beating, that’s all.”

A collective gasp of horror.

“But… from what?” one asked, trembling.

“An illness,” Dorothea replied.

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

This time the answer snapped out of her, no calculation, no hesitation.

“But… someone was with you, wasn’t there?” another tried.

Dorothea shook her head.

“No. No one.”

The women fell into an awkward silence, their faces marked by pity and shame.

Seeing their unease, Dorothea forced a small smile.

“It’s fine, really. I’m fine now. In the end, I was only alone for two years… after that, I was recruited by the Opera.”

A faint silence lingered. Then, as if something heavier had suddenly pressed down on her, Dorothea lifted her eyes to them. Her voice grew fragile, yet sharper too:

“Do you… know who my father was?”

The servants exchanged uncertain glances.

At last, one of them spoke in a low voice:

“Ophélie… never wanted to tell us. Well… she was rather close to the stable boy, Tymon. But, forgive me, you don’t really look like him. So it’s hard to imagine you as his daughter.”

Dorothea nodded slowly, as if she had heard such doubts a thousand times before.

“It doesn’t matter that much,” she said, forcing a smile. “After all… I never knew him. So maybe it’s better this way. Maybe she didn’t want me to know who he was because… he wasn’t someone worth knowing.”

Her words rang with a coldness that startled even herself, but deep down, it was true: why shatter her soul over a stranger who had never wanted her?

At that moment, Marguerite’s shrill voice echoed from the hallway.

“Dorothea! Hurry up, the performance is about to begin, we’re all waiting on you!”

The young girl gave the servants a quick nod and was about to step out of the kitchen when a trembling hand landed on her shoulder.

She froze instantly.

It was the first maid who had spoken. Her face was pale, her gaze evasive, but the firmness of her grip betrayed the gravity of what she was about to say.

“Wait…” she whispered, nervously checking that no one was listening. “I was there, the day you were born. I helped Ophélie give birth.”

Dorothea’s heart skipped a beat.

The woman hesitated for a moment, as though her own words scorched her throat, then continued:

“I promised Ophélie I would never speak of it. But I suppose I can tell you… yes. You were indeed born here, in this manor. And there was something strange. Very strange. The duke came into the room that day.”

Dorothea’s pupils widened.

“The duke?” she repeated, her voice barely audible.

The maid nodded slowly.

“Yes. Ophélie didn’t seem surprised to see him. She held you out toward him… She was about to say something, I think… but he cut her off. And he ordered me to check whether you had inherited the Emblem. So… I took the detector. But nothing appeared. Nothing at all.”

Dorothea felt her breath catch in her chest.

“And then?” she managed to whisper.

“Then the duke dismissed me from the room. I don’t know what they spoke of. But… the next day, Ophélie left the manor in secret, carrying you in her arms. Before leaving, she begged me to keep the secret. To never speak a word to anyone about your birth… or the duke’s presence.”

Silence fell. A heavy, suffocating silence in which the world seemed to crumble around Dorothea. Her whole body was stiff, trapped between two truths: the one her mother had left behind, and the darker one now looming behind the duke’s honeyed smile.

And just then, Marguerite burst into the kitchen, arms crossed, fury blazing in her eyes.

“There you are at last! We’ve been waiting ten minutes, you insolent child! Do you plan to keep the duke waiting any longer?!”

Dorothea blinked, torn out of the revelation that had just shattered her world. The maid’s hand slipped from her shoulder, and with it the secret, swallowed by the storm of Marguerite’s orders.

 

The duke… Why was the duke there, on the day of her birth? she thought.

An Emblem… of course she didn’t have one.
Her mother didn’t either. So how could they possibly have one?

Why, then, did the duke care? It was absurd. Absurd that he would even ask such a question.

The more she thought about it, the more the cracks spread inside her head, and through each fracture spilled a harsh, unbearable light.

Why had the duke been in that room, that day?

Why hadn’t her mother seemed surprised to see him?

The answer… Dorothea guessed it. But she still refused to admit it. She clung to a fragile, delirious hope, that it wasn’t that. That it wasn’t him.

And why had her mother left her post at the manor?

To abandon a stable position with a newborn in her arms? It was madness. Finding work with a baby was nearly impossible. So why? Why condemn herself that way?

If she hadn’t left, maybe she wouldn’t have ended up in the streets. Maybe she wouldn’t have caught that cursed sickness. Maybe she would still be alive… here, with her.

Dorothea’s breath caught. Her chest tightened, her heart beat too fast. If she hadn’t left, she would still be alive.

So why?

Why?

Why?!

Because she had no Emblem.

Because she wasn’t useful to the duke.

Because Dorothea herself was nothing.

If she had been born with that damn Emblem, her mother would have survived.

Her birth, her lack of worth, had sealed her mother’s fate.

She was nothing but a curse, a mistake, a living condemnation.

Her legs trembling, Dorothea crouched in the shadows of the dressing room. Her eyes slid over the hall, the audience, the duchess and their children.

Then she saw him. The duke. His smile hovered on his face, that same smile she knew too well, the hypocritical smile that both enthralled and betrayed. And it was hers, too. Exactly the same. The smile she wore to survive, to seduce, to make herself lovable, though deep down she deserved no love at all…

No! No… that wasn’t true!

She did deserve the love she was given!

She had worked so hard to earn it.

Every note, every smile, every bow… none of it was for nothing.

She couldn’t think like that. She mustn’t think like that.

But the duke’s smile haunted her, glued to her own like a warped reflection.

Suddenly, a harsh hand seized her arm. Marguerite. She yanked her back, furious.

“You’re utterly foolish today! The duke is watching you, and you’re daydreaming? You must impress him, do you understand?!”

Dorothea tried to answer, but Marguerite gave her no time. She shoved her forward.

The stage. The void. The gazes. All fixed on her.

Dorothea drew a trembling breath and let her first note escape.

She sang. Because she had to sing. Because she hoped music would rip her away from her thoughts, that she could flee through her voice. But… no. The duke’s eyes, dark and hungry, kept her bound to the ground.

The duke. That man. The one who had perhaps sired her, only to cast her aside like trash.

Because she was worth nothing. Because he did not love her. Because she was not born useful.

A wrong note broke from her throat. She heard it. The audience, perhaps, did not. But she did. Oh yes, she did. And it struck her like a slap. Since Manuela’s departure, she had never faltered on stage.

But today, she wavered.

 

They all applauded her, and the louder the clapping grew, the more Dorothea felt her legs tremble beneath her.

The duke had risen, his gaze on her like a blade too sharp to look at. Her stomach clenched, and after a quick curtsy, she left the stage.

Dorian joined her almost at once, a broad smile lighting up his face.

“You were magnificent, as always!”

Dorothea forced a smile, her lips still quivering from the song.

“Thank you…” she murmured, and slipped away to reclaim her seat. She needed to breathe, needed silence, at least for a few moments before the final bow.

 

An hour later, with the hall emptied of its echoes, Dorothea was helping load the troupe’s belongings into the wagon. Her arms were heavy, but the work soothed her. Until Rosalie appeared, nearly bouncing with excitement, her eyes gleaming.

“Dorothea! The duke wants to see you!”

The young singer froze, her hands tightening on a trunk. Her whole body went tense.

She had no desire, none at all, for a conversation with him.

“What does he want?” she asked, her tone sharp.

Rosalie beamed.

“He wants to congratulate you personally for your performance! Can you believe it?!”

Dorothea shrugged, hoisting another chest into the wagon.

“He already did. The applause, the praise… that’s more than enough.”

At that moment, a cutting voice struck from behind her.

“You don’t have the choice, Dorothea.”

Marguerite stood with arms crossed, her eye glinting with spite.

“Refuse an invitation from a noble… who do you think you are?”

Dorothea clicked her tongue, a bitter taste flooding her mouth. Who did this harpy think she was, always stifling her, always putting her back in her place? She didn’t need her barbs. Yet she swallowed her anger. Not now. Without a word, she turned on her heel and made her way toward the manor.

A servant waited at the threshold, stiff as a soldier.

“Duke Valtoria awaits you in his study.”

He gestured briskly down the corridor, then left her to walk alone.

Dorothea ascended the grand staircase, her steps muffled on the carpet. It felt as though she were advancing into a gaping maw, into a cage snapping shut.

She raised her fist and knocked softly on the door.

“Enter,” a deep voice commanded.

She pushed it open, momentarily blinded by the light. A great window flooded the room with sun, its beam falling directly on her, exposing her under its cruel spotlight.

Behind the desk, the duke was waiting, his features carved into a satisfied smile, a glass of wine in hand.

“Ah! Here she is the beautiful Miss Arnault.”

Dorothea stepped forward, a polite smile frozen on her lips.

“You wished to see me?”

The duke nodded and rose, his shadow gliding across the carpet.

“Yes, come in. There’s no need to be shy with me.”

Her unease thickened, each word he spoke tightening the rope around her throat. Still, she obeyed, moving forward with careful steps.

The man passed her, and without warning, closed the door behind her. The sharp click resounded like a sentence.

Dorothea’s mind went still. Why… why close the door?

She had no time to dwell on it. His voice cut through her thoughts.

“I merely wished to tell you how astonished I was to see… someone like you sing as you did.”

Dorothea lifted her head, brows furrowing.

“Someone like me?” she asked, her voice harsher than she intended.

The duke raised his glass of wine to his lips, his fingers heavy with rings glinting in the candlelight.

His smile was wide, almost too wide, and his eyes remained fixed on Dorothea, who had instinctively kept to the far side of the desk.

“For a commoner,” he said in a falsely cheerful tone, “you sing wonderfully well, and I must admit you carry yourself quite decently at the table. I was surprised to see you so… educated. You know, most children of your station wouldn’t even know which fork to use.”

Dorothea forced a polite smile.

“I suppose I had good examples to observe,” she answered evenly.

“Charming,” he replied with a soft laugh. “Charming… And how very fortunate for you! Ordinarily, a little girl like you would never have the chance to approach a noble, much less share his table.”

Her lips tightened slightly, but her tone remained gentle.

“Then I should consider it an honor?”

“Of course!” He burst into a hearty laugh, far too pleased with himself. “A tremendous honor. Most would give everything they have for the chance to sit at my table. You, for instance… what did you give in return?”

Dorothea lifted her chin.

“I gave nothing. You were the one who invited me, to enjoy the voice of a commoner like me, nothing more.”

The duke arched a brow, amused by the young woman’s composure.

“Ah, such insolence in such a pretty mouth! You please me, girl. You haven’t yet learned submission, I see.”

Her smile vanished, her voice sharper now:

“I don’t see why I should.”

The duke laughed again, though this time his laughter carried a sharper edge.

“Such honesty! Yes, that does amuse me… but be careful, little Arnault. The candor of peasants entertains for a moment, then always grows tiresome. You should learn when to hold your tongue.”

Dorothea met his gaze head-on.

“Then perhaps it isn’t me who needs to change, but those who tire too quickly.”

Silence fell. The duke’s smile stiffened, his eyes slowly losing their false cheer.

He set his glass down more roughly than he intended and stepped forward, planting his hands firmly on the desk where Dorothea leaned.

“You think yourself clever?” he hissed, lower now, his voice suddenly icy. “You think you’re different from the other wretches?”

Dorothea felt her heartbeat quicken, but she didn’t look away.

The duke was no longer laughing. Slowly, he moved around the desk and, without warning, seized her shoulder. With a sudden shove, he forced her back against the wooden surface. She half-fell onto it, her hands scrambling for support.

He leaned down, his face now close to hers.

“You play at defiance with a man like me… but you have no idea what world you’ve stepped into, little one. Pretty things like you hold only one kind of value in the eyes of the powerful: the value we decide to give them.”

The duke was far too close.

Dorothea felt it before he even truly touched her, the heavy stench of wine and perfume clinging to her throat.

She frowned, her voice tight:

“…Let me go.”

But he didn’t listen. Instead, his fingers wrapped tighter around her wrist, and his other hand slid onto her hip.

A cold shiver ran through Dorothea’s body, as if every gesture from this man stole a little more of her breath.

“You are beautiful… And your voice is pleasant to hear, yes.” His hot breath brushed against her skin. “But that’s all you are. Your beauty, your voice. Nothing else. And one day… they’ll be gone.”

Dorothea froze. His words struck harder than his grip.

What did he mean? That one day… it would all end? That she’d go back to the streets? Back to being the filthy little thing no one wanted to look at? Back to invisibility, then contempt?

She had believed that singing, smiling, being beautiful would be enough to never be that lost girl again… but this man had just torn away the veil of denial she had built for herself.

“And then you’ll be alone. Just like before.”

A crushing weight pressed down on her chest. And suddenly his mouth moved toward her neck. Dorothea gagged.

“Stop!” Her voice shook.

But he didn’t stop. Worse, his hand slid down to her thigh, heavy, inescapable.

“It’s time you understood where you belong… You’re nothing. A pretty shell, yes… but a shell all the same.” His tongue grazed her skin. “And I’ll teach you the only kind of love a girl like you will ever know.”

The disgust was so violent Dorothea thought she might vomit.

She couldn’t breathe. Her tears came unbidden, uncontrollable, and that terrified her even more. She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried. She wasn’t supposed to cry. She wasn’t supposed to be weak. And yet… she couldn’t even breathe.

Nobles disgusted her.

The duke disgusted her.

She disgusted herself.

She hated herself for being caught like this, for being unable to move, for failing to fight back. Was this what her life was? To be admired, desired, and then discarded once her “voice” and her “face” withered?

No.

Something broke. Deep in her gut, the same spark of survival she had once relied on in the streets, when she was just another prey among many.

Her hand trembled, but she remembered Manuela’s lessons. Magic wasn’t just for the stage. It could be a weapon.

And then… her palm lit up. Blue sparks crackled, and a bolt of lightning burst against the duke’s chest.

“AAAH!” The guttural cry tore through the room. He staggered back, his grip broken by the surge.

Dorothea didn’t wait. She tore herself free with a leap, gasping, her legs remembering a skill four years old: run. Escape. Flee. She bolted out of the study, her heart ablaze.

“Little brat…! Get back here this instant!” the duke roared behind her.

She didn’t listen.

Every step thundered in her skull.

The staircase appeared, blurred behind her tears. At the bottom, she saw the maid—the woman who had known her mother. The duke shouted:

“Catch her! That wretch tried to steal from me!”

Dorothea’s wild, panicked eyes locked with the maid’s. And the woman… didn’t move. She simply let her pass.

“I heard nothing, my lord, could you repeat that?” she said softly, turning her gaze away.

Dorothea burst outside.

Breathless, she ran. Her legs, frail but fast, carried her just like they used to, when she was chased by stray dogs or angry passersby. She ran… but one thought crushed her.

So this was her life?

Running.

Always running.

Always fleeing.

Always prey.

She hated it.

She hated herself.

 

The journey back had been shrouded in heavy silence.

Dorothea hadn’t spoken a single word, too desperate to return home, as if every second spent away from her refuge pressed down on her chest a little more.

As soon as they finally crossed the doors of the opera house, she nearly broke into a run through the corridors, ignoring everything else.

Once inside her dressing room, she immediately began rummaging through it, pushing aside the countless bouquets of flowers cluttering the space.

Her trembling hands at last found what she had been searching for: the most recent bundle of letters. She tore it from its hiding place and, without a second thought, ripped open four of them at random to read.

 

1st Letter

Miss Arnault,

Forgive the audacity of a stranger who dares disturb your peace. But I could not leave the theater tonight without putting into words what I feel. Your voice… it is like a clear mountain cascade, pure and arresting. It fills the soul of whoever hears it.

As for your figure, one can tell it was born for the stage. You do not walk, you glide. You do not merely stand, you shine.

Count von Rosenhain

 

2nd Letter

Dear Diva,

I closed my eyes during your last performance… and I let myself be carried away. Your voice stroked the air as fingers stroke skin. It burned me softly, and I could not escape its spell.

And when my eyes reopened, it was your body that bewitched me. Your form, your gestures, your hips, even in the simplest bow… everything in you calls forth desire.

I have not slept since. You haunt my nights.

Goldbach, a VERY rich merchant

 

3rd Letter

Dear Dorothea Arnault,

Cease feigning innocence. Your voice is not only meant to sing… it is meant to moan. I imagine it in the dark, when you lose control, when no mask of the theater shields you anymore.

Your lips… your legs… every part of your body cries to be admired, possessed. You are aware of it, aren’t you? Otherwise why play with us this way at every performance?

You cannot ignore this power. And you cannot stop me from surrendering to it.

Acheron Lethe Phlegethon, Viscount of Phlegethon

 

4th Letter

To the Mystical Songstress,

Your voice is a promise of lust. Each note you sing makes me want to tear the dress from your body, to cover your skin with my hands, to taste this body you flaunt to the eyes yet still deny the mouths.

Your breasts rise as you breathe, your hips sway as you walk, your mouth begs for a kiss, and more. Stop pretending you sing for art’s sake. You sing to arouse. And by the Goddess, you succeed.

I will come one night. And then it will not be your voice that resounds, but your screams.

A noble

 

That was exactly what she kept telling herself…

All those letters… not a single one spoke of her, of what she thought, of what she felt.

No.

They were nothing more than strings of compliments about her body or her voice.

Those men, they did not see Dorothea Arnault. They only saw a body. A shape. A voice. An object to be desired.

And yet, gods, she was only fourteen…

Fourteen, and already she was buried under filthy stares, words that devoured her like greedy hands.

Was she doing something to deserve this? Was it her fault?

The letters said it was her body, that it was what stirred their fantasies. So… was her body a curse?

What others called her gift, what they said was her greatest treasure, brought her nothing but disgust and invisible chains.

She had wanted this body to draw love, real love. But it was nothing more than bait for old men who made her sick to the core.

To the eyes of all those nobles, she was nothing but a doll: pleasant to look at, pleasant to listen to… but like all dolls, one day she would end up broken. And when her features faded, who would ever look at her again? No one.

Dorothea let herself collapse, her face buried in her arms, and for the second time that day, the tears fell without her being able to stop them.

Loneliness.

That was the true enemy.

Being alone was worse than hunger, worse than the cold, worse even than insults or contempt.

Being alone was like falling into a bottomless pit, where no one would ever catch you.

It was the silence screaming in your ears, the absence of warmth when you reached out.

Being alone was dying a little each day, piece by piece.

And Dorothea never wanted to feel that again. Never again.

So… what was she supposed to do?

What could she do to make someone stay, to make them look at her, to make sure she was never abandoned again?

The answer was there, bitter, horrifying, but inevitable.

She would have to embrace her own disgust in order to survive. She would have to cling to the nobles, to those monsters she already despised, because this world belonged to those born with a Crest.

They were the ones who chose who lived, who died. So yes, they sickened her. Yes, she despised them. But if that was the price of never being alone again, then she would pay it.

She would force them to stay by her side.

Forever.

She would become what they wanted to see: desirable. Irresistible.

Since her own father had shown her there was only one form of “love” for her, the kind given in a bed… then so be it. She would turn that poison into a weapon.

Dorothea raised her eyes to the small mirror hanging on the wall.

Her reflection stared back: the face everyone said was beautiful. A face that, to her, inspired nothing but deep disgust.

But if that mask became her greatest ally… then perhaps, just perhaps, she could survive.

Chapter Text

Year 1180

Ingrid had been waiting for a good ten minutes in the stables, with Dimitri by her side. A sigh escaped her lips before she asked, her tone polite but tinged with impatience:

“Are you sure the professor actually entrusted me with this task?”

Dimitri nodded confidently.

“Yes. She wants to organize practical seminars between students of different houses, so that everyone can share their skills. For example, Ashe went to learn swordsmanship with Petra.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow.

“And why not simply ask Felix?”

The prince let out a small laugh.

“Can you really imagine Felix as a teacher?”

A smile flickered on Ingrid’s lips.

“No, indeed…”

She crossed her arms.

“So, they want me to teach some students how to ride a pegasus, is that right?”

“Exactly,” Dimitri confirmed. “You’ll be in charge of the pegasus units, while Hilda will handle wyvern instruction.”

“And do you know who I’m supposed to train?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“It will have to be a girl, since we men don’t quite have the build to perform at our best on pegasi, unlike you,” he explained. “But I don’t know who.”

Ingrid thought for a moment.

“Perhaps Petra then? I’ve heard she’d like to learn how to fly.”

Dimitri shook his head.

“Unlikely. I saw her trying out a wyvern with Hilda.”

“Ah, I see…” Ingrid murmured. “Then it can’t be her…”

A doubt crept into her mind. If it wasn’t Petra, then there was another possibility.

A possibility that made her heartbeat quicken. And if it was her… she had no idea how she was supposed to handle the situation.

Suddenly, Ingrid caught a voice from a little further away.

“I don’t need extra lessons! I swear, Edie, I’ll catch up…”

Her heart jumped in her chest: she recognized that voice instantly. Panic flashed through her as she whipped her head toward Dimitri, her eyes wide.

“It’s Dorothea !”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow.

“And… is that a problem ?”

“Yes, absolutely !” Ingrid hissed, her face tense.

At that moment, she saw Edelgard approaching, walking alongside Dorothea. The brunette still hadn’t noticed Ingrid and looked distinctly annoyed at having been dragged there. Edelgard, however, spoke in her usual calm but firm tone:

“I’m glad you’re finally coming out of your slump, Dorothea. But you’ve missed far too many classes. You already had gaps, and your absences have only made them worse. You need to catch up, no matter what.”

Dorothea rolled her eyes, exasperated. Then, by chance, her gaze locked with Ingrid’s.

She froze on the spot.

Their eyes lingered on each other a moment too long. Ingrid’s throat went dry, and she quickly looked away, flustered.

In an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, Dorothea said to Edelgard:

“If this is about learning to ride a pegasus… I doubt Ingrid would be too eager to help me. And if you insist, we could always ask Constance! Since she’s a magic user too, it’d make more sense for her to teach me, right? It suits me more.”

Edelgard shook her head gently.

“Seteth forbade us from training at night. Which means practice has to be done during the day, and a pegasus can only be mounted outdoors. Under those conditions, Constance won’t be in the right state of mind to teach you anything.”

Dorothea sighed loudly, but by then the two had reached Ingrid and Dimitri. Edelgard greeted them politely, and Dimitri immediately returned the gesture. Dorothea, however, stayed silent. So did Ingrid. A heavy silence fell between the two of them.

At last, Edelgard broke the tension, turning to Dimitri:

“I need to talk to you about… a secret thing. Come.”

Dimitri blinked, taken aback.

“A… secret thing?”

“Yes, a secret thing,” Edelgard repeated, giving him an overly obvious wink.

Dimitri, even more awkward, tried to play along with forced seriousness:

“Ah, yes! That very important… thing! Sorry, Ingrid, but I must leave you here, I...uh… see you later!”

He followed Edelgard, leaving Dorothea standing across from Ingrid. Before leaving completely, the future empress threw one last remark at her friend:

“If you can’t manage to get a pegasus off the ground on your own by tonight, you’ll have to take extra exams.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened.

“You can’t do that!”

“The professor gave me permission,” Edelgard replied confidently.

Dorothea crossed her arms, clearly displeased. Edelgard, meanwhile, allowed herself a small smile as she tossed one last comment at the blonde:

“Good luck, Ingrid. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Ingrid now found herself alone with Dorothea.

Neither of them dared to speak. Ingrid stubbornly fixed her gaze on the ground, while Dorothea fidgeted nervously with her fingers. The silence between them was heavy, awkward, almost suffocating.

At last, Dorothea broke it.

“Listen… if you don’t want to do this tutoring, it’s fine. Really. I understand. Don’t force yourself.”

Ingrid’s head snapped up. Dorothea was smiling at her, a soft, almost reassuring smile.

Ingrid said nothing, unable to form an answer. Dorothea turned slightly, ready to leave.

“In that case, I wish you a good day.”

But before she could take a step, Ingrid reacted instinctively and grabbed her arm.

Dorothea turned back, startled. Ingrid felt her cheeks flush crimson.

“I don’t mind! Really… I want to help you.”

Dorothea blinked in surprise, then blushed as well. Slowly, a genuine smile spread across her lips.

“Thank you, Ingrid.”

Only then did Ingrid realize she was still holding her arm. She let go in a rush, turned her back, and muttered a bit too brusquely:

“Wait here.”

Why did she want to help? Was it simply because Dimitri and Professor Byleth had asked her to? Because she had nothing better to do? Or was it because she felt she owed Dorothea something? She didn’t know. But one thing was certain: every time her eyes met the singer’s beautiful face, the accident from last month came flooding back. She had to keep herself in check. She would help her.

Later, they would probably need a very serious conversation.

A few minutes later, Ingrid returned, leading a brown horse by the reins. Dorothea, who hadn’t moved, raised an eyebrow at the sight.

“Uh… Ingrid ? I’m supposed to get better at flying, not horseback riding.”

“I know,” Ingrid replied flatly. “But the posture is the same. And falling off a horse is a lot less dangerous than falling off a pegasus mid-flight. We’ll check how you sit in the saddle first.”

Dorothea nodded and approached the animal.

“And what’s his name?”

“I think I heard Marianne call him Dorte. He’s the calmest horse in the stables. Perfect for this kind of training.”

Dorothea patted the horse’s neck gently.

“Nice to meet you, Dorte! I’m Dorothea. Oh wow, our names even sound alike, don’t you think? And look, we both have brown hair! So many coincidences, right ? I’d say it’s fate, so please don’t let me die in the mud, okay ?”

She burst out in a laugh, then declared confidently:

“Alright, I’m ready to mount!”

Ingrid just stared at her. Dorothea stayed rooted in place.

“Well?” Ingrid asked. “What are you waiting for?”

Dorothea shrugged.

“Well… shouldn’t he kneel down a little? Otherwise how am I supposed to climb up?”

Ingrid’s eyes went wide. At first, she thought it was a joke. But seeing Dorothea’s perfectly serious expression, she let out a long sigh.

“He’s not going to kneel for you. You have to climb on yourself.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened in turn, scandalized.

“You’re kidding! He’s way too tall!”

Without a word, Ingrid stepped forward, grabbed the saddle strap, slipped her foot into the stirrup, and swung herself smoothly onto the horse’s back.

“See? Like that. Got it?”

Dorothea just stared, mouth agape.

“I… I think so, yeah.”

Ingrid dismounted at once.

“Then go ahead.”

Dorothea grimaced at the horse.

Ingrid frowned.

“What now?”

“He really is awfully tall…” Dorothea admitted.

This time, Ingrid lost her patience.

“You’re taller than me, Dorothea. So stop making excuses and get on!”

Dorothea raised her hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright…”

She lifted her foot toward the stirrup. Ingrid noticed instantly.

“Those boots are absolutely not made for riding.”

Dorothea shot her an indignant look.

“Sorry, I didn’t exactly plan on horseback lessons when I got dressed this morning!”

With some awkward tugging at the strap, groans, and complaints at every effort, Dorothea finally managed to heave herself into the saddle. She immediately threw her arms up, triumphant.

“I did it! Did you see ?!”

Her radiant smile almost made Ingrid forget how clumsy the entire process had been. Almost. Pressing her fingers to her temples, Ingrid muttered, half amused, half exasperated:

“I don’t know if I should be happy for you… or despair at how hard that was for you.”

Then, before Dorte could start growing impatient, Ingrid crossed her arms and said firmly:

“Sit up straighter.”

Dorothea immediately straightened her back, a little stiff.

“Like this?”

“Yes. Now, give a light tap with your heels to move him forward.”

Dorothea did as told, and the horse started walking. Ingrid nodded.

“Good. Now try to turn so I can see your posture.”

The songstress focused, clumsy but determined.

“Not bad… but shift your weight a little more. Yes, just like that.”

To Ingrid’s surprise, after a few laps, Dorothea was starting to find some balance. It wasn’t perfect, but she was doing far better than expected.

“Good. That’ll be enough with Dorte for today.”

Dorothea let out a relieved sigh.

“And now… how do I get down?”

“Exactly the same way you got up, but in reverse.”

Dorothea glanced at the ground.

“Still looks pretty high…”

Ingrid raised a brow.

“If you think that’s high, imagine flying on a pegasus.”

She heard Dorothea swallow nervously, which made an involuntary smile tug at her lips.

“Go on, dismount. I’ll stand behind you, just in case.”

Luckily for her, Dorothea managed to get down without much trouble, less clumsy than expected. Ingrid let out a soft sigh of relief, took Dorte’s reins to lead him back to his stall, and returned with her own pegasus.

“Now, let’s move on to the real thing.”

Dorothea instinctively took a step back, impressed.

“Oh… and what’s his name?”

“Loog,” Ingrid replied proudly.

Dorothea frowned.

“Loog… That sounds familiar. Wait, isn’t that… Dimitri’s grandfather? Or something like that?”

Ingrid’s eyes went wide in outrage.

“What?! Absolutely not! Loog was the very first King of Faerghus! The King of Lions! The founder of our entire kingdom!”

Seeing Dorothea’s lost expression, she pressed on passionately:

“He led the rebellion that secured Faerghus’ independence from the Empire in the year 747, a war that lasted four years and is still remembered today as the War of the Eagle and Lion!”

Dorothea lifted her hand to interrupt.

“Ah, that I know! It’s almost the same name as the Battle of the Eagle and Lion we’re supposed to do at the end of the month! Edie, Hubie, and the professor won’t stop talking about it!”

“As they should!” Ingrid shot back, arms crossed. “That tradition comes directly from that war!”

Dorothea rolled her eyes with a little smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright, alright, I get it. This Loog guy was important. But honestly… history was never my strong suit.”

Ingrid let out a long sigh and shook her head.

“And that’s only the smallest part of the War of the Eagle and Lion…”

Then she turned to Dorothea, her gaze hardening.

“But not knowing who Loog was? That’s unacceptable! Even if you’re from the Empire, this history is basic knowledge! It’s...”

“Ingrid.”

Dorothea had interrupted her, not harshly, but with a steady voice.

“Garreg Mach is the first real school I’ve ever attended as a student. I never had the luxury of spending my childhood with history books.”

The words struck like a reminder.

Ingrid froze, her eyes widening slightly. She had completely forgotten… Dorothea hadn’t grown up like she had. She came from a world entirely different from hers.

The knight lowered her gaze, shame creeping in.

“I… I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking again.”

She muttered the apology before focusing on her pegasus, tightening the saddle straps with more force than necessary.

“It’s nothing, really. I’m used to it.”

Ingrid sighed again, running a hand through her blonde hair and brushing her bangs aside before tying Loog’s reins to a post.

“We’ll see how you handle him taking off,” she explained. “This way, I can control the height. He won’t go higher than a meter.”

Dorothea nodded, though her expression betrayed clear skepticism.

“And… we get on him like a horse?”

“Exactly,” Ingrid replied. “But watch out for his wings.”

With a nervous sigh, Dorothea tried to climb up once… and failed. The second attempt went better, and she finally managed to sit in the saddle. Ingrid gave a nod of approval.

“Good. Now, give a light pull on the reins to make him lift.”

Dorothea stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Of course. You’re not in any danger here.” Ingrid studied her hesitation for a moment, then softened her voice.
“What, are you scared?”

Dorothea turned her head away.

“… A little.”

“Listen,” Ingrid said in as reassuring a tone as she could, “he’s not going high. Barely a meter.”

“A meter is already high!” Dorothea protested.

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“No, it’s not. Come on, go.”

Clumsily, Dorothea tugged on the reins. Loog spread his great white wings and slowly lifted off the ground. The instant he rose, Dorothea let out a sharp scream and clung desperately to the pegasus’s neck.

“I’m going to fall!” she shrieked.

“Sit up straight!” Ingrid barked.

“If I sit up straight, I’ll fall even faster!”

Ingrid felt her patience slipping.

“No, it’s the opposite! If you stay glued forward like that, that’s how you’ll fall! Sit up!”

“Humans don’t have wings! We’re not meant to fly!” Dorothea cried. “The ground is fine, why would anyone want to go up in the sky?!”

“Because that’s the way it is!” Ingrid snapped, frustrated. “So stop spouting nonsense and hold yourself properly!”

Loog was beginning to grow restless, flapping his wings in irritation. Dorothea panicked.

“Why is he doing that?!”

“Because you’re throwing all your weight forward!” Ingrid explained through clenched teeth. “That’s only for diving, and only at a hundred meters high! Right now, he doesn’t understand a thing, of course he’s upset. So sit up straight!”

“I’m going to fall!” Dorothea repeated, stiff as a board.

“You didn’t fall off the horse, you have no reason to fall here!”

But Loog, annoyed by the screams and awkward posture, gave a sharp flap of his wings and returned to the ground.

Dorothea lifted her head, out of breath but smiling.

“See? I did it !”

Ingrid looked at her, torn between exasperation and despair. The truth was obvious: it wasn’t riding that held Dorothea back… it was her fear of heights. A much harder problem to solve.

She was still thinking when an idea struck her.

“Dorothea, stay on Loog, but scoot back a little.”

“Huh? Why?” Dorothea asked warily.

“Just do it, you’ll see.”

Reluctantly, Dorothea obeyed, clutching the reins as if her life depended on it. Ingrid, without another word, unfastened Loog’s reins from the post.

“Wait...what are you doing?!” Dorothea yelped, eyes wide.

“You’ll understand,” Ingrid said simply.

And with a swift, practiced motion, she grabbed the saddle and swung herself up onto Loog as well, seating herself in front of Dorothea.

Dorothea’s eyes widened as she stammered:

“But… what are you doing?”

Ingrid turned her head slightly toward her, her expression calm, or at least pretending to be.

“We’re going for a pegasus ride.”

“What?! No! I’ll fall! Fall and die a horrible, agonizing death!” Dorothea cried in theatrical despair.

Ingrid sighed, weary.

“Exactly. To avoid such a terrible accident, I’ll be the one steering. All you have to do is hold on… and see for yourself that flying isn’t nearly as frightening as you think.”

Dorothea pursed her lips, clearly unconvinced.

“All right, but… where am I supposed to hold on? I’m not holding the reins anymore.”

A flicker of unease ran through Ingrid. She turned her face away so Dorothea wouldn’t see the sudden flush creeping up her cheeks. Of course this was going to be awkward. But there was no other way, if she wanted Dorothea to overcome her fear, she’d have to endure it.

“To… my hips,” she said at last, her voice tighter than she would have liked.

Dorothea hesitated. Then, very carefully, as if afraid of hurting her, she placed her hands on Ingrid’s hips.

“Like this?” she whispered.

Ingrid’s heartbeat quickened. For a fleeting second, she thought of that time when their lips had brushed,
No. She mustn’t think about it. Not now. Not ever. It was shameful. Disgusting. She despised herself for treasuring that memory among those that made her heart race.

“Yes,” she replied, perhaps a bit too sharply. “That’s fine.”

She drew a deep breath, fighting to steady the turmoil rising inside her, then asked:

“Are you ready for takeoff?”

Dorothea didn’t answer right away. When she finally spoke, her voice trembled:

“… Can I trust you? You… you won’t let me fall, will you?”

The words pierced through Ingrid like a blade. In Dorothea’s shining eyes, there wasn’t just one question, there were hundreds. Perhaps thousands.

Ingrid wanted to look away, but she stopped herself. That would be unfair. Dorothea needed certainty.

And, deep down, Ingrid didn’t want to look away. She wanted to stay like this, lost in her gaze, forever. A cruel voice hissed in her mind that she was vile.

It was Dorothea who broke the silence, laughing awkwardly.

“What a silly question! Of course you won’t let me fall… at least not off a pegasus.”

Ingrid nodded, unable to find a reply. She turned back toward the front, resuming her role as a knight.

“Then… are you ready?”

She immediately felt Dorothea’s hands tighten around her waist.

“Yes,” Dorothea whispered.

Ingrid pulled on the reins. With a powerful beat of his wings, Loog leapt forward and rose into the sky.

The wind whipped against Ingrid’s face as Loog spread his powerful wings.

As always, the sensation hit her at once: the open air, the endless horizon, the exhilarating thrill of altitude. Here, far above the ground, she felt at home.

Every beat of his wings was a promise of freedom. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the climb into the sky.

Behind her, Dorothea tightened her grip on her hips. The trembling hold stood in sharp contrast to Ingrid’s steady composure, and the duality drew a faint smile from her lips.

But suddenly, Dorothea let go of her hips and wrapped her arms all the way around Ingrid’s waist, clinging to her middle.

Ingrid gasped in surprise. Dorothea’s generous chest pressed against her back, and her vision blurred at once.

Loog, sensitive to his rider’s imbalance, beat his wings harder and wobbled. Ingrid struggled to steady him.

“Dorothea! Don’t hold me like that!” she shouted, tense.

“I’m sorry! I’m so terribly sorry!” Dorothea screamed, her voice cracked with panic. “I know I’m acting thoughtlessly, I’m such a burden! I’m sorry for… for kissing you! I completely deserved your slap and everything you said! You were absolutely right!”

Ingrid blanched, her heart twisting under the weight of that memory and the grip of those arms around her. She wanted to reply, but Dorothea pressed on, unstoppable.

“I should never have… but I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking! And when I wanted to kiss you, I just rushed in like an idiot, like some starving animal!”

“We’ll talk about this later!” Ingrid snapped, struggling to regain control of Loog. But Dorothea wouldn’t listen.

“I’m sorry! I acted like an animal in heat, it’s unforgivable! But I hope… I hope one day you’ll forgive me! Even though I don’t deserve it!”

Loog, unsettled by the tension, spiraled downward. Ingrid tightened her grip on the reins, focused: if they stayed in the air like this, disaster was certain. With a quick glance, she spotted a clearing in the nearby forest, wide enough to land. She guided Loog with effort, battling Dorothea’s panicked embrace.

“And I know I talk too much, that I sing too much, that I always pretend to be stronger than I am, and that I probably annoy you all the time, but… but I never meant to hurt you, Ingrid! I know it’s selfish to ask this, but please don’t hate me! Don’t leave me alone too!”

Ingrid drew a deep breath, her arms steady on the reins.

At last, Loog touched down, his hooves thudding heavily against the earth in the middle of the clearing. Ingrid’s body instantly relaxed, but Dorothea, eyes shut tight and face buried against her shoulder, still clung to her as though her life depended on it.

“Dorothea…” Ingrid called softly.

A fearful eye peeked open.

“…Yes?”

“We’re on the ground. Will you let go of me now?”

There was a pause. Then Dorothea’s eyes flew wide as realization dawned. She sprang back in a rush, retreating with burning cheeks.

“I… I’m sorry!” she stammered, nearly hiding her face.

A rare thing for Dorothea.

Ingrid sighed and ran her hand along Loog’s neck.

“We’ll take a break. He’s too unsettled to fly again right now.”

Dorothea’s eyes widened.

“Is… is it my fault?”

Ingrid looked away, shaking her head.

“No. He’s just not used to carrying two riders at once.”

A lie, of course, but Dorothea didn’t need any more guilt.

Ingrid dismounted first, then offered her hand to the brunette. Dorothea hesitated, as if that touch might burn her, before finally taking Ingrid’s slender yet steady hand. She landed gracefully beside her.

“And now?” she asked, her voice still trembling.

“We let Loog rest. We’ve got time before sunset, don’t worry.”

Dorothea nodded. Silence settled between them, broken only by the steady breath of the pegasus.

At last, Dorothea whispered:

“I’m sorry… for my outburst earlier.”

Ingrid sighed. “Could you stop apologizing every other sentence? It’s exhausting.”

She sat down in the grass, then let herself fall onto her back, arms spread wide. From there, she gazed up at Dorothea, whose face was half-veiled in the fading sunlight. Ingrid inhaled deeply before continuing:

“Honestly… I’m the one who should apologize. I acted like a viper, and I was cruel to you that night…”

Dorothea sat down beside her, shaking her head softly.

“No, Ingrid, it wasn’t your fault. It was me who...”

“The slap, you deserved,” Ingrid cut in bluntly. “But what I said afterward…” She bit her lip, searching for words. She turned her head, finding Dorothea lying down beside her now. “…That was beneath me. I crossed the line.”

Dorothea’s lips curved into a small, sad smile. “It’s nothing.”

Ingrid suddenly pushed herself up on her elbows, frowning. “It’s not nothing at all! I hurt you.” She looked away, embarrassed, and stammered: “You… you were drunk, that night. If you kissed me, it was only because of that, wasn’t it?”

Dorothea blinked in surprise. “Well… yes. I think so.”

“Exactly.” Ingrid exhaled, almost relieved. “Then it wasn’t intentional. The slap, I can justify… but not the rest. And I want you to know… I don’t hate you. Not at all. My words slipped out, and it’s unworthy of a knight to lose control of her emotions so far as to wound a friend she cherishes.”

The word hung between them.

“…Friend?” Dorothea repeated, barely audible. She turned away, her smile twisting into something bitter.

“You know, I think there was some truth in what you said, Ingrid. But don’t worry. I don’t hold it against you. I understand… after all, I am detestable.”

Ingrid’s chest tightened. Dorothea’s usual liveliness had vanished, replaced by a painful darkness.

Panicked, Ingrid blurted with forced lightness:

“Detestable? You? If that’s true, then I must be Nemesis himself!”

She bit her tongue. Humor had never been her strength, and she knew it. But she couldn’t stand seeing Dorothea’s usually playful face look so broken.

Dorothea turned her head toward her, a softened smile curving her lips.

“You’re kind. But you wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did to get here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid replied quickly. “What you did before doesn’t count. What matters is the Dorothea I’ve come to know here.”

Dorothea shook her head, her eyes glistening with bitter clarity.

“No. Deep down, I’m still the same. A cheap girl, an opportunist. You said it yourself, Ingrid: I don’t know how to do anything but play the whore in someone else’s bed.”

Ingrid felt a vise close around her chest.

Her hand reached out on its own, trembling, toward Dorothea… but stopped just short of her arm.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she said nothing.

Dorothea, however, pushed herself up on her elbows and locked eyes with her.

“I like women. You’re not the first to find that detestable, are you?”

Dorothea’s words had seared themselves into her mind with the force of a sword strike.

I like women.

A simple declaration, bare, impossible to ignore.

Ingrid’s first thought was brutal, instinctive: it was wrong. Revolting. Everything she had been taught since childhood screamed that it was a perversion, a weakness, a betrayal of the natural order. Her upbringing, her nobility, even her faith, all of it conspired to condemn Dorothea.

But no sooner had that thought taken shape than a crack appeared.

Was it really so monstrous? Dorothea didn’t seem any more corrupt or weaker than anyone else. On the contrary, there was a disarming sincerity in her voice, unlike anyone else. So why did disgust rise in her? Was it Dorothea she rejected… or herself?

Because, deep down, it wasn’t only about Dorothea.

That kiss… the warmth felt all over her body, the confession torn out by fear… all of it awakened a truth Ingrid had always refused to face. Perhaps what revolted her wasn’t Dorothea’s love for women, but the possibility that she herself might share that inclination.

The thought terrified her. She, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, daughter of Galatea, noble lady-in-training, righteous warrior… how could she give in to such a weakness? How could she even admit to herself such impurity? Tears welled in her eyes, not from anger, but from shame. A shame turned inward.

And behind the shame, there was jealousy.

Yes, a burning jealousy. Dorothea, despite her excesses, despite her mask of seduction, had the strength to be herself.

She didn’t hide who she was. She wasn’t afraid to love, to expose herself, to face the world’s judgment. Whereas Ingrid… Ingrid lived in fear. Fear of rumors, fear of reproach, fear of betraying what was expected of her.

Deep down, that was what disgusted her most: her own cowardice. Dorothea, the frivolous singer, had more courage than she did, the knight-in-training. And it was unbearable.

The final thought struck her like an undeniable truth: she would never have the strength to be like Dorothea. Never enough courage to reveal herself, never enough freedom to accept herself.

So yes, she hated something about this situation… but it wasn’t Dorothea. It was that part of herself she renounced, suffocated, feared might one day emerge into the light.

Tears burned her throat, but she held them back with all her strength. And when she finally spoke, her voice barely trembled:

“I don’t hate you, Dorothea. Not at all. It’s… a part of me that I hate, and I’m making you pay for it when you didn’t ask for anything.”

Dorothea turned sharply toward Ingrid, her face freezing at the sight of the knight’s tormented expression.

Panic flared in her eyes.

Instinctively, she straightened slightly, her hand reaching up to rest against Ingrid’s pale cheek. A soft, warm, almost protective touch. Her face hovered mere centimeters from Ingrid’s.

“Don’t say that… Please, don’t speak like that,” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion.

Ingrid didn’t move, but she averted her gaze, as if Dorothea’s eyes burned too fiercely.

Her voice, lower now, broke slightly:

“I’ve always been afraid of the unknown. Afraid of what I don’t understand. Afraid of what I don’t know…”

Dorothea leaned in a little closer, her gaze bright with tenderness, and replied in a reassuring tone:

“Being afraid of the unknown is natural, Ingrid. It’s human. And it’s in no way a sign of weakness.”

Their eyes met again. Ingrid inhaled and whispered, almost against her will:

“In a way… I admire you for that. For being able to face the unknown without trembling.”

A small, crystalline laugh escaped Dorothea’s lips. Her thumb brushed lightly to wipe away a tear that had gathered at the corner of Ingrid’s eye.

“I’m glad that’s the image I give you,” she said softly. Then, her voice grew even gentler: “You know… I’ve learned over time that the unknown can sometimes bring wonderful things. Yes, it can be terrifying too, of course. But it often holds surprises you wouldn’t imagine. To embrace it, you have to make choices. Even when it seems scary. Even when you’d rather stay safe. And… it’s easier when you’re not alone. When someone is there to lend a hand.”

A sacred silence fell. Ingrid said nothing.

A bird sang in the distance, the autumn wind rustled the leaves, and Loog grazed peacefully a few steps away. Yet between them, everything seemed suspended.

Dorothea’s soft scent lingered around Ingrid. Perhaps it was her perfume, or maybe just her shampoo, but it was intoxicating. Sunlight illuminated her brown hair, free of the hat she had left at the monastery for their seminar, each strand glinting as if with a new light. Ingrid noticed a delicate beauty mark near her left ear, something she had never observed before. Her lashes were long. Her lips soft and full. The memory of their kiss that night flashed through Ingrid’s mind like lightning. Her lips… had she dreamed it, or had she really tasted them? And what if she could taste them again, here and now?

Dorothea’s hand, still on her cheek, shifted slightly, just enough for her thumb to brush Ingrid’s lower lip. Ingrid’s heart nearly stopped. She lifted her eyes and saw Dorothea, her gaze was clouded, distant, as if in a trance.

It was dangerous. Far too dangerous. If Ingrid didn’t act now, she knew she could never step back.

“Dorothea…” she whispered, her voice firm.

The brunette blinked, as if pulled from a dream.

She straightened immediately, withdrawing her hand, and stammered, looking away:

“I… I’m sorry, forgive me…”

Ingrid sprang upright, took a deep breath, and spoke in a voice she tried to steady:

“I think… we’d better get going. Loog should be ready by now.”

She adjusted her Pegasus’s saddle with precise, almost mechanical movements, then added, forcing a smile:

“But… I’m glad we’re talking again like before. We could… pretend that kiss never happened, don’t you think?”

When she turned, Dorothea was standing, her eyes fixed on the ground, fists clenched. Her silence carried a weight, almost unsettling.

Ingrid stepped closer, reaching out as if to guide her back, but didn’t get the chance to speak.

“It wasn’t because I was drunk!” Dorothea burst out abruptly, her voice trembling but firm.

Ingrid froze, taken aback.

“Wh… what are you talking about?”

“The kiss!” Dorothea finally lifted her head, her eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity. “I didn’t kiss you because I was drunk!”

“I told you we wouldn’t talk about it again…” Ingrid began, but Dorothea cut her off once more, the words pouring out like a torrent she could no longer contain.

“I know! I know you want to move on. But I can’t let you think that you only deserved a kiss from me because I’d had too much to drink!”

Ingrid felt a flush of embarrassment rise. “I don’t think that… Really, it’s not…”

But Dorothea wasn’t listening. She stepped forward and grasped Ingrid’s hand with a desperate firmness. The contact made Ingrid’s heart race uncontrollably, every nerve in her body screaming alarm.

“I didn’t kiss you because I was drunk… I did it because I wanted to. Because I love you, Ingrid.”

She finally lifted her eyes, and this time, her gaze didn’t waver.

“I love you when you furrow your brows because you think too much. I love you when you speak of knighthood with that burning passion, even if I don’t always understand everything. I love you when you smile despite yourself, as if you’re afraid someone will notice. I love you when you criticize me, when you get angry, when you lose patience, because even in those moments, I know you’re trying to do the right thing. I love you when you laugh with your whole heart. I love you when you always try to help others! I love you when you’re there for me. I love you when you are simply you…”

Her voice broke for a moment, but she immediately regained it, even more vibrant:

“I love you for your strength, for your integrity, but also for your weaknesses. Because they make you real, because they make me want to reach out to you. When I see you, I… I can’t help but want to stay by your side. Even if you push me away, even if sometimes I feel I don’t deserve your presence… I know that my heart beats for you, and only for you.”

Dorothea lowered her head slightly, her hair brushing against their joined hands.

“I don’t want you to think that you were an accident, a drunken whim. I kissed you because every fiber of my being screamed at me to do it. Because… because loving you, Ingrid, is the only thing in my life that feels real.”

A silence fell, absolute, almost cruel. Dorothea had given everything, and now she didn’t dare lift her eyes.

Ingrid, on the other hand, was in complete chaos. Her thoughts collided mercilessly:

She wanted to smile, to vomit, to laugh nervously, to blush, to cry, to kiss her, to scream that she disgusted her. Her heart raced, drunk on heat, while her conscience screamed that she must not give in. She had always been taught to heed reason, to stifle the impulses of the heart, to obey righteousness rather than desire.

So… she did nothing.

She slowly but firmly withdrew her hand from Dorothea’s grip, without a word.

Her eyes turned away, fixed coldly on Loog, and she finished adjusting the saddle, her movements almost too precise, as if to stop herself from trembling.

“Get ready,” she said in a strangely neutral voice. “We’re leaving.”

Dorothea parted her lips, as if to say something, but thought better of it. She simply nodded.

The ride back to Garreg Mach was quick. Silence hung heavily. Dorothea stayed clinging to Ingrid, her arms still wrapped around her waist, but this time without cries, without trembling. Just a silent, stubborn embrace. And Ingrid, eyes fixed on the horizon, bit the inside of her cheek, unable to utter a single word.

When they finally reached Garreg Mach, Ingrid spotted Edelgard waiting a little further away, apparently there to fetch Dorothea. So, when Loog landed with a rush of wings, Ingrid dismounted first and let her passenger manage her own descent.

She absentmindedly stroked the white, silky coat of her Pegasus, the motion almost mechanical, a way to keep her hands busy.

Dorothea stepped down as well and moved toward Ingrid.

Her eyes darted nervously between her and the ground, as if trying to gauge the knight’s slightest reaction.

Edelgard approached, seemingly unaware of what had just transpired.

“Did everything go well?” she asked.

Dorothea immediately restored her usual charming smile, as if nothing had happened.

“Oh yes ! I may not be ready to ride a Pegasus just yet, but thanks to Ingrid’s lesson, I realized I don’t need to fear falling.”

Edelgard nodded approvingly, then turned to the blonde.

“That’s excellent. And you, Ingrid ? Did everything go smoothly on your side?”

Ingrid paused briefly. Her gaze slid toward Dorothea, who avoided her eyes, then she responded in a voice as formal as she could muster:

“Yes, everything went well. Dorothea made good progress.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Edelgard offered a small smile, then addressed Dorothea: “The professor is inviting us to dinner tonight, just the two of us.” She turned back to Ingrid. “You should come as well. It will be a chance to thank you and discuss these improvements a little further.”

For a moment, Ingrid froze. Her eyes flicked from Edelgard to Dorothea, then back to Dorothea, who stood silently, waiting for a response. Ingrid forced a polite smile.

“That’s very kind… but I’ve already promised Sylvain and Felix to have dinner with them.”

Of course, that was a lie.

Edelgard didn’t seem to mind. “I understand. Thank you again, Ingrid.” Then, with her usual poise, she turned and left the stables.

Silence fell immediately afterward. Ingrid led Loog back to his enclosure, aware of the lingering, burning gaze on her. Behind her, Dorothea remained still. Finally, the brunette stepped a little closer, just enough to softly say:

“Have a good evening, Ingrid.”

“You too,” the knight replied without turning around.

She heard Dorothea’s footsteps recede, then nothing. When she finally decided to look back, Dorothea was already farther away, at the entrance of the courtyard. Yet she hadn’t left entirely. She stood there, motionless, as if waiting for one last sign.

Their eyes met. Dorothea gave her a bright smile, raised her hand in a farewell gesture, and said:

“We’ll see each other at the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion!”

Then she disappeared into the monastery corridors, leaving Ingrid alone with Loog… and the weight of a heart in turmoil.

Chapter Text

Ingrid lifted her head.

The sun beat down despite the light wind sweeping across the plains, and beneath her, Loog’s wings moved in calm, steady rhythm.

From up here, she could see everything: Sylvain and Ashe holding the left flank, Mercedes and Felix waiting a little farther back, and Dimitri standing in reserve, surrounded by Dedue and Annette.

They occupied the southwest section of the field, the most open terrain. A good thing.

The forest belonged to the Golden Deer, and Ingrid would never have tolerated maneuvering Loog between trunks and branches.

But that openness had its drawbacks too.

Bernadetta’s drawn bow gleamed across the river.

Ingrid inhaled slowly. Too far to strike her now, but close enough to remind her that she was never truly safe from an arrow.

Fortunately for her, at least for the moment, Ashe occupied the archery post.

Silence stretched across the battlefield. Everyone waited for the Garreg Mach banner to rise, the signal for the start of the Battle of the Eagle and the Lion.

This year, the rules had been revised.

Each participant wore a scarf tied around their neck: blue for the Blue Lions, red for the Black Eagles, and yellow for the Golden Deer.

The concept was simple: protect your own scarf and tear off the enemy’s. Once your scarf fell, you were eliminated.

Melee weapons—swords, axes, and lances, had all been replaced with wooden replicas.

Sturdy enough to strike, but not to cause serious injury.

Arrows were sharpened just enough to slice through a scarf, not flesh.

Ingrid found the idea clever: a single well-placed shot could completely change the outcome of a duel.

For mages, the rule was clear, no overly powerful spells directed at their classmates. Magic could be used to alter terrain, create obstacles, or deflect attacks… but never to truly endanger anyone.

Finally, Seteth had summoned the students with flying units, Claude, Hilda, and Ingrid, for a separate, stern briefing.

Altitude limits, maximum flight speed, restricted air zones… everything was tightly regulated. Ingrid knew it was necessary to avoid accidents, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being asked to clip her wings, to fly lower than she truly could.

The entire system existed for one purpose: to keep the number of injuries under control and minimize risks. There would always be some, that was inevitable. But if everyone respected the rules, nothing serious would happen. And that was for the best. Manuela still hadn’t recovered from her assault last month; the slightest new incident would have been too much.

Ingrid tightened her grip on the reins. Loog pawed at the air restlessly beneath her. The flag would rise any second now.

"Because… because loving you, Ingrid, is the only thing in my life that feels real."

Ingrid slapped both her cheeks.

Why on earth was she thinking about that now?!

This was absolutely not the time!

Thank the Goddess she hadn’t spoken to Dorothea since that night… because otherwise, she’d have had no idea what to say to her.

Not a single word.

She let her forehead fall against Loog’s neck, burying her nose in his white mane as a faint groan escaped her lips.

Why had Dorothea said those words? Why torment her like that? It was unbearable. Horrible.

Her fingers tangled absentmindedly in Loog’s hair, stroking him in slow, repetitive motions.

All she’d ever wanted was to get along with Dorothea, to be friends with her. To stand beside her. To see her smile.

Only the Goddess knew how much Ingrid loved that smile. She just wanted to stay close to her… the way one friend stays close to another. So why did Dorothea have to ruin everything with that confession?

And that confession!

Utterly senseless.

Utterly stupid.

Ingrid’s finger caught on a knot in Loog’s mane.

Despite herself, her thoughts drifted.

She saw again Dorothea’s hands, so soft, clutching hers as if her life depended on it. She saw her lips again, whispering how much she loved her…

No. Lies. Empty words. Dorothea was just good with words. A seductress, that’s all.

Yes. That had to be it. Ingrid frowned.

Dorothea saw her as prey, nothing more.

Maybe she thought House Galatea hid some treasure, some inheritance worth chasing. So she’d drawn near, spun her little web. It all made sense. It had to.

Because if it didn’t, if Dorothea had spoken those words simply because she truly loved her, like a princess loves her knight, then… then Ingrid might have found that too sweet. Too comforting. And that… that was dangerous. Far too dangerous.

Suddenly, an arrow hissed past, grazing her shoulder by mere inches.

Loog neighed and reared violently, snapping Ingrid back to reality.

Her heart pounded as she lifted her head. Below, chaos had erupted.

“MOVE YOUR ASS, INGRID!” roared Felix, sword already drawn, fury blazing in his eyes. “YOU’RE NOT HERE TO DAYDREAM, DAMN IT!”

Ingrid blinked, disoriented. The battle… had started?!

She hadn’t even realized it.

Ingrid had fought before.

Since her arrival at Garreg Mach, she had taken part in countless missions for the Church.

It wasn’t battle itself that she loved, hurting someone never brought her any satisfaction, but the knowledge that her efforts could bring others comfort, safety, or happiness.

That was what she valued.

That was what kept her moving forward.

Today, though, this was a fight… that wasn’t truly a fight.

A battle without wounds, without blood, without death.

Was it meant to entertain the Archbishop? Or perhaps a kind of collective training exercise, a way to prepare the students for the unexpected? The second explanation seemed more reasonable, but deep down, Ingrid couldn’t quite see the point.

Still, she would remain focused. Because here, she didn’t just represent herself, she represented the Kingdom. And that, she carried in her heart. She would give her all, for Dimitri… but above all, for Faerghus.

She urged Loog higher into the sky, her sharp gaze sweeping over the battlefield below.

Dimitri had assigned her to the eastern flank. She had tried to point out that the dense vegetation there would hinder her aerial mobility, but Dimitri had simply smiled and said she should just avoid flying over the forest.

She had stayed silent.

Dimitri was a phenomenal fighter, hundreds of times stronger than she was, but not much of a strategist.

Still, how could she argue with her prince? She had decided to improvise, and now that the battle had begun, improvisation was all she had.

Her eyes caught movement near the treeline, a familiar figure standing apart from the others. Marianne. The girl remained toward the rear, surrounded by a small group. Claude had clearly placed her in the backline, likely so she could heal her allies from a safe distance. A wise choice… unless the opponent happened to be a pegasus knight.

Ingrid tightened her grip on her lance. Marianne wielded a sword, but against an airborne lancer, the advantage was obvious. And Ingrid had the initiative.

She leaned forward, pressing her heels gently into Loog’s flanks. The pegasus responded instantly, wings cutting through the air with practiced strength.

The wind slapped against Ingrid’s face, her golden hair streaming behind her as her speed climbed.

No time to hesitate. No time to think.

Because farther ahead, she could already see Bernadetta readying her bow, tense and focused, arrow nocked. Every second Ingrid delayed was another arrow aimed her way.

So she dove, lance lowered, eyes fixed, charging toward Marianne like a falcon descending on its prey.

At that very instant, a voice rang out behind her...

“Ingrid, no!”

It was Sylvain. But it was too late. Her momentum was already unstoppable.

From the shadows of the trees, a shape suddenly darted out.

Ignatz.

Ingrid hadn’t seen him, hidden there like a hunter lying in wait. What was he even doing in that spot? She didn’t have time to think. The string of his bow snapped taut.

The arrow whistled straight toward her. On instinct, Ingrid made Loog dive sharply to the side.

The shot missed her flank by mere inches, but the sudden movement exposed her completely.

Marianne, who had been motionless until then, raised her hand.

A gust of wind burst forth.

The violent blast sent Ingrid and Loog tumbling straight into the forest. Branches whipped against her face; Loog lost control, his wings thrashing wildly in panic. Ingrid felt her body slip from the saddle.

Then came the fall.

She hit the ground hard, her face slamming into the mud. The air was knocked clean out of her lungs, and for a few seconds, all she could hear was the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

Struggling to rise, she looked up just in time to see Ignatz already drawing another arrow, aiming directly at her.

It was over. She had no time to remount Loog, no chance to lift her lance.

She would be one of the first, if not the first, to be eliminated. What a disgrace...

But suddenly, a flash of steel cut through the air.

A javelin struck Ignatz squarely in the gut with a sharp crack. He doubled over, startled, his bow slipping from his hands.

Ingrid whipped her head around. Through the trees, a rider charged forward at full speed, a blaze of red hair streaming behind him.

“Ingrid! Forget Loog!” Sylvain shouted, his lance gleaming. “Get into the forest, now! Go while you still can!”

Ingrid hesitated for a fraction of a second, her heart twisting at the thought of abandoning her winged companion. But she knew Sylvain was right, if she stayed, they’d both be out.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself to her feet and sprinted between the trees, her boots splashing through the mud with every step. Behind her, the clash of battle roared to life once more, but she didn’t dare look back.

 

Ingrid moved cautiously among the tree trunks.

Her boots pressed silently into the mud, and she silently congratulated herself for having stayed discreet enough to catch Léonie off guard earlier.

A clean, honorable victory.

From a distance, she had then seen Raphael take down Ferdinand, and heard Lorenz grumbling loudly after being eliminated by Professor Byleth.

Typical of him.

What was the point of having Claude as a strategist if no one ever listened to his plans?

From her perspective, Ashe and Sylvain seemed to have been taken out of play.

Her stomach twisted at the thought, especially for Sylvain. She felt guilty, as if her own recklessness had led to his fall.

Until now, her strategy had been clear: stay within the forest, strike clean and quick ambushes.

Never from behind, that would be unworthy of a knight. Already skirting the edges of honor, Ingrid refused to cross that line.

She was just deciding whether to leave the cover of the trees when footsteps approached. Two people, judging by the rhythm. Numerical superiority. Instantly, Ingrid pressed herself behind a moss-covered trunk, holding her breath.

The foliage parted.

Petra stepped first into the clearing, graceful and confident, followed closely by Dorothea. The latter looked less comfortable, casting distracted glances around her. Ingrid’s heart leapt painfully in her chest. Of all fourteen possible opponents… it had to be her.

“We need to continue this way,” Petra said with certainty. “Professor said Claude isn’t far.”

Dorothea rolled her eyes, clearly irritated.

“But why do we have to take care of him, huh?”

“Because the rest of the class is already facing the Blue Lions,” Petra replied simply. “Originally, Ferdinand was with us, but he lost.”

Dorothea sighed.

“I know that… but let’s be honest, Ferdinand wouldn’t have been much help anyway.”

“Linhardt isn’t far behind,” Petra said. “We don’t need to worry. We can beat Claude.”

“But I know that!” Dorothea exclaimed. “That’s not what’s annoying me!”

Petra blinked.

“Then what is bothering you?”

Dorothea averted her gaze, lips pressing together.

“What I wanted… was to face the Blue Lions!”

Ingrid’s chest tightened so sharply she felt as if it were being crushed. The Blue Lions? Why?

Petra looked at her with curiosity.

“It’s true, originally you were assigned to the plains, not the forest.”

Dorothea nodded vigorously.

“Exactly. I asked Edie to put me there, and she agreed. But yesterday, the professor said Caspar was too loud for the forest. So, since I wasn’t essential to the plan, I had to swap places with him. I’m an opera singer, remember! If anyone’s supposed to be loud, it’s me!”

“The professor knows what she’s doing,” Petra replied calmly.

“I know, I know… you know I totally trust her… I love her… especially her looks, if you want to know everything. But sometimes, this lack of consideration… it irritates me!”

Petra narrowed her eyes.

“But why did you want so badly to face the Blue Lions?”

Dorothea suddenly lowered her eyes. Ingrid would swear she saw her blush.

“Because… there’s someone among them I want to impress.”

Ingrid’s breath caught. Her fingers clenched against the tree trunk behind which she hid. Her thoughts collided violently.

Someone… among them?

Petra stared at Dorothea for a moment, then shrugged lightly.

“Then I hope you realize it soon, Ingrid.”

Dorothea blinked, startled.

“Why would you say that?!”

Petra stepped forward calmly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Because it’s obvious to anyone that you love Ingrid.”

Dorothea opened her mouth, almost offended.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating! I’m still a little discreet!”

Petra turned her gaze toward her, unyielding.

“No. You’re not.”

Dorothea’s face fell, shocked.

Petra, meanwhile, remained serene, as if all of this were perfectly normal.

“You kissed her in front of everyone last month.” She paused, then added in a deeper tone, “And above all… you only seem real when you’re talking to Ingrid.”

The words struck Ingrid like a blow. Her hands trembled on the shaft of her lance. She wanted to sink into the ground, vanish, scream that Petra was wrong. But her body refused to obey. And in the unbearable silence, her foot crushed a branch.

A crack. Light, but sharp.

Immediately, Petra spun like a predator, blade in hand.

“Who’s there?!” she shouted.

Dorothea pivoted too, but much slower, and far from ready to strike.

Ingrid felt shame burn across her face. What a rookie mistake! She had let herself be distracted like a child by their words… and now, fleeing without turning her back was impossible. She tightened her grip on her lance, inhaled deeply, and stepped out of her hiding spot.

Dorothea’s eyes widened.

“Ingrid!” she breathed out, a mix of surprise and emotion that Ingrid preferred not to analyze.

Petra, however, remained impassive, her blade pointed straight at her.

“What a coincidence… that you’d show up right as we were talking about you.”

Ingrid gritted her teeth, raising her lance in response.

“Yes… I heard.”

Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Gazes locked, assessing, challenging. A chilling tension hung in the air. Ingrid felt her heart hammering in her temples, her legs ready to move at the slightest gesture from Petra.

Finally, Petra sighed and lowered her blade.

Ingrid blinked, surprised.

“What…?”

Petra looked away.

“Attacking two against one would be unfair.” Her voice was calm, sharp. “And Claude isn’t far, I can feel it. I want to be the one to take him out. So I’ll leave you… a fair fight.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked past Dorothea, who watched her with lost eyes, equally confused.

Then Petra slipped between the branches, silent, disappearing like a shadow.

Dorothea looked at Ingrid, embarrassed, before giving her a small, uncertain smile.

"How are you…?"

Ingrid, caught off guard, stammered:

"I… uh… I’m fine… and you ? I…"

But she didn’t get the chance to finish.

A huge explosion rang out behind them.

Ingrid spun around abruptly. A plume of smoke and light was rising from the direction where she had left Dimitri and Annette.

Her heart tightened. The explosion had to be Annette’s magic… which meant she had been fighting, and consequently, Dimitri as well!

What an idiot she had been! Here she was, talking, while her comrades were fighting for the kingdom’s victory!

Clenching her lance so tightly her knuckles whitened, Ingrid got back into a defensive stance. Her eyes hardened.

"I’m putting you down!" she shouted, her voice icy with determination.

Dorothea looked at her, stunned.

"Can’t we… talk first?!"

Ingrid didn’t answer. She lunged, pointing her lance straight at Dorothea’s stomach.

Dorothea reacted at the last moment, raising her sword to block. The impact forced her back a step; Ingrid was pushing with all her strength, her physical advantage clear.

"We could at least talk instead of killing each other!" Dorothea shouted, struggling to resist.

"We have nothing to say to each other!" Ingrid spat, violently pushing back her sword.

Her lance struck Dorothea in the side, grazing her liver. Dorothea let out a cry of pain, doubling over, but she didn’t release her ribbon.

Ingrid raised her lance again to finish the assault, but Dorothea cast a gust of wind, hurling her backward. Ingrid fell, the air knocked out of her lungs.

Dorothea, panting, recovered her sword and stepped back a few paces.

"Yes, we have a lot to talk about!"

"No!" Ingrid yelled, charging again.

Dorothea dodged with a quick step.

"Did you forget that I made a declaration to you or something?!" she said, her voice vibrant. "Believe me, that opens up a whole conversation!"

"This is neither the place nor the time!" Ingrid snapped, thrusting repeatedly, each attack failing to connect.

Dorothea spun to evade and replied:

"Then tell me, when will it be the right time?!"

Ingrid felt her cheeks burn from the exertion, but even more from the words. Her focus shattered, her rhythm faltered. She, the disciplined duelist, was getting carried away. Her strikes lost precision, and Dorothea managed to slip away again and again.

Then, with an unexpected leap, Dorothea took the initiative.

She pounced on Ingrid, flipping her off balance, and the two of them collapsed heavily to the ground. Dorothea ended up straddling her, pinning her lance with all her strength.

"Ingrid!" she shouted, her voice vibrant. "I will tell you again and again: I love you! And I will keep going until you admit it’s mutual!"

Ingrid’s eyes widened, her cheeks burning crimson. She gritted her teeth.

"It’s a waste of time! I will never love you the way you love me!"

Dorothea gave a mischievous smile despite the situation, her gaze shining with an odd certainty.

"You’re far too sure of yourself, Ingrid. Because I think you’re already a little under my spell…"

Ingrid immediately furrowed her brows.

"Absolutely not!"

Dorothea raised an amused eyebrow.

"Alright… maybe you don’t love me as much as I love you. I can grant you that, after all, I doubt many people can love the way I do. But you can’t pretend you feel absolutely nothing for me."

Ingrid got instantly irritated.

"You’re mistaking your dreams for reality! And anyway, I don’t even like girls!"

Dorothea burst out laughing.

"Why are you laughing?!" Ingrid fumed.

"Because what you’re saying is just too funny!"

"There’s nothing funny! I don’t like girls! I’m straight!"

"Of course. And I’m the Goddess herself."

"I’m serious!" protested Ingrid, her cheeks burning red.

Dorothea tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a mocking smile on her lips.

"Then you really need to look in a mirror, Ingrid. It’s hard to be more lesbian than you. You’re probably even more than I am."

Ingrid started fidgeting beneath her, furious.

"Absolutely not! And stop thinking everyone is gay!"

Dorothea sighed.

"You’ve dreamed your whole life of becoming a knight to save princesses."

Ingrid’s face turned crimson.

"I didn’t want to become a knight for princesses!"

"Maybe not the main reason," Dorothea admitted, feigning innocence, "but… a little bonus, right?"

"No!" Ingrid shot back immediately, feeling her heart race while trying to hide her embarrassment.

Dorothea smirked.

"Everything about you screams ‘knight’… but also sapphic. You hate makeup, you spend all your time training, you grew up around boys… and I bet if you had the chance, you’d cut your hair. You’re a walking cliche."

"You’re just spouting stereotypes!" Ingrid retorted.

"And on top of that," Dorothea added, radiant, "I have an excellent gaydar. With you, it’s screaming ‘bling-bling!’ at full volume."

Half embarrassed, half annoyed, Ingrid yelled louder than she intended:

"I’m sick of everyone deciding my sexuality for me! I know who I love, damn it! It’s still up to me to choose!"

The rare curse left her mouth like proof of her real frustration. Dorothea sighed softly, then, with a gentle gesture, let her hand slide over Ingrid’s reddened cheek.

"Exactly… No. Today, not everyone is free to choose who they love." Her voice dropped, almost a whisper. "And… there was that kiss too. It meant something, and..."

She didn’t get to finish. An arrow whistled through the air, passing just in front of her throat and tearing off her scarf.

The two young women froze. Ingrid hadn’t heard it coming, probably too focused on arguing or ignoring Dorothea.

Both turned toward the source of the shot.

And there, stepping out of the bushes with her bow still drawn, was Mercedes. She wore that same angelic smile, far too serene for the situation. Ingrid froze: she always forgot that Mercedes could handle a bow as well. And judging by the precision of that shot, she was almost as formidable an archer as she was a white magic user.
magic user.

Mercedes raised a hand to her mouth, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Oh… did I interrupt something?”

Ingrid, scarlet-faced, sprang upright, shoving Dorothea to the side.

“N-No! N-nothing at all!”

Mercedes stepped forward calmly, her smile gentle.

“I think your scarf fell, Dorothea.”

The brunette reached up to her neck, realizing her ribbon was gone.

Ingrid spoke up:

“If the scarf falls, that means… death. So you’re out.”

Dorothea sighed, then shot Ingrid a direct look.

“Well, since I’m dead, I can finally have a proper conversation with you, right?”

Ingrid opened her mouth, but Mercedes cut her off.

“Eliminated players must report to the Archbishop, at the top of the hill.”

Dorothea glared at her, frustrated. Mercedes, unbothered, continued softly:

“Don’t be sad. Anyway, the Black Eagles are gaining the upper hand.”

Ingrid spun around sharply.

“Where’s Dimitri?!”

“He’s facing Edelgard… and he’s losing,” Mercedes replied calmly.

“But why didn’t you go help him?!” Ingrid exclaimed, already tense.

Mercedes remained focused on her.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay first.”

Ingrid swallowed a sigh. She wanted to tell her helping Dimitri would’ve been more useful, but it would be rude to argue with someone who had just saved her. So she merely replied:

“… I see.”

At that moment, Dorothea pressed against her right arm.

“We still need to talk, Ingrid.”

Ingrid blushed, caught off guard by the contact she was starting to know all too well. But her embarrassment skyrocketed when Mercedes grabbed her other arm.

“M-Mercedes?! What are you doing?!”

“I think it’s time for Dorothea to return to camp,” Mercedes said, her eternal smile in place.

“I haven’t finished talking to her!” Dorothea snapped.

“I understand… but rules are rules,” said Mercedes.

“Five minutes! I just need five minutes!” Dorothea insisted.

“Then do it now,” Mercedes said, still gentle but firm.

Ingrid, crimson, tried to interpose herself, trapped between the two women, feeling the weight of their chests pressing against her.

“Listen, I…”

“This is a private conversation!” Dorothea protested.

“In that case, you’ll have to wait until the battle is over,” Mercedes replied softly.

Dorothea grit her teeth.

“Could you at least respect our privacy for two minutes!”

Mercedes tilted her head.

“You just interrupted Ingrid, who was trying to say something.”

Their moment was broken by footsteps in the bushes. Petra appeared, closely followed by Byleth. Both froze at the scene.

Ingrid, on the verge of exploding, shouted:

“This is completely beyond my control!”

Petra, a mischievous smile on her lips, said:

“I didn’t know polygamy was customary in Fódlan.”

Byleth, unflappable, replied:

“Normally, it isn’t. But everyone does as they please.”

“That’s not it at all!” yelled Ingrid, crimson-faced.

Byleth pointed at Dorothea.

“You don’t have your scarf anymore.”

Mercedes raised her left hand.

“I took it off her.”

Dorothea shot Mercedes a murderous glare, who merely smiled sweetly.

“In that case,” Byleth concluded, “Dorothea, return to camp.”

Dorothea sighed, finally releasing Ingrid’s arm.

“… If the professor asks, I have no choice.”

She gave Ingrid a small wave goodbye and disappeared into the woods, casting one last glare at Mercedes.

Ingrid’s heart raced, relieved but still flustered. Mercedes finally let go of her arm and asked:

“What do we do now?”

Byleth answered calmly, drawing the Sword of the Creator.

“Claude fell to Petra and me, but we need to eliminate you to secure the victory for Edelgard.”

Petra nodded proudly behind her.

Ingrid gripped her lance. The shiver running down her spine at the sight of the sword was real. She had always feared facing that weapon. But she straightened, taking her battle stance.

She would fight to the end for Dimitri and the kingdom, even if the battle was already lost… that was a promise she had made long ago to someone dear, a promise she had vowed to uphold with her life.

 

Victory ultimately went to the Black Eagles.

Petra had bested Ingrid after an intense duel, while Byleth had quickly eliminated Mercedes. Dimitri, meanwhile, had fallen to Edelgard.

Ingrid applauded sincerely, they had earned their victory. Yet, beneath her polite smiles, a twinge of frustration lingered. She had given everything she could, and still… she had lost.

At least she hid it better than Felix, who openly fumed until Annette sharply reprimanded him. Good thing, Ingrid didn’t have the energy to deal with that herself.

 

That evening, a grand banquet was held to congratulate everyone, especially the Black Eagles.

The tables were laden with food, goblets of wine sparkled in the torchlight, and laughter and music filled the air.

Slowly, Ingrid’s frustration melted in the warmth of the feast. Tonight, she just wanted to focus on herself.

She did nothing when she saw Felix challenging Byleth and Jeritza to an impromptu duel.

She didn’t move when Sylvain started flirting with Marianne, Hilda took care of putting him in his place, anyway.

Besides, Ingrid was still upset with Sylvain since Dorothea’s birthday. She liked thinking that, for once, she had nothing to feel guilty about. She would wait for him to apologize. That would be the very least he could do. Sure, he had helped her earlier in the day against Marianne, but that didn’t count! Ingrid wanted to hear a real apology from his mouth. Otherwise… he could forget it if he expected her to stop giving him the cold shoulder.

Dorothea, for her part, came to talk to her several times during the evening.

Nothing provocative this time: light, almost trivial conversations. They had talked about the dress she was wearing, the church orchestra’s singing, a fish recipe Dorothea had tried recently, and even Ferdinand’s several-second stammer during Monday’s class questioning.

Simple, pleasant exchanges, and maybe that was what unsettled Ingrid the most.

But everything changed at the end of the evening.

Dorothea, slightly tipsy, raised her glass with a laugh:

“To Edelgard! And to our victory!”

She wobbled slightly before adding louder:

“Because, let’s be honest, I wasn’t much help! Still, I managed to die like a total beginner, thanks, Mercedes!”

Laughter erupted around the table. Mercedes raised her glass in return, her angelic smile intact.

Dorothea continued, a touch theatrical:

“To make up for it, I’ll give our Empress a gift many would dream of receiving!”

Before anyone could react, she leaned over and kissed Edelgard on the lips.

A burst of laughter ran through the hall. Dorothea, head held high, proudly declared in a haughty tone:

“A kiss from the most beautiful woman in Fódlan is an honor few can boast of!”

Edelgard sighed, arms crossed.

“Let me clarify that I bear no responsibility for Dorothea’s actions, especially if she becomes a sexual aggressor in the future.”

More laughter. Dorothea pretended to be outraged, hand on her heart.

“What an injustice! Not even a word of gratitude!”

Sylvain, amused, raised his glass.

“I want a kiss too!”

Dorothea turned to him.

“Have you ever led a class to victory, then?”

“I’m pretty sure I have in another life!” he replied, laughing.

The hall erupted in laughter again.

But Ingrid froze.

Her smile vanished.

Her gaze drifted.

Dorothea had just kissed Edelgard… and everyone was laughing?

No one found it strange?

Why?

Ingrid felt a lump form in her throat. Her chest ached painfully. She felt nauseous, but it wasn’t the food.

It had happened the moment Dorothea’s lips had touched Edelgard’s.

She tried to convince herself it was simply… disgust.

Yes, that was it. The gesture had disturbed her. It was abnormal.

It wasn’t natural, that’s all.

But the more she thought about it, the more the pain intensified.

Without a word, Ingrid set down her plate, stood up, and quietly left the great hall.

No one noticed.

When she arrived at her room, silence enveloped her like a cold balm.

Yet the ache in her chest didn’t fade.

When she saw a letter placed on her doorstep, the seal of her father on the envelope, a new feeling of unease gripped her.

As if that evening, that kiss, and this letter… all shared something she absolutely did not want to understand.