Chapter Text
Enbarr. Jewel of the Empire and Capital of Adrestia. A vibrant hub of arts and culture that drew in painters and performers from all corners of Fodlan. With its pristine cobble roads glittering like diamonds in the bright sun; ornate fountains of carved marble forged by the greatest artisans the continent had to offer and burbling with sparking, sapphire waters; buildings trimmed with gold and framed with stone pillars that reached to the sky, each one an architectural marvel; the city was a shining beacon of imperial splendor.
And currently hotter than a wyvern’s nutsack.
Sylvain panted, slumped over his horse, and wiping away at the greasy rivulets of sweat that slid down his brow and kept stinging his eyes. The humidity was absolutely suffocating. A wall of sticky heat that clung to his skin like boiling sludge. Even stripped of his usual cloak and coat, he could feel the growing damp patches of perspiration spreading from the underarms of his light cotton tunic, with more splotches pooling across his back and dotting along his chest and stomach.
Overall, despite having lived most of his life in the kingdom, Sylvain enjoyed many facets of the empire. The vibrant arts, the delicious cuisine, the fact that it no longer had its head up its own ass concerning the importance of crests (or at least not as badly as Faerghus…). However, if there was one thing he utterly despised about Adrestia it was how fucking hot the entire Seiros-damned nation was. Even during the winter months, when it was not unusual for Sylvain to have to tromp through three feet of snow on even the busiest roads up in Gautier territory, the southern nation remained a blistering inferno.
Now, in the middle of Blue Sea Moon, Sylvain might as well have been strolling through Ailell given the sweltering waves of heat that threatened to knock him from his horse as he traversed Enbarr’s street’s and made his way towards the imperial palace.
Ideally, Sylvain would have been nowhere near the imperial capital during the scorching summer months; however, when the emperor herself requests your presence in Enbarr, you sure as hell better show up.
The summons was in response to a missive Sylvain had sent several weeks back, detailing some suspicious groups operating along the Gautier-Sreng border. At first, he thought they were loyalists of the kingdom or church, revolting against the reforms that had been brought about by the emperor. It would not have been the first time Sylvain had to put down an uprising, the flickers of civil unrest flamed by fringe noble families who chafed at the idea that they could no long cling to the old traditions for peerage and prestige. Fortunately, very few of those conflicts had ended in bloodshed and had been ended swiftly.
The new faction that had sprung up was…different. As far as Sylvain could tell, they held no ties to the church nor the bloodlines to the kingdom’s noble families. They had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, shortly after the end of the war. Whoever they were, they were likely taking advantage of the chaos caused by Faerghus’s destabilization in the wake of Dimitri’s death (Sylvain took a deep breath and forced his mind away from the memory of his old friend being struck down on the Tailtean Plains). Although, Sylvain, Ingrid, and several others had quickly assumed the mantle of leadership in the territories of northern Faerghus, there were many who lived there, noble and commoner alike, who saw defectors like Sylvain as little more than traitors and sought to make the new margrave’s life a living hell.
At first, Sylvain had thought the strange figures to be little more than common bandits. It started with valuable magic artifacts being stolen from holy sites, then quickly shifted to kidnappings, disappearances, and murders.
Then he came across the first site.
Sylvain was still not quite sure what to call the cluster of carnage he had encountered, a shallow pit of mutilated bodies, many with their skin peeled away, and their limbs left broken or torn to the point the remains could barely be described as human. He had emptied the contents of his stomach the moment he laid eyes on the pit, the stench of decay flooding his nose, the buzzing of flies leaving a tinnitus ring in his ears. Traces of dark magic had clung to the air, pungent sulfur in scent and brushing across Sylvain’s skin with sharp pinpricks of coiled energy. Some tools of unknown origin and purpose had been left at the scene as well, each forged of a strange metal Sylvain was unfamiliar with.
One site could have been dismissed as the demented work of an unhinged group of sadistic murderers. Once Sylvain had stumbled upon the second site, he knew that something far more dangerous than simple brigands were lurking in his lands.
Making matters worse, whoever the group was, it was not only the people of Gautier territory locked in their sights. The last couple letters Sylvain had sent to Srengian chieftains near the border, missives requesting peace talks, were rebutted with suspicion and thinly veiled threats of retribution. Apparently, some Srengian settlements had been attacked, the bodies of the deceased broken and desecrated.
The chieftains were under the impression that Fodlan was behind the attacks, and until the strange faction was stopped, Sylvain had little way of proving otherwise.
Sylvain had tried to track and eliminate the mysterious group on his own, but every time he tracked down one of their camps or raced to an area where they had been spotted, all that could be found were broken weapons, tattered canvas from abandoned tents, and absolutely nothing that offered any insight as to who they were.
The closest factor Sylvain could find that connected the incidents were multiple witnesses claiming many of the individuals were garbed in traditional dark mage clothing and wielded spells that matched their attire. Outside of Fhirdiad and its School of Sorcery, Faerghus was not particularly well-known for its abundance of spell casters. Furthermore, given the kingdom’s piety and the church’s informal yet very clear disdain for dark magic, finding practitioners of that branch of magic in any number were a rarity.
Sylvain had scrawled down all of his findings about the mysterious group in a letter sent to Edelgard requesting reinforcements and insight as how to combat dark magic.
He had expected at best a few paltry units to be deployed to Gautier to bolster patrols, maybe a half-hearted investigation into the matter that, despite the troubling evidence Sylvain had uncovered, would only result in unearthing a ragtag group of bandits or pirates who were taking advantage of the Fodlan-Sreng tensions to stir up trouble and ransack any nearby villages during the ensuing chaos.
What Sylvain had not been expecting was to receive an immediate response written by Edelgard herself demanding he come to Enbarr at once.
Sylvain and the small detachment of Gautier soldiers who had accompanied him south clomped through Enbarr’s streets and tried not to melt in their saddles under the blazing sun as they staggered in the direction of the imperial palace.
The group elected to stop at a tavern before making their way to the palace. Edelgard was not expecting him until the next day, and although Sylvain fully intended to present himself at the palace before night fell, it was best to take a moment to cool down and catch their breath. They had been riding non-stop from Gautier for days and the swelting Adrestian heat had done none of them any favours.
Securing their horses to a hitching post, Sylvain and soldiers eagerly made their way inside a busy tavern just down the road from the Mittelfrank Opera House.
The inside of the tavern was nearly as stifling as the humidity outside. The place crowded with sweating bodies, Sylvain gagged on the stale air and the sour, onion-like aroma that slammed against his nostrils and made his eyes water.
He took a seat at the busy counter and requested a tankard of ale from the barkeep. Just one drink was all he wanted. Something to cool him down from the scorching heat and ease some of the knots his muscles had tangled themselves into during the ride and calm the uneasy tension over his prospective meeting. Even after serving the empire for years, being in the capital, and meeting with Edelgard directly, still rattled his nerves like a cabinet of teacups caught in an earthquake.
At least the ale was refreshing. The cool, amber liquid soothed his parched throat and washed away some of the scorching clamminess that clung to his flesh.
Once finished with his drink, Sylvain had a friendly word with his soldiers and departed for the palace.
The sun was beginning to set by the time he reached the palace. By all logic and laws of nature, the temperature should have started to feel cooler, but the heat managed to persist even as the sun had been reduced to little more than a glowing band of purple along the western horizon. He wiped away more beads of sweat from his brow, his crimson curls clinging to the damp skin.
He greeted the palace guard who gave him a key and informed him of where his lodgings would be. Apparently, news of Sylvain entering the city had already reached Edelgard and she had ensured that rooms were prepared for her visitors from Gautier.
Sylvain cut through the palace court yards as he trudged towards his room, hoping to avoid any dignitaries and other enthusiastic nobles who were eager to chat his ear off about the latest updates from Faerghus while he wanted to do nothing more than collapse face-first onto a soft bed. It was barely nightfall, but after days of nonstop riding and traipsing through the blistering heat, sleep was the only thing on his mind. Besides, it was best to be well-rested if he were to be meeting with Edelgard the next day.
His riding boots clicked and echoed as he walked along the secluded cobble paths that wound around gazebos of intricately carved wood, more sparking fountains decorated with marble sculptures, and a menagerie of bright flower gardens and well-trimmed hedges. Braziers had already been lit for the evening, illuminating the garden paths that were quickly darkening with the setting sun.
Sylvain paused his steps as his eyes caught sight of something rather peculiar. A familiar figure –one Sylvain initially thought was one of the growing shadows scattered across the gardens—pacing back and forth between two stone pillars and muttering under his breath.
It was Hubert.
The mage’s cape swished like an animal’s tail every time he turned sharply and began striding in a new direction. A sheaf of papers was clutched tightly in his hands. Periodically, he shuffled through and look down at the scrawled parchment, his thin eyebrows pinched together in concentration. His footsteps echoing along the cobble pathways as he paced the length of the archway looming above him, walking from pillar to pillar in a continuous loop as he murmured to himself in a low voice.
“Everyday, your smile is radiant like the…no, that won’t do…”
Hubert grumbled and turned on his heel. He shuffled through the swath of rumpled parchment papers; the corners of the pages bent and creased under his fingers.
“We have known each other a long time and have grown close during our time together. Would you do me the honour of…argh!”
The pages crumpled in Hubert’s hands with a frustrated growl. After a calming breath, he composed himself and began whispering once more.
“Ferdinand…you are …an entrancing sight in battle that is impossible to look away from—by the void, none of this will work!”
Sylvain stared at the man, utterly perplexed.
It was strange enough that Hubert had somehow not taken notice Sylvain yet. Normally, the infamous spymaster could spot (and swiftly dispose of) an unwanted intruder from a mile away. Despite clearly being within sight, Hubert was preoccupied by his own thoughts as he strolled from pillar to pillar and back again. All the while mumbling in a low tone.
However, once the meaning behind the murmured words clicked in Sylvain’s mind he gaped at the mage.
Pick-up lines?!
Sylvain crept closer, ducking behind a manicured hedge and perking his ears to the mage’s words. A large grin split his face as he listened to the next set of flowery praises.
There was no mistaking what he heard. Hubert von Vestra, terrifying shadow of Adrestia, Edelgard’s personal bodyguard, as well as the empire’s spymaster and deadliest assassin, was rehearsing honest-to-goddess pick-up lines.
Well, perhaps “love confession” was likely a better descriptor, but the notion remained utterly preposterous.
Sylvain stayed crouched in his hiding spot, watching Hubert rehearse his sweeping declarations of love which, if Sylvain heard him correctly, were intended for Ferdinand. The paladin settled himself in place, the fatigue swept away. This was show that he was not going to miss!
Suddenly, Hubert halted his steps and words. His head whirled in the direction of a large ornate fountain situated in the centre of the gardens.
Ferdinand, still dressed in full paladin armour as if he had just returned from a mission, made his way towards the burbling fountain. He sat on the stone ledge of the fountain, eyes darting around and clearly waiting for someone.
A romantic evening rendezvous?
Sylvain smirked as he peered through the bushes, his eyes darting between the two men. Ferdinand sneaking away for an amorous encounter did not surprise Sylvain in the slightest. But Hubert…? Sylvain did not think the mage was capable of feeling anything other than sarcasm and gloomy irritability.
Then again, Hubert and Ferdinand did have all those shared tea times together during the war. Maybe there was more going on between them than Sylvain had suspected.
Sylvain rubbed his hands together and spied on the two men with an eager grin.
Hubert watched the Adrestian paladin from his hiding spot by the pillars, the beginnings of a warm smile crawling across his face. The mage shuffled slightly, as if working up the nerve to walk up to Ferdinand and confess his feelings. Sylvain wanted to run up and give him an encouraging push but knew such an action would likely just end with him being skewered by one of Hubert’s dark spikes.
Sylvain watched Hubert take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and glide towards his target; the mage’s usually dagger-sharp eyes softened, a light blush dusting his cheeks, and the edges of his mouth quirked into an uncharacteristically warm smile.
Ferdinand stood up suddenly, turning to a new set of footsteps that approached him.
“Dorothea!” Ferdinand beamed as the songstress approached, the cobble paths clicking lightly under her heels.
Hubert stopped suddenly, mid-stride and still hidden by the pillars. The smile melted from his face. The blush on his cheeks turned ashen. He stared at the paladin and the songstress, his jaw clenched, and a slight tremble in his arms.
“A little birdie told me you were back in Enbarr,” Dorothea greeted the paladin with teasing warmth.
“Well, you know I can never stay away for long,” Ferdinand grinned and pulled Dorothea close, his arms encircling her waist, their faces barely an inch apart, “Afterall, just like the alluring song of the water nymphs, I find myself drawn to your side no matter where I find myself.”
“I thought you said I was the queen to your worker bee,” Dorothea smiled with a mischievous but loving lilt to her voice. She caressed the side of Ferdinand’s face and leaned into him.
“Why, I would say you are both! My queen, and an enchanting water nymph.”
With a light giggle shared between the pair, the paladin and songstress leaned in for a tender kiss.
Sylvain’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide.
He always knew that there was some sort of tension going on between Dorothea and Ferdinand back during the war, but he had no idea that the two had become a couple. Obviously, much had changed over the year since the war had ended.
A quiet, almost pained gasp drew Sylvain’s attention away from the couple. Amused surprise quickly shifted to pity as he was reminded of the person he had been spying on in the first place.
Apparently, Sylvain was not the only one stunned by the revelation…
Hubert stared at the couple, wide-eyed with a mingled look of surprise and distress. He backed away with a sharp hitch of breath. Sylvain could see the man blinking rapidly, the papers in his hand crunching and twisting as his hands clenched into fists.
A dark part of Sylvain had always assumed that witnessing the shadowy minister’s romantic overtures being ground into splinters would be a great source of amusement, a memory that would entertain him for weeks. To watch the normally stoic mage awkwardly scramble to collect the broken fragments of smashed affections all the while bristling and pretending he was above such trifling emotions.
The reality was quite the opposite.
The pain on Hubert’s face was raw. An open wound, bleeding and ragged at the edges. The icy mask the mage normally wore had been sheared away, exposing layers and depths that were never meant to be seen by others.
It was like watching someone shove a garden trowel through Hubert’s ribcage and dig the mage’s heart out from the gaping chasm of his chest, then stomping on the still-beating organ until it was a mashed, bloody pulp. Sylvain could actually see Hubert’s heart crumbling to dust before his eyes.
Ferdinand and Dorothea were still chatting brightly with one another, each asking how the other was faring during their brief absence from one another, gentle kisses and loving touches sprinkled between their words. Sylvain was happy for the couple. Despite their rocky start during their academy days, it was clear that Ferdinand and Dorothea cared greatly about each other.
But he could not help but feel bad for Hubert.
Sylvain had watched the man painstakingly work up the courage to express his love for Ferdinand, only to find his affections declined before he even had a chance to share them.
The whole mess was something out of a damn tragic poem.
The happy couple drifted away, arm-in-arm, their cheery voices gliding through the air as they made their way along the garden paths, completely unaware of the heartbroken spectator watching them from the pillars.
Hubert was still frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from the couple until they had disappeared into the shadows and out of sight. Eventually, he turned on his heel with a low growl and stalked back inside. He chucked the sheets of parchment into a nearby brazier as he stormed off into the shadows.
Once Hubert was out of sight, Sylvain quickly sprinted towards the brazier and rescued the burning pages from the flames. He hissed and sucked at a finger that had been mildly singed by the charred parchment.
The edges of the pages were burnt, but most of the writing was still intact.
“Your optimism is a shining beacon of light that brings me hope every day!”
“Watching you in combat is like beholding a god. A deity of immeasurable strength and raw power…”
“Nothing has brought me more joy than having you at my side…”
The lump of lead in Sylvain’s chest dropped to his stomach as he read each line. The metaphors were clunky and amateurish but brimming with raw emotion. Sentiments Sylvain had never dreamed the mage was capable of feeling, let alone expressing! A testament to Hubert’s love towards Ferdinand, captured in word.
Sylvain recognized several of the lines from the words Hubert had been practicing in the courtyard only minutes earlier.
It felt wrong. Like Sylvain was a voyeur creeping in on Hubert’s most innermost thoughts and feelings.
He sighed heavily as he finished reading the documents. The papers felt as if their held a boulder’s amount of heft in Sylvain’s hands, unsure of what to do with the forbidden pages.
If someone were to ask Sylvain why he did what he did in that moment, he would never be able to think of a satisfying excuse to explain his momentary loss of sanity. Alcohol could not be to blame; he had only indulged in one drink at the tavern. Heat exhaustion or sleep deprivation, perhaps? But even those would feel like flimsy excuses to justify the monumental lapse in judgement would have that night while holding those documents.
What he should have done was toss the parchment back into the flames and let them vanish into ash. It was clear Hubert wanted to destroy any trace of the aborted romantic overture. Best to let the pages burn and pretend the incident never happened, let Hubert at least retain a fraction of his dignity in the wake of such heartbreak.
Instead, Sylvain stuffed the singed parchment into his pocket and quickly made his way to his sleeping quarters.
Upon entering his assigned room, instead of crawling into bed like he had originally planned, Sylvain pulled up a chair to the cherry wood table that had been placed in the room, plunked down the partially burnt parchment, then dug around in his rucksack for a quill, inkwell, and fresh scroll of parchment.
Plunking down in the chair, Sylvain dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to write.
Maybe it was pity towards the usually icy mage who had been prepared to bare his heart only to have it stomped on before he could even try to explain his feelings.
Maybe it was a gnawing sense of guilt, chewing at Sylvain’s innards and leaving him nauseous, at having witnessed such a moment of vulnerability.
“You glide through the shadows like liquid nightfall. Mysterious and entrancing…”
Sylvain paused, tapping the feathery end of his quill against his lip as his brain scrambled to concoct more lines. Something similar to what Ferdinand would say.
“Your magic a mesmerizing sight. A kaleidoscope of violet and indigo, flashing through the battlefield and hypnotic to behold…”
The quill glided along the page as he put the finishing touches on the letter. Not his finest work, but hopefully the sentiment was clear enough. He had been careful to add an extra flourish to his letters, concealing his usual writing style. Once the ink was dry, he folded up the letter and slipped away from his room.
Hammering in the final, damning nail of the cascading avalanche of bad decisions made that night, Sylvain crept to what he was fairly certain were Hubert’s sleeping quarters, slid the folded piece of parchment under his closed door, and quickly scurried away.
Once back in his room, Sylvain collapsed onto the bed and shut his eyes. Despite the whirlwind that had encompassed his mind moments earlier, it did not take long for the clawing tendrils of fatigue to wrap around him once more. He was asleep within seconds.
Blinding rays of sunshine pierced through the partially open curtains and blasted Sylvain’s sleeping face with an unholy amount excruciating light. A shrill chorus of songbirds had taken up residence just outside the window as well, their joyous, tweeting melodies stabbing at Sylvain’s eardrums like rusted knives.
Sylvain groaned, rolled over, and shoved a pillow over his head to drown out the obnoxious lights and noise.
It was early. Too damn early. Every one of Sylvain’s muscles still ached from days upon days of riding. He was still exhausted from the heat and his late-night writing diversion. He had not even bothered to change out of his clothing from the day before, his rumpled, sweat-slick tunic clinging to his back like a sticky, second skin. His nose twitched in distaste at the stench of his own body odour.
He still had the meeting with Edelgard. It would not do him much good to show up asking for aid all the while stinking like an unwashed codpiece.
Reluctantly, he rolled out of bed and began stripping off clammy layers.
Thankfully, the room had been provided with a filled wash basin, likely intended for him to use upon arrival rather than mucking up the bed linens with dirt and sweat. He dipped one of the provided washcloths into the basin and scrubbed at the sweat and grime from his hair and skin.
Once cleaned he changed into a fresh set of clothing, carefully selecting one of his more formal tunics. One that thankfully had not become too wrinkled during the long trip.
He had just finished doing up the final buttons of his tunic when the door to his room exploded open.
Sylvain whirled around with a startled yelp. The angry snarl that was on the tip of his tongue died before the first word could fly from his mouth upon seeing who was storming into his room.
Sweeping through the broken door that was barely hanging on by its bent hinges, black cape flapping behind him like the leathery wings of a frenzied bat, and looking like wrath incarnate, Hubert barged into his room. Dark, purpling spikes were embedded in what was left of the doors. Lingering, violet swirls of the spell still wove around Hubert’s clenched hands, the scent of sulfur pungent and sharp clinging to the air.
Hubert stalked towards Sylvain, mouth curled into a snarl and eyes flashing with cold flames.
All the blood drained from Sylvain’s face. The air was sucked from his lungs.
To say Hubert looked pissed off would be a colossal understatement.
He forced his face into smile of strained friendliness.
“Hey…uh…Hubert…I was just about to—”
“Sit.”
The single word was clipped and blunt, neither loud nor quiet but brooked no argument. The hand at Sylvain’s chest as Hubert spoke was a light tap, but Sylvain threw himself into the chair behind him as if he had been thrown by a giant.
A single sheet of parchment was slammed down on the nearby table. A sheet of parchment that, with paralyzing horror, Sylvain instantly recognized.
Sylvain swallowed heavily and stared up at the fuming mage. He clamped his teeth shut and forced the muscles in his face into a blank expression while a cacophony of screaming shrilled in his mind.
“Tell me, Gautier. What do you see?” Hubert’s voice was smooth, sharp, and eerily devoid of inflection. The mage’s eyes, on the other hand, were an entirely different story. Bright yellows that were narrowed into dark slits and seeped in cold fury. The penetrating gaze of a hawk that had cornered its prey and was waiting for the right moment to swoop in with slicing talons.
The sheet was slid towards him.
“Uh…” Sylvain’s eyes darted around, carefully avoiding both Hubert’s menacing face and the paper that was likely going to lead to his death sentence. His gaze combed the surroundings, desperate to find an exit, a weapon, an excuse to buy time, anything. Nothing was in reach and no ideas came to mind.
“Go on,” Hubert ordered with icy politeness, “Read it.”
Sylvain gulped. The parchment might as well have contained his execution warrant.
Sylvain had made a lot of terrible decisions during the course of his life but writing an anonymous love letter to Hubert out of pity had launched itself to the top of the list.
Ice water ran through his veins, and glass shards scraped at his lungs. His heart hammered against his sternum as if it were a battering ram trying to smash through a fortress’s gates.
It was a trap. There was no way out of this mess that was going to end favourably for Sylvain.
He had heard the horror stories surrounding the minister of the imperial household. The emperor’s shadow who had hunted down and slaughtered countless potential assassins who dared target Edelgard. A master of dark magic and espionage who could move through shadows like a damn wraith. There was not a single secret in all of Fodlan the deadly spymaster could not unearth.
Truthfully, up until that very moment, Sylvain had believed them to be an exaggeration. True, Hubert was weirdo and a creep, everyone who had fought in the war (regardless of which side they were on) knew that; but Sylvain was confident that he could easily best the mage in combat if need be.
But now, cornered in a guest bedroom of the imperial palace, with Hubert staring down at him and looking as if he would enjoy nothing more than turning Sylvain into a bloody smear on the room’s fancy floral rug, all of the rumours and stories that spoke of Hubert as if he were some sort demon one would search under their beds for came crashing back at Sylvain.
Hubert had barely spoken a word and Sylvain was already on the verge of pissing himself.
“Some sort of…love poetry?” Sylvain tried to pretend his voice did not crack and jump an entire octave, “Look at you, Hubert! Drawing in all the lucky suitors!”
He flashed a tense smile that he hoped would come off as charming but knew would only be seen as pathetic.
Somehow, the glare being pointed at him grew even more venomous.
“This is a letter of romantic intent that was delivered directly to my personal quarters during the night that has been forged in your handwriting,” a low growl had started to enter Hubert’s tone of feigned civility.
Hubert moved a step closer, looming over Sylvain and staring down at the paladin with molten sparks whirling just beneath the frosty surface of his eyes. A thin layer of ice barely containing a volcanic eruption.
“Now, come on,” Sylvain said with a forced laugh, “That writing looks nothing like mi—”
Hubert slammed his hand down, the table rattling under his palm. Sylvain jolted in his seat, gulped, and went quiet. He could see the vein on the side of Hubert’s forehead pulsing and ready to burst. Red washed across the pale face, his features twisted with scalding fury.
“The crossed lines in your ‘t’s are formed at a left-leaning upward angle with a slight curl at the top, and the loop in your ‘g’s always contain a sharp point at the bottom, just like the writing in this letter!”
The mage paused to take a breath, but it did little to cool the rage simmering just beneath his flesh.
“Is this intended to be some sort of joke? Cause I assure you that I am not amused.”
The icy mask was back on Hubert’s face, but Sylvain could tell the edges were quickly melting as boiling indignation continued to froth and swell within the mage. A twitch in Hubert’s left eye, the way his jaw clenched, grinding his teeth to hold back a cacophony of snarls.
Sylvain shrank down in his chair and gulped.
Maybe if he came clean, Hubert would make his death quick.
“Look…I saw you last night…in the gardens…”
An expression Sylvain could not quite identify briefly flickered across Hubert’s face before returning to its murderous scowl.
“You were practicing lines…a love confession or a courting attempt or something…” Sylvain paused his rambling to take a deep breath and swallow past the lump of sand lodged in his throat. His gaze darted up to Hubert, noting the mage was watching him with carefully crafted cold indifference.
Sylvain swallowed again and continued.
“They were a love confession for Ferdinand, right?”
Hubert crossed his arms and silently fumed. His left eye continued to twitch.
“I saw…you looked so eager to share your feelings with Ferdinand. For a moment, you seemed so happy. But then…Dorothea showed up and it looks like they’ve been secretly a couple for a while…and I just…”
Sylvain sighed.
“You looked so sad. Putting yourself out there and sharing your feelings isn’t easy for anyone. You looked so heartbroken I just…I wanted to cheer you up.”
Sylvain glanced back up with a hopeful look. That Hubert would realize that Sylvain had not intended anything malicious and choose not to redecorate the room with the paladin’s organs.
What was left of the icy façade evaporated. The light tremor that had danced across Hubert’s shoulders and arms had intensified to full-blown quaking. A chunk of the frozen mask had fallen away, revealing a patch of pained scorching fury that was directed right at Sylvain.
It was in that instant Sylvain knew he had made a terrible mistake.
“Hey, listen. I’m sorr—"
“And you thought…a pathetic sham of love poetry written out of pity would be the thing to lift my spirits?”
The words were even and cold, but Hubert’s shaking only got worse.
When Hubert put it like that, the idea was stupid. Downright insulting to the other man.
“Look…I really am sorr—”
Hubert slammed his fist down on the table again. The fringe of dark curls fell over his eyes, concealing much of Hubert’s face from Sylvain’s sight. Hubert stood there for a time, shuddering, his gaze directed at the table and a tiny hitch in his breathing.
Despite the man’s threatening presence, the same swell of pity from the night before rose up in Sylvain again. He reached over to place a comforting hand on Hubert’s arm.
Suddenly, he whirled on Sylvain with an enraged growl. He leaned down over the paladin, hands braced against the chair’s armrests, bracketing and trapping Sylvain. The stoic mage was long gone. An incensed beast snapping its jaws was now snarling down at Sylvain.
“If your miserable existence was not essential in maintaining peace with the northern regions of Faerghus and providing any hope of establishing peace talks with Sreng, I would melt the flesh from your very bones and leave what’s left of your congealed remains to fester in the sun for the maggots to feast upon!”
Hubert leaned closer. Close enough that Sylvain could smell the coffee on his breath. The mage’s mouth curled into a snarl that revealed rows of sharp teeth, as if Hubert were preparing to lean down and tear out Sylvain’s throat.
“You will speak of this to no one. …If I hear so much as a whisper that you have uttered a word of what has transpired this last night, then asset to her majesty or not, I will dispose of you, Sylvain Jose Gautier. Mark my words. Only a hatbox will be needed to house what’s left of your remains once I am through with you…”
Hubert abruptly stood up and smoothed out his coat. He stared down at Sylvain, the mask of cold indifference back in place.
“Your meeting with her majesty remains as scheduled. Do not be late.”
With that, Hubert stormed out of the room.
Sylvain remained frozen in his chair, heart hammering in his chest and breathing scorching through his lungs in ragged gasps. He stared at the mangled doorway, now eerily silent without Hubert’s fuming presence.
Releasing the breath of air that had been lodged in his chest through the interrogation, Sylvain slumped forward and buried his face in his hands. Dreading the upcoming meeting where he was certain to encounter Hubert again.
The hours between Sylvain’s harrowing morning encounter with Hubert, and the scheduled meeting with Edelgard passed by in a hazy blur. Sylvain had met with his soldiers to ensure they were settling in well during their brief stay in Enbarr. He made his way to the stables to check on his horse, watched the imperial soldiers spar against each other in the training grounds, anything to take his mind off the certainty of crossing paths with the emperor’s creepy-ass spymaster.
Maybe Hubert won’t be at the meeting. Maybe he’ll be off on another mission already.
Sylvain groaned and rolled his eyes at the wishful thought.
He might as well be praying to the goddess for a set of wings to sprout from his back if he was going to hope that there was any way Hubert would not be present during a meeting with the emperor.
Sylvain took a deep breath and spoke to the guards stationed just outside the meeting chambers who quickly ushered him through the door.
Inside, Edelgard was seated at the head of the table, flanked by Byleth and Ferdinand on her left, with Lysithea and, of course, a very familiar shadowy figure sitting menacingly at her right.
Sylvain gulped, shoving down the cold spears of paralyzing horror as he approached the table with a stiff bow, carefully avoiding eye-contact with the mage shooting venom-coated daggers at him.
Hubert’s her second in command. Of course he’s going to be here! Just suck it up and say what you came to say!
“Sylvain,” Edelgard stood and greeted him with a small bow, “Thank you for coming all this way. I know the journey from Gautier to Enbarr is a long one.”
“It’s no problem at all. House Gautier remains at the empire’s service,” Sylvain stated with well-rehearsed formality, “Though, I’m guessing this is something to do with the letter I sent.”
“I’m afraid so,” Edelgard frowned, her face creased with a level of worry that was rare for the emperor, “I’ve briefed Ferdinand and Lysithea on the matter, though if you don’t mind, would you care sharing everything you have uncovered during your investigation?”
Edelgard nodded to her advisors as she spoke.
“Yeah…of course,” Sylvain nodded as he reached into the satchel at his hip and retrieved a rolled-up sheet of parchment.
He unravelled the parchment, revealing a map of Gautier territory annotated with Sylvain’s notes, and placed it on the table. Edelgard and her advisors leaned forward in their seats, squinting at the marks sketched on the map.
“It’s hard to say for certain when they first showed up, but the first account of suspicious activity happened here in Limia,” Sylvain pointed to a small town marked on Gautier’s eastern coast just above the Fraldarius border, “An entire family disappeared without a trace. One of the villagers stated that three people with dark robes and bird masks showed up at that family’s house the night they vanished, but no one else has been able to corroborate that sighting.”
Sylvain went through his report, pointing out the locations on the map as he went.
It did not escape his notice that the grimace on Edelgard’s face grew more pronounced with each word, the furrow in her brow digging deeper, and the corners of her mouth curling downwards. Nor did he fail to miss the uneasy looks exchanged between her and Hubert, the concerned whispers passed between Ferdinand and Lysithea, and the way Byleth’s stony expression paled. The reactions made Sylvain itch, the anxiety in the air thick enough to slice a blade through, but he continued with his report.
He concluded the report by restating his request for aid and took his seat at the table once more.
“Thank you, Sylvain. Your reports on this situation have been invaluable. I am afraid what you describe is not the first time this particular group has appeared in Fodlan,” a trickle of unease had dripped into Edelgard’s tone as her brow creased with worry, “We believe they may be associated with the same faction Hubert has been hunting for some time. Hubert, if you would…”
“Of course, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert stood from the table with a bow.
He unrolled and placed another map on the table, this one detailing the eastern coast of Adrestia, starting with the south-eastern tip of Fenja, then passing through Aegir and Hrym, and working its way up past the Leicester border and into Ordelia territory. Similar to Sylvain’s map, Hubert had annotated the page with notes and marked points of interest.
“I have reason to believe that the miscreants you described plaguing Gautier territory are in fact the same faction I have been tracking the last year,” Hubert said firmly, his viper-like gaze sweeping across everyone in the room, “I do not know their true name, but I have been referring to them as “Those Who Slither in the Dark” in the interim.”
Sylvain could not help the chuckle that rattled in his chest at the ridiculous nickname. He choked back bubble of laughter with a forced cough, stifling the amused noise. Though apparently not stifled enough based on the caustic flash in Hubert’s eyes, his glare narrowed and fixed on the Faerghus paladin with a sniper’s intensity.
Nice work, Sylvain. Just give him another reason to murder you!
“As most of you are aware, this faction utilizes forbidden magics and conducts gruesome experiments on those they capture. Many of the demonic beasts roaming the countryside can have their origins traced back to such rituals performed by these loathsome wretches. They have also been known to conduct blood experimentation on crest bearers they have captured.”
Sylvain noticed both Edelgard and Lysithea shift uncomfortably at the mention of blood experiments.
Hubert went on to outline what he had discovered about the group. Sylvain shivered as the mage explained that they were able to steal people’s skins and impersonate others, just as Kronya and Solan had done before the war broke out.
“I had tracked the bulk of their activity to somewhere in the mountain ranges stretching across Hrym and Ordelia,” Hubert continued, “Unfortunately, that particular trail has recently run cold, and we have not been able to detect any of their activity in Adrestia since.”
“I am afraid I must apologize for not being able to prevent their escape,” Ferdinand cut in with a sorrowful look not dissimilar to a kicked puppy, “We had strong reason to believe that those who slither in the dark were operating in Hrym. As Duke of Aegir and overseer of Hrym, I take full responsibility for allowing those villains to slip past our patrols.”
“You need not place the blame on yourself,” Hubert sighed, eyes downcast and locked onto the table, “We are well aware that they possess magic and technological means far beyond our own, including the means to warp great distances instantaneously. It would not be a difficult feat for them to change location without stepping a foot onto the surface.”
“Even so, you entrusted me with an important task that I failed to successfully complete.”
“We don’t know for certain that they were even in Hrym. It is quite possible that their base of operations may have been somewhere in Ordelia territory,” Lysithea pointed out, “Though, I must say, I am surprised to hear they have made such a drastic change in location,” she mused, her brow pinched, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“If they are all the way up in Gautier territory, it is quite possible they may be planning to leverage the tensions between Fodlan in Sreng in their favour. Perhaps even trigger a war between our nations,” Edelgard suggested with a grimace, “Fodlan has barely recovered from our war with the church, and relations between Adrestia, Faerghus, and Leicester have barely been mended. A conflict with a foreign nation would be disastrous.”
“Wait…do these creeps actually have that kind of power?” Sylvain blinked, “They’re a pain in the ass, don’t get me wrong, but do they really have the resources to trigger a full-fledged war?”
“Those who slither in the dark have access to magic and technology far beyond what you could possibly imagine. I would suggest that you do not take the threat they pose lightly,” Hubert snipped with a scathing glare aimed at the Faerghus paladin.
“Hubert…” Edelgard said hesitantly, her tone pensive, “Perhaps it would be best if you went to Gautier to assist Sylvain in investigating the matter in person. You know more about those who slither in the dark than anyone else. If the suspicious activity in Gautier is of their doing, you will be in the perfect position to provide assistance and put an end to it.”
Sylvain paled and stared at the emperor and her advisors. Frost lanced through his veins as the air was sucked from his chest.
Oh no…
“I agree,” Byleth added with a gentle nod, “Hubert is our best expert when it comes to that faction. His intel and insight into the cabal will be invaluable to you.”
“Excellent!” Edelgard nodded before turning to the scowling mage on her right, “Hubert, I trust this course of action is agreeable to you?”
Oh shit…!
“Of course, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert bowed with gracious formality, words clipped and sharp, teeth flashing in a vicious smile as he grinned cruelly at Sylvain, “I would be honoured to provide any assistance I can to House Gautier.”
“Then it’s settled,” Edelgard said with an encouraging smile, “Hubert will accompany Sylvain back to Gautier to assist in hunting down those who slither in the dark. Sylvain, I trust this resolution is acceptable for you?”
FUCK!!!
“Ye…yes, your majesty!” Sylvain chirped with strangled gratitude, “That sounds…great! Absolutely great!”
“You are an excellent hands, Sylvain! Hubert is the greatest spellcaster and spymaster Adrestia has ever seen. If those rotten curs are lurking in Gautier, he will have them hunted down in no time! He will not let you down!” Ferdinand beamed from the other side of the table.
Sylvain could not help but notice the way Hubert’s shoulders stiffened at the comment, the way the mage avoided the paladin’s sunny gaze.
“Your platitudes are kind, but unnecessary, Ferdinand,” Hubert grumbled as he rolled up his own collection of maps and notes, and carefully tucked them away into a satchel, “If everything has been settled, I shall prepare to leave for Gautier territory at once.”
Ferdinand watched Hubert with a concerned tilt of his head as the mage stood up to leave.
Hubert paused as he passed by the Faerghus paladin. Sylvain stood up, meeting Hubert’s frosty glare and malicious grin, and offered his hand to shake to seal the agreement. Hubert accepted the gesture, his grip tight as if trying to snap every bone in Sylvain’s hand. Even though they were almost the same height, Hubert seemed to loom over him like a malevolent spectre. Sylvain squared his shoulders and stared back with grin of strained gratitude, returning Hubert’s crushing handshake grip with equal ferocity.
“It seems we will be working together for a while,” Hubert gritted with strangled courtesy, his left eye twitching, “We will depart at sunrise tomorrow. Meet me at Enbarr’s north-east gate. Do not be late.”
Hubert’s shoulder roughly bumped against Sylvain’s in a way that was definitely not by accident, causing the paladin to stumble. He glared at the mage’s departing back, the black cape sweeping behind him like the ruffled feathers of an irate crow.
Sylvain slumped back in his chair, holding back the heavy sigh that clogged his chest. He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands as his mind processed the sentencing that had just been passed on him and the new guest he would be hosting in Gautier for the foreseeable future.
Well…shit…