Altered Emblem Ch. 20

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine as Byleth led the way down the winding mountain path, the weight of the Lance of Ruin strapped to her back a constant, uncomfortable presence. Behind her, the students moved in uneasy silence, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of fallen needles. Sylvain had barely spoken since they’d left Conand Tower, his usual smirk replaced by a hollow stare fixed on the road ahead.

Byleth didn’t need Sothis to tell her that something was simmering beneath the surface.

She had seen the way her students had always regarded the Archer, like a wolf walking among sheep. He had traveled with them since the mission began, appearing without explanation, slipping into their ranks as if he belonged there. None of them knew why he had come. None of them trusted him.

And now, after what they had witnessed in that tower, their wariness had curdled into outright suspicion.

Felix’s fingers twitched near the hilt of his sword every time the Archer drifted too close. Ashe kept his distance, his usual friendliness replaced by wary glances. Even Annette, who tried so hard to lighten the mood, had given up on cheerful chatter, her voice faltering whenever the Archer’s shadow passed over their group.

Only Dimitri maintained a veneer of diplomacy, but even his politeness was strained, his grip on his lance just a little too tight.

And then there was Sylvain.

Byleth felt it in the air. The tension coiling tighter with every step. The Archer lingered at the rear of the group, his usual sardonic quips absent, his presence a silent weight pressing down on them all.

Then, without warning, Sylvain stopped walking.

The group halted, turning to look at him. His shoulders were rigid, his fingers flexing at his sides like he was resisting the urge to clench them into fists. When he spoke, his voice was low, controlled—but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.

“You.”

Byleth followed his gaze.

She was not surprised when it landed on the Archer.

The man in question didn’t react at first, his golden eyes half-lidded as if he had been expecting this. He leaned against a gnarled pine, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed. But Byleth had seen him fight. She knew how quickly that laziness could sharpen into lethal precision.

“What did you do to Miklan?” Sylvain demanded.

The Archer exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if working out a kink, “Killed him.” A pause, “Or did you miss that part?”

Sylvain’s jaw tightened, “That’s not what I meant.”

The air between them crackled, charged like the moment before a thunderclap. Byleth’s hand drifted toward the hilt of her sword, though she didn’t draw it. Not yet.

The Archer tilted his head, considering Sylvain with the detached curiosity of a scholar examining a specimen, “You want the technical answer?” His voice was light, almost mocking, “I compressed a concept into a bullet and shot him with it. Simple as that.”

“A concept?” Ingrid cut in, her brow furrowed, “What in the Goddess’s name does that even mean?”

The Archer ignored her, his gaze still locked on Sylvain, “Your brother was already dead the moment that Crest stone fused with him. All I did was speed up the process.”

Sylvain’s breath hitched, just slightly, “He was talking.”

“And then he wasn’t.” The Archer shrugged, “That’s how death works.”

Something in Sylvain snapped.

He lunged.

Byleth moved on instinct, stepping between them before Sylvain could close the distance. Her hand pressed against his chest, stopping him mid-stride. His pulse hammered beneath her palm, his breathing ragged.

“Sylvain.” She said, quiet but firm.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might shove past her. Then his shoulders slumped, and he took a step back, running a hand through his hair with a bitter laugh.

“Right. Right.” His voice was raw, “Wouldn’t want to piss off our mysterious ally.” He shot the Archer a glare, “Even if he won’t tell us why he was really there. Even if he knew exactly how to put Miklan down.”

The accusation hung in the air, thick and suffocating.

Dimitri’s grip on his lance tightened. Felix’s scowl deepened. Annette bit her lip, her eyes darting between them.

And the Archer?

He just smiled - a slow, knowing thing that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You think I turned him into that?” He chuckled, low and humorless, “If I wanted him dead, I wouldn’t have needed a Crest stone to do it.”

Sylvain’s fists clenched, “Then why were you there?”

The Archer pushed off the tree, his golden eyes glinting in the dappled sunlight, “Hunting.”

“Hunting what?” Felix snapped.

This time, the Archer’s smile was razor-thin, “Things like Miklan.”

They didn’t ask him anything after that.

…

The grand doors of the audience chamber closed behind Byleth with a resonant thud, sealing her inside the cavernous hall. The sound echoed through the vast space like the sealing of a tomb, heavy with finality. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting prismatic patterns across the marble floor, fragments of crimson, sapphire, and gold that shifted with the passing clouds outside. The air smelled of incense and old parchment, the scent of the Church's eternal vigil.

At the far end of the room, seated upon her ornate throne, Rhea waited with the serene composure of a statue. Her hands rested lightly on the armrests, her emerald-green robes pooling around her like water frozen in time. She was the picture of divine grace, but Byleth had fought beside her, had seen the steel beneath the silk.

"Professor." Rhea greeted, her voice as warm as ever, though her emerald eyes held an intensity that made Byleth's spine straighten instinctively. There was something beneath that calm tone, something expectant, "I trust your mission was successful?"

Everything about Rhea’s tone made it absolutely certain that the one  Byleth was meeting had absolute authority. Never before had Byleth seen that to this effect, however. It was almost certain that the Archbishop already knew what Byleth had to say.

Byleth gave a curt nod. "Miklan has been dealt with. The Lance of Ruin has been recovered."

Rhea's lips curled into a beatific smile, the kind reserved for the faithful in stained glass depictions of the Goddess. "The Goddess smiles upon your efforts." She gestured with one slender hand, the motion fluid, practiced, "Please, tell me everything."

So Byleth did.

As she did, Byleth could almost see the impatience in Rhea’s eyes. It was amusing to see, in a way. Both of them were under no pretense as to what Rhea wanted to hear about, but for the sake of appearances, neither of them deviated from the ‘script’ they had. It was only as Byleth got to the near end that the Archbishop started to pay more attention.

Much as she wanted to forget about Miklan’s transformation, Byleth knew she couldn’t. She had seen a lot in her time with Jeralt, but none of that compared to watching the black mud swallow and transform the elder Gautier.

She described the Black Beast in clipped, precise terms, its monstrous strength, the way its wounds sealed almost instantly, the suffocating aura of malice that had pressed down on them like a physical weight. And finally, how the Archer had been the one to put it down, with a method none of them truly understood.

At the mention of Miklan's fate, Rhea's fingers tensed imperceptibly against the arms of her throne. The wood creaked faintly under her grip.

"I see." She murmured, her voice still soft, but now carrying an undercurrent of something sharper. A blade hidden beneath velvet. "Such a tragedy, that a man would succumb so completely to the corruption of a Crest stone." She sighed, shaking her head, the picture of mournful wisdom, "However..."

Here, she paused. The silence stretched, deliberate.

"...It would be... unwise for this incident to become common knowledge."

Byleth blinked, "Unwise?"

Rhea's gaze sharpened, her pupils contracting slightly, like a cat's before it pounces, "The people already fear the power of Crests." She said, her voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial, "The nobility wield them as proof of their divine right to rule. The common folk resent them for the same reason. If word were to spread that a Crest stone could twist a man into such a creature…"

She let the implication hang.

Byleth understood. The Church's teachings painted Crests as blessings, gifts from the Goddess to guide humanity. But Miklan's fate suggested something else—something darker. If that truth spread, it wouldn't just shake faith in the nobility. It would shake faith in the Church itself.

Rhea leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping further, "Imagine, Professor, if the masses learned that the very power that elevates their lords could also unmake them. That the relics housed in their cathedrals are not just weapons, but curses." Her fingers curled, "There would be panic. Riots, perhaps. The Empire would seize upon such weakness, and the Kingdom…well." A flicker of something unreadable passed over her face, "The Kingdom has enough instability as it is."

Byleth held her gaze, weighing the implications. Political, she realized. The Church maintained its influence by controlling knowledge. By presenting Crests as divine blessings rather than potential curses. Miklan's fate threatened that narrative. Threatened her.

"...I understand," Byleth said at last.

Rhea's smile returned, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I knew you would." She settled back into her throne, the tension in her shoulders easing, just slightly, "And your students? They witnessed this transformation as well?"

"Yes."

"Then you will ensure they grasp the sensitivity of this situation." Again, that subtle pressure. Not a request. A command. "For their own safety, of course."

Byleth gave another nod, though unease coiled in her gut. Keeping this from the other houses was one thing, but asking her students to bury what they'd seen... Sylvain, especially, would not take it well. He had watched his brother die. He deserved the truth.

But Rhea's expression made it clear: the truth was not hers to give.

Rhea relaxed back into her throne, satisfied. "Now, regarding the Lance of Ruin." Her tone shifted, smoothing into something more administrative. "It must be returned to House Gautier at once. I will arrange for an escort—"

"I'll leave that decision to Sylvain."

The words left Byleth's mouth before she could reconsider.

Rhea's smile froze.

"...Pardon?"

Byleth met her gaze evenly. "Sylvain is the heir. The Lance belongs to his family. He should decide what's done with it."

For a moment, the air between them grew heavy. The incense smoke seemed to thicken, curling around them like a serpent. Rhea's fingers twitched, her serene mask slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of irritation.

"Professor," she began, her voice still gentle but now edged with steel, "the Relics are sacred artifacts, not mere heirlooms. Their stewardship is a matter for the Church to oversee."

"And House Gautier has guarded the Lance for generations," Byleth countered. "Sylvain deserves a say in its fate."

Rhea studied her, the weight of her gaze like a physical pressure. Byleth could almost see the calculations unfolding behind those emerald eyes, how much to push, how much to concede. Then, slowly, she exhaled.

"...Very well." She conceded, though her tone made it clear this was anything but approval, "If you believe that is best."

Byleth inclined her head, "Thank you."

Rhea waved a dismissive hand, her smile returning, polite, practiced, and utterly hollow, "You are dismissed, Professor. I trust you will see to your students."

Byleth turned to leave, the Lance of Ruin heavy on her back, its weight more than just physical.

Just as the doors began to close behind her, she glanced back-

-and caught the exact moment Rhea's serene expression darkened into a frown.

“Trouble.” Sothis murmured in her mind.

Byleth didn't disagree.

The Archbishop's patience had its limits, and she had just nudged against them.

But, resolving that would be a task for another day. Right now, she had her eyes on one final problem. The Archer. Where her students had become understandably cowed by the Archer’s words, none of them were her, and none of them had an inkling as to how far the Archer truly knew about Miklan’s transformation.

In short, none of them were her. And she’d be getting her answers one way or the other, that much she swore.

...

Commissioned by: FireRogueWolf25