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The war camp outside Enbarr lay in an uneasy hush, the kind that came only on the eve of something decisive. Fires had burned low. Armor had been polished to a dull gleam hours ago. Prayers, quiet and fervent, had already been offered.
Ingrid lay awake in her cot, staring up at the slanted canvas ceiling of her tent.
The army’s supplies had improved greatly after they reclaimed Fhirdiad. The bedroll beneath her was thicker than anything she’d had in months. The blanket was whole, not patched. The night air was mild, almost pleasant, compared to the biting winds she’d endured on Gronder’s plains or in the snow-choked passes of Faerghus.
She had slept in armor before. She had slept in mud. She had slept with the sound of enemy horns in the distance. Tonight, despite the material comfort however, sleep would not come.
She shifted onto her side. Then her back. Then her stomach. The cot creaked softly beneath her, the only sound in the tent. It wasn’t even cold.
It wasn’t the final battle that troubled her. Enbarr loomed ahead. The capital of the Empire. The end of this long, grinding war. Tomorrow would be decisive. Tomorrow they would either fall or finish this.
But war, for all its horrors, had always been simple.
Fight. Survive. Win.
Ingrid understood that language. Steel and sky. Orders and formations. The weight of a lance in her hand and the rush of wind as her pegasus took flight. She had survived worse odds than these. She had watched friends bleed and still held her line. She had endured hunger, exhaustion, despair. The battlefield made sense. It was what came after that did not.
Out here, she was Commander Galatea. Leader of a battalion of pegasus knights. Protector of Prince, soon to be King, Dimitri. Trusted friend of Byleth Eisner, army captain and future archbishop.
Out here, she was everything she had ever wanted to be.
Respected. Capable. Necessary.
She rolled onto her back again and exhaled sharply.
When this war ended, if she survived, she would not remain Commander Galatea. She would become Ingrid Brandl Galatea. Eldest daughter of Gunnar Galatea. Heir to Galatea territory. Bearer of Crest Daphnel. Eligible.
The word curdled in her stomach.
Eligible bachelorette.
A prize to secure alliances. A womb to strengthen bloodlines. A title to be transferred like coin. She would be paraded before some nobleman or wealthy merchant whose only interest in her would be her Crest and the land attached to her name.
A man her father would most likely choose.
Not her.
Her tent suddenly felt too small. The canvas walls pressed inward. The air seemed thinner. She had fought Demonic Beasts without trembling. The thought of being bartered made her chest tighten. She dragged a hand down her face and squeezed her eyes shut. If she did not rest, she would be in poor condition for the fight tomorrow.
A bitter thought crept in before she could stop it.
Perhaps that would not be the worst thing.
If she died tomorrow, she would go down fighting. A knight in the sky, lance lowered, protecting her king and her friends. Songs would be sung. Her name would be remembered. Better that than becoming an accessory to some man. Better steel than silk.
She inhaled sharply, disgusted with herself.
No.
That was cowardice of another sort.
She would not wish for death simply to avoid a different kind of battle. Still, the fear remained, heavy and shapeless. The war had given her purpose. Clarity. Identity forged by her own will. Peace threatened to take that from her.
She sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding from her shoulders. The cool air brushed against her skin as she swung her legs over the side of the cot. Her heart was beating too fast for a woman supposedly at rest. She rubbed at her eyes and exhaled. She needed to speak to someone.
Someone who would understand the weight of expectation. Someone who had also been shaped by duty and yet fought to choose their own path.
Quietly, so as not to wake the other knights in the adjoining tents, Ingrid pulled her cloak over her nightclothes and fastened it at her throat. She stepped out into the night. The camp stretched before her, lanterns flickering like distant stars. Pegasus shifted in their ties, feathers rustling softly. Somewhere, a sentry cleared his throat.
Ingrid drew the cool air into her lungs.
Tomorrow, she would charge into battle without hesitation. But tonight, she needed to decide whether she would fight just as fiercely for her own future. And for that, she could not remain alone.
Ingrid’s boots were nearly silent against the packed earth of the camp, but her thoughts were anything but.
Byleth.
She could go to Byleth. The captain would listen. She always did. Calm. Steady. Unshakable.
But Byleth had been raised a mercenary. A commoner. Titles had been placed upon her like a mantle she could shrug off if she wished. Archbishop. Commander. Savior. The people who offered those honors knew she had not been bred for them. She had not been shaped since birth to bear them. If she chose to walk away, she could.
Ingrid could not.
And beyond that, she could not risk disturbing the leader of their entire army the night before Enbarr. If Ingrid rode poorly tomorrow, she endangered her squadron. If Byleth was off her game, it was catastrophe. No. She would not be responsible for that.
Dimitri was unthinkable.
Dimitri carried ghosts heavier than any expectation of marriage. A kingdom to rebuild. A crown to claim. Vengeance barely laid to rest. Her worries would sound childish beside his burdens. She would not add to them.
Felix.
Ingrid almost snorted aloud.
Felix would stare at her with that flat, cutting look and say something infuriatingly simple.
“Then renounce your title. Or get married. Stop whining.”
As if it were that easy. As if lands and vassals and starving villagers could be discarded like a dull practice blade. Felix had never cared for nobility. He wore it like an ill-fitting cloak and dared anyone to challenge him for it. To him, walking away would seem obvious. And if she startled him awake, there was a very real chance he’d reach for a sword first and ask questions later.
Annette, Mercedes, Marianne… she cared for them deeply, but they were not bound in quite the same way. Ashe and Dedue—no. Not this.
Her steps slowed.
Sylvain.
The name rose in her mind like a reluctant truth. For all his flirting. For all his laziness and careless laughter. He would understand.
Ingrid’s jaw tightened as she continued toward his tent.
It had taken her years to see clearly that Sylvain’s smirk was armor. That his endless parade of women, his refusal to take anything seriously, his deliberate underachievement were not signs of stupidity. They were rebellion.Sylvain had realized early what Ingrid was only now fully confronting: that his future was not his own.
Crest of Gautier.
Heir to House Gautier.
Valuable.
Marriageable.
A stud horse, prized for blood and power.
So he chose what he could. Fleeting romances. Broken rules. Mediocrity on purpose. If all the meaningful decisions would be made for him, then he would at least claim the meaningless ones. Ingrid used to scold him for it. To berate him for wasting his talent. He was clever, far cleverer than he let on. It had infuriated her that he would not strive to be better.
But he knew.
Gods, he probably knew more than she did.
Her blood simmered at the thought of him being traded away to some calculating noblewoman who saw only his Crest. The image made her hands curl into fists inside her cloak.
She reached his tent and stopped. The flap swayed faintly in the night breeze. A lantern glowed dimly within.
If anyone saw her here…
A noblewoman slipping into Sylvain’s tent after midnight. Of all the men in this army. The scandal would spread through the ranks by dawn. Even if nothing happened, perception was enough. Reputation was currency, and she could not afford to squander it.
She exhaled slowly.
‘Won't matter if we all die tomorrow.’
The thought was grim, but steadying.
“Ingrid,” she muttered to herself, “you’ve faced worse than gossip.”
She lifted a hand and spoke softly through the canvas.
“Sylvain.”
Silence.
She tried again, a little louder.
“Sylvain.”
There was the faint creak of a cot. The rustle of blankets. A long, unguarded yawn.
“Mm… yeah?” His voice was thick with sleep. Lower than usual. Rough around the edges. “Come in.”
Something in her stomach twisted. Relief, perhaps. Or something more complicated. She hesitated only a heartbeat longer before lifting the flap and stepping inside.
The tent was warm with the lingering heat of a small brazier. Sylvain sat up in his cot, hair a tousled mess, shirtless. He blinked at her in the dim light, confusion slowly sharpening into recognition.
“Ingrid?” he murmured.
Without the smirk, without the practiced charm, he looked younger. Tired. Real. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ingrid realized her hands were clenched in her cloak again. She forced them to relax.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.”
Sylvain studied her face, sleep fading completely now. Whatever teasing remark he might have made died on his tongue.
“…That bad, huh?”
Her throat tightened.
“Yes,” she admitted.
And for the first time that night, the suffocating pressure in her chest eased, just slightly, because she knew he would understand. Sylvain yawned again, scrubbing a hand down his face before patting the narrow space beside him on the cot.
“Sit,” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
Ingrid remained standing for a moment, then slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the cot. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight. She kept her cloak wrapped tightly around her, fingers curled into the fabric as though it were armor.
“I’m worried,” she said at last.
Sylvain blinked at her.
“Ingrid,” he replied gently, “I know you better than that.” He leaned back on one hand, studying her in the dim glow of the brazier. “Nervous on the eve of an important battle? Sure. But nervous enough to wake me, of all people, up in the middle of the night?” He shook his head faintly. “Not a chance. So what’s actually bothering you?”
She swallowed. The tent felt smaller now. Warmer. Too warm. Across from them, the Lance of Ruin rested against its stand, its Crest Stone casting a faint, ominous glow in the shadows. His armor stood beside it, polished and ready.
It will all disappear…
The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Sylvain frowned, “What?”
She barely seemed to hear him, “It’ll all disappear…”
“Ingrid.” He leaned forward, concern sharpening his tone. “Are you feeling alright?”
That did it.
She turned toward him. Her eyes were glassy in the low light, tears trembling along her lashes but not yet falling. The sight made something in his chest clench.
“If we survive tomorrow,” she whispered, voice unsteady, “if we win… I’ll disappear.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t understand. Then he did.
Oh.
Her armor. Her command. Her sky.
Commander Galatea. Pegasus knight. Knight of Faerghus. One of the pillars of their army. The woman who could outfly half her squadron and outdrink most of the men. The knight she had fought her entire life to become.
That Ingrid.
Gone.
Replaced with Lady Galatea. Heir. Asset. Bargaining chip.
Sylvain’s expression changed, subtle, but real. The teasing ease he wore like a second skin fell away entirely. He had always been more clever than he let on.
He had known since boyhood what awaited him: inherit House Gautier. Guard the border against Sreng. Answer to the crown. Produce an heir. Smile for alliances. Marry someone suitable, hopefully tolerable. He had made his peace with it, or at least pretended to. At the end of the day, he was the man of the house. Even in marriage, he would retain some measure of control. Some room to breathe.
Ingrid would not.
She would belong to someone and that thought made his stomach turn.
He didn’t say anything more. Instead, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around her. It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t playful. It was solid. Grounded. Familiar. Ingrid stiffened in surprise for half a second and then melted into it.
The first tear fell against his bare shoulder, warm against his skin.
Sylvain closed his eyes.
He hated this.
Hated the system that reduced Crests to currency. Hated the way it had shaped his life, and hers. Hated that the strongest woman he knew was trembling in his arms over something she couldn’t fight with a lance.
The Ingrid he knew did not cry.
Not when she’d fallen off her pegasus at twelve and bitten through her lip to keep from screaming.
Not when she’d broken her arm at fifteen and insisted on remounting the next week.
Not when she’d returned from the Officers Academy with that long, dark scar carved across her thigh.
Not even when Dimitri, half-mad with grief, had thrown her across the cathedral floor.
Sylvain had nearly driven the Lance of Ruin through the prince’s chest that day.
And now she was crying because peace would take her freedom away.
“As soon as this war is over,” Ingrid whispered against him, her voice muffled, “I’ll be betrothed to someone. Father was already sending proposals before the war began. Now…” Her fingers tightened around his arms. “Galatea is worse off than ever. We need support. We need coin. I won’t even have the luxury of refusing.”
Her shoulders trembled.
“I won’t have a choice.”
Sylvain rested his cheek against the top of her head, staring blankly at the canvas wall of his tent. He had thought about this, more than he liked to admit.
He had pictured her in some distant territory, standing beside a man who saw only her Crest. A man who would ground her. Cage her. Perhaps even resent her strength. The idea made something ugly and protective flare in his chest.
He loosened his hold just enough to tip her chin up so he could see her face. Her lashes were damp. Her cheeks flushed.
“Ingrid…”
He hesitated. For once in his life, words did not come easily.
“Why don’t you…” He swallowed, heart pounding in a way battle had never managed. “Why don’t you marry me?”
The words hung between them, fragile and enormous.
His thumb brushed away a tear at the corner of her eye.
“I mean it,” he added quietly, no trace of his usual grin. “House Gautier and House Galatea have always been close. Politically, it makes sense. It would stabilize both territories.”
His voice softened.
“And I would never take your sky from you.”
His gaze held hers steadily now.
“You’d still be Commander Galatea. You’d still fly. You’d still fight if you wanted to. I’d make sure of it.”
A faint, self-deprecating huff left him.
“You wouldn’t be disappearing. Not on my watch.”
There was no teasing. No smirk. No playful lilt. Just sincerity. And beneath it, something that had always been there, buried under years of bickering and familiarity and shared childhood memories. Something that twisted in his chest as he waited for her answer.
The silence stretched.
Too long.
Sylvain felt every second of it like a tightening vice around his ribs. He had faced down Demonic Beasts without flinching, had laughed in the face of death more times than he could count but this? Waiting for Ingrid’s answer?
This terrified him.
He was acutely aware that she was still in his arms. She hadn’t pulled away. That had to mean something.
Right?
He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the quiet tent.
“It doesn’t have to be…” He forced himself to continue, words stumbling where they never had before. “It could just be on paper. If you prefer. Political. Strategic.” He attempted a faint smile. “If you’d rather just be frie—”
The word never finished.
Ingrid surged forward and kissed him.
For a split second, Sylvain’s mind went utterly blank.
He had kissed countless women before. Flirted effortlessly. Leaned into tavern counters and garden alcoves with easy charm. He had even joked, more than once, about teaching Dimitri and Felix how it was done.
None of that prepared him for this.
For the way heat exploded in his chest and coiled low in his abdomen. For the way his hands tightened instinctively at her waist, as if afraid she might vanish if he didn’t anchor her there.
By the Goddess.
He had tried, truly tried, to crush these feelings when they first surfaced years ago. Back when they were still half-grown and reckless and she would scold him for every flirtation. He had told himself it was impossible. That Ingrid would never see him that way. That they would both be married off to strangers regardless, so what was the point in dreaming?
The feelings had not listened.
They had rooted themselves stubbornly in his chest, growing stronger with every shared laugh, every argument, every time she mounted her pegasus and took to the sky with that fierce, unyielding look in her eyes.
He had decided he could live with proximity. With being her closest friend. Her confidant. The man she punched when he deserved it. The one she trusted at her back in battle.
That would be enough.
Because the alternative, the risk of losing her entirely, was unbearable.
So he had grinned and borne it.
Until that night months ago, when she’d read aloud a letter from her father, voice tight with frustration. Another proposal. Another suitor weighing her like livestock, in the middle of a war, no less.
The idea had slipped into his mind then.
‘You could marry her.’
It had been absurd. Selfish. Dangerous. He had shoved it away every time it resurfaced. Ingrid wouldn’t want that.
Ingrid deserved someone better.
‘I can live with not being happy,’ he had told himself. ‘I can’t live with Ingrid being unhappy.’
And now she was kissing him, not politely, not hesitantly.
With decision.
Her arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer as if afraid he might disappear instead. The kiss was warm and desperate and startlingly real.
Sylvain’s breath caught before he finally responded, one hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, the other steady at her waist. The world outside the tent, Enbarr, the war, the looming battle, fell away. When they finally parted, it was only for air.
His forehead rested against hers. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Ingrid…” he breathed, almost disbelieving.
Her cheeks were flushed, eyes still damp but no longer hopeless.
“I don’t want it to be just on paper,” she said softly. “I don’t want to disappear. And I don’t want to be… tolerated.”
Her thumb brushed over his collarbone, grounding.
“If I have to marry,” she continued, voice steadier now, “I want it to be someone who sees me. Who knows me. Who won’t cage me.”
Her gaze locked onto his.
“You.”
The single word hit harder than any lance.
Sylvain exhaled shakily, something in his chest breaking open and mending all at once. A slow, incredulous smile tugged at his mouth, not the practiced smirk, not the careless grin. Something softer.
“You realize,” he murmured, brushing his nose lightly against hers, “if we do this… I’ll never let you take it back.”
“Good,” she whispered.
Outside, the camp remained quiet, unaware.
Tomorrow they would ride into battle.
Tomorrow the world might change.
But inside that small tent, beneath dim lantern light and the faint glow of the Lance of Ruin, two heirs who had been told their lives were not their own had just made a choice.
For once: It was theirs.
Ingrid stayed where she was, folded against him as though she had finally found something solid after drifting too long.
Sylvain could feel the steady rise and fall of her breathing against his chest. The tension that had knotted her shoulders earlier had eased, her weight heavier now, not with despair, but with trust.
They sat like that for a while, saying nothing.
Outside, a night watch shifted posts. Somewhere in the distance, a pegasus gave a soft huff.
Ingrid tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn.
Sylvain huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
“You’re supposed to be commanding a battalion at dawn, you know.”
She made a small, sleepy sound of protest.
“You should probably sleep,” he continued gently. “If we have any hope of surviving tomorrow.”
She nodded against him and did not move. He waited.
“Ingrid?”
She tilted her head just enough to look up at him. In the low light, her blush was unmistakable.
“Can I… stay?” she asked quietly.
Sylvain blinked.
“Stay?” His brain, unfortunately, supplied the worst possible interpretation first. “Uh. I’m not sure now is a good time to...”
She stared at him for half a second before lightly tapping his chest.
“Idiot,” she muttered, though her cheeks deepened in color. “I meant sleep.”
“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish.
“Right. Good. Yes. Sleeping. Very honorable.”
A faint smile curved her lips.
He shifted back onto the cot, laying down properly this time, then hesitated only briefly before pulling her with him. Ingrid settled carefully on top of him, her head tucked beneath his chin, one hand resting over his heart.
It was not elegant. The cot creaked in protest. His arm was already going numb, but he had never been more content. Her breathing began to even out almost immediately, exhaustion finally claiming her now that the storm in her mind had quieted.
After a moment, her fingers tightened faintly in his blanket.
“Don’t die tomorrow,” she murmured, voice small in a way he had never heard before.
Sylvain’s chest tightened. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there.
“I won’t,” he said softly. “If you won’t.”
A quiet agreement. A promise neither of them could truly guarantee but one they would fight like hell to keep.
Outside, Enbarr waited.
The war waited.
But for a few stolen hours in the dark, heir to House Gautier and heir to House Galatea lay tangled together. Not as bargaining pieces or Crest bearers or future political assets.
Just Sylvain.
And Ingrid.
And tomorrow, they would ride.