Chapter Text

The continent of Fódlan is a land home to fair-skinned folk who revere a creator goddess said to have fallen from the stars. Its lands are divided between three feudal aristocratic states. In the south lies a region held for over a millennium by a single dynasty—the Adrestian Empire. Beyond its borders, to the frigid north, is the home of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. To the east, a league of nobles that heeds no king or emperor rules what is called the Leicester Alliance. In the center of the continent, atop the Oghma Mountains, lies the headquarters of the Church of Seiros, a powerful organization dedicated to the goddess and her saintly prophet.

Relations between the three states, all once part of the Empire, have never been better. Heathen enemies to the north and east and west have prompted the leaders of each state to work with the Church in creating a shared cultural identity for the people of Fódlan, with the elites going so far as to school their children together, so that bonds may be forged across borders. The Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery attracts scions and heirs from across Fódlan for two years of learning in the Central Church of Seiros’s own seat of power.

Within each country, however, struggles for power and dark tragedies plague the lives of nobles and commoners alike. In Adrestia, it has become common knowledge that a power struggle between the Imperial household and the other nobility has left the sitting Emperor Ionius IX a mere figurehead, while disease has cost him ten of his eleven children. In Faerghus, an assassination of the king by religious extremists from a minority group has led to cruel pogroms against the people of the Duscur ethnicity. When nobles within the Kingdom were found to be complicit in aiding the assassins, a peasant revolt followed, led by a heretical prophet who challenged the divine right to rule granted to the nobility via Crests—hereditary blessings that grant those born with them supernatural abilities. In Leicester, attacks by wandering monsters have devastated trade routes and claimed the life of Godfrey von Riegan, heir to one of the Alliance’s most important families.

Still, those who lead the present prepare their successors for a future without them. In Imperial Year 1180, the ones who will shape Fódlan’s future will meet at Garreg Mach.

Wyvern Moon, 1179IY

Crown Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd waited in the king’s study, a guest in his own palace. Despite his uncle’s promise to meet him here three hours ago, Dimitri had needed to barge into his uncle’s room and rouse the Grand Duke from his hungover, whore-covered stupor. Still now, Dimitri waited for his uncle to finish making himself decent enough to conduct the day’s business. As he waited, Dimitri meditated like he would before fighting—the only way to keep himself from flying into a rage and breaking everything in the room.

At last, Rufus, Grand Duke of Iltha and ruling regent of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, joined his nephew in the study. The indulgences of palace life had eroded the great, blonde-haired and blue-eyed man’s once powerful figure, and he moved clumsily with the weight he’d gained over the last four years.

“I’m terribly sorry, Dimitri,” he said, blushing with shame. “I’m afraid I had a little too much fun last night, and well… I should have held back a bit more. I don’t want you to think you’re not important to me.”

“I understand,” Dimitri replied, his face like slate. “A man doing a king’s work is entitled to at least some of a king’s privileges.”

“Right you are—but! Family needs to come first,” Rufus replied, now grinning with pride at his own apparent virtue in admitting this. “What is it that you want to discuss with your uncle?”

Dimitri stood from his seat. “Uncle, I am nearing seventeen years of age. While you have done your best to maintain the peace and prosperity of Faerghus during your regency, many are dissatisfied with the problems that have arisen during your rule. While you can hardly be blamed for last year’s rebellion, you must be aware that many lords of Faerghus do just that, if only for your their own convenience. Because of this, they hamper your ability to do what is needed to recover at every turn. It is time for me to take the throne, as is my birthright. On my seventeenth birthday, I will be old enough to be crowned. Unlike you, I am popular with the lords, and my deeds during the rebellion are smiled upon. I will still need to rely upon you as my advisor, but I believe we can make real progress if I am the one pushing for your ideas. What reason is there to put off my coronation any longer?”

“Dimitri, my boy…” Rufus began, “you really have grown up, haven’t you? As great as it would be for you to be the one sitting in that chair, making all the dukes and marquises and margraves pissed at you, I don’t think it’s such a great idea. We both know that Gaspard boy that got the axe couldn’t have been the only one involved in Lam’s death... I’m terrified the same could happen to you. If an old, weak fool like me is sitting there, there’s no way our enemies would think it worth the risk, but you… you’re strong, Dimitri, and you’ve got this fire in you that could melt a Fhirdiad winter. Lambert was the same. They’re afraid of that…”

Dimitri stomped the floor in frustration, cracking the stone under his boot with the supernatural strength of his Crest. “I can’t just spend my whole life hiding from knives in the dark! I have to take the throne eventually, whether I’m surrounded by traitors or not. There’s no sense in waiting out of fear!”

“Alright, I hear you,” Rufus replied, hands raised in front of him, “but there’s another important factor to consider. Things have been pretty bad since Lam died, but they would have been much worse without the Central Church’s help… and it would be a terrible snub to them if we crowned you without sending you to the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery first. Every king has attended since its founding, and I’d hate for you to miss out on that. Not only would it be a great experience, and make you a better king to have that schooling, but it would be two years where you could get to enjoy life again before wading back into the mess of politics. You’ve hardly seen your friends since the Tragedy, don’t you think—”

Dimitri kicked the chair he’d been sitting in, breaking off one of its legs as he shouted his disagreements. “I don’t care about ‘enjoying life!’ How could I possibly be worried about that when the West is in ruins, stricken by famine and war, the East is overcome with refugees and bandits, and the North struggles to maintain order as people riot and protest! What gives me the right to take it easy when my countrymen are dying? I should be helping them, not playing at being a schoolchild!”

Rufus said nothing for a moment, waiting to hear any other complaints Dimitri might have, but he only stood there, catching his breath and staring at the chair he’d ruined. “Dimitri, if you wait until everything is alright to start living, you’re never going to have a life. Lam was working ‘til the day of the Tragedy, and he still made time for fun, and for family. It’s not like you won’t be working while you’re there, either. It’s important for the Holy Kingdom to be close with the Church, and they teach you cutting-edge military strategy there—something that will be vital if you ever need to go to war. All of the most important people across Fódlan will be sending their heirs there—any one of them could become your valuable ally if you befriend them!

"Look, here,” Rufus said as he fumbled to withdraw a scroll from his robe. “The Adrestian Empire sent us a scroll announcing that they’ve got some pretty important kids going there next year. Lots of house heirs! Hresvelg, Vestra, Aegir, Hevring. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to borrow the help of someone like that?”

Dimitri’s eyes widened at the name Hresvelg, but he soon closed them and took a deep breath, steadying himself. “The Hresvelg heir will be there?”

“They sure will! It says, 'The Great and Holy Adrestian Empire, Land of… yadda yadda… is pleased to announce the following students to attend the Class of 1181 of the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach: Imperial Princess Edelgard von Hresvelg, heiress to our most great and righteous...'” he stopped reading, fascinated by how Dimitri was now pacing back and forth across the study, his previous anger vanished and replaced by a look of serious contemplation.

Dimitri stopped and stuck his arm out to his uncle, hand open. Rufus handed him the message. The Duke waited quietly for Dimitri to read the thing several times over, as though he needed to be absolutely sure of its verity.

“I’m going,” Dimitri finally said. “Have an application prepared for me, and one for my retainer Dedue.”

“Sure, sure,” answered Rufus, amazed by Dimitri’s sudden change of heart. “I’ll make sure Fraldarius, Gautier, and Galatea know you’re going this year. I’m sure your childhood friends will want to join you if they get the chance.”

Dimitri eyed his uncle for a moment, then shrugged. “If you insist.”

Thup!

Claude smiled as he looked at the target he’d been shooting at, particularly at the neat cluster of shots gathered around its bullseye.

“Excellent shooting, Claude. You continue to impress,” a voice called, drawing Claude’s attention off of his sport. It belonged to Claude’s grandfather Duke Oswald von Riegan, an aging man whose small stature contrasted with his regal bearing. “I admit, I was skeptical of your ability to succeed as a noble of the Alliance, but you’ve done nothing but prove me wrong since you arrived in Derdriu two years ago. There is nothing left for me to teach you: it is time to announce you as my heir to all of Fódlan.”

Claude chuckled, “Heh, I knew you’d come around, gramps. So, how do we do this here in Fódlan? Is there some huge meeting of all the biggest and baddest nobles where I need to get on stage and dance, or am I supposed to wander all over the place knocking on people’s doors and spreading the good news?”

Oswald folded his arms and snorted. “Nothing like that, you idiot pup. I will announce you to the other lords of the Alliance at the next meeting of the Leicester Alliance Roundtable. As for the other nations, they will come to know of your existence when we send them messages saying you will be attending the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach starting next year.”

“What, more schooling? I thought you said we were done with that!” cried Claude, his face wrought with exaggerated plight.

“Just because I’ve nothing left to teach you doesn’t mean you’ve nothing left to learn,” Oswald replied, snarling at his grandson’s antics. “As a leader, the moment you stop learning, stop adapting, you might as well be dead! Besides, the point of the Officers' Academy isn’t just the education. It’s an important opportunity to take stock of your peers. I’ve just received a message from the Adrestian Empire announcing the attendance of not just their Imperial Princess, but also the heir of the Prime Minister, the heir of the Minister of the Interior, and the heir of the Minister of the Imperial Household. This opportunity is too good to pass up!”

“Well, when you put it that way, of course I’ve got to go! No way I could pass up a chance to rub elbows with all of those snooty and spoiled brats! Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go throw up—in preparation,” Claude joked.

For once, Oswald laughed at Claude’s humor. “Ha ha ha! Just keep that up, boy. No one’s going to take you seriously at this rate. They won’t know what hit them…”

Drinking was Jeralt Eisner’s favorite pastime. A long life of violence could only fill a man with regrets, and nothing made those fade from the mind quite like a frothing mug of ale or three. The mercenary commander sat at the bar and quaffed deeply, looking forward to a night of peace and haze.

Unfortunately for the commander, the sort of patron who sat next to him seemed ready to spoil that fun. Though the man looked like any dockworker, his movements were far too careful, and his gaze was far too sharp as he checked his surroundings before sitting down. Jeralt had been recognized—this was a client.

Not wanting to drag business out any longer than necessary, Jeralt greeted the man. “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, offering a handshake. “You know who I am, you’ve got something that needs doing—what’s the job, and what are you paying?”

The man took the handshake and smiled. “I can only hope the tales of your skill in battle are as accurate as the descriptions of your bluntness, Jeralt Blade-Breaker. That said, I’m not looking to pay you to kill anyone or fight anything. I just need you and your men to visit a specific town at a specific time, and not ask who wants them to do this or why.”

Jeralt groaned. He’d never been good with these clandestine sort of operators. He’d made his reputation through guts, bravery, and keeping a straight head, not cunning or viciousness. “Where do you want us to go?” he asked. “I need travel expenses covered, and then some. Plus hush money, and blood money in case things go south for one of my troops.”

“There’s a town in the Western Empire called Remire. You just need to visit it by the seventh of Lone Moon and stay until the fourteenth. While you’re there, just do whatever feels right to you, no need to worry about what my employer wants. I’ve got your ‘expenses covered and then some’ here; someone will meet you at the destination to deliver the rest of the payment when the job’s done,” the envoy said as he passed Jeralt a bag of coins.

Jeralt pretended to count as he considered the odds of this being some horrible trap against what he stood to gain by going through with it. His instincts told him he wasn’t being led on about being paid later, if this wasn’t entirely a scheme to capture him. It was not as though Jeralt was without enemies. “Nothing else about the job you can give me?” asked Jeralt.

The envoy thought for a moment before answering, “My employer did not select your company himself, rather, I was given discretion as to whom I should hire for this job. I came to you for a few reasons: your reputation as an honorable, but powerful warrior; your proximity to where I was already operating; and your complete and utter lack of connections to the Adrestian Empire’s current rulers.”

Jeralt could see the truth of it, now. He was being employed as a deniable asset by someone important in the Empire’s court, someone who was trying to pull one over a competitor inside the Empire. Maybe Jeralt had finally adapted to these scoundrels after all. “I’ll take the job,” he said. “Tell your employer it’s a deal.”