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Garreg Mach Monastery stood unchanged.
Byleth scanned the ancient architecture, feeling the familiar sweep of nostalgia in her chest. It had been one thousand years since she had lived and taught here, yet if she closed her eyes, she could see it like it was yesterday: wyvern and pegasus patrols sweeping through the air, monks and nuns on various errands, the hum of merchants and their customers in the background. She searched for one of the feral cats or dogs that should still live here, but saw none. Were they simply hiding from the crowd of newcomers, or had they finally been banished from the premises?
Byleth’s lips twisted downward at the thought. There was no telling what new developments the humans had come up with in the space between their visits, but the monastery — the place that had been their home for so long — was like them, seemingly untouched by the passage of time. Its surroundings, however, had changed a great deal. She had sequestered herself in New Nabatea for too long, and now Fódlan’s capitol city was virtually unrecognizable from her last visit.
“Tickets and identification, please,” said a man, approaching their group in a white shirt and red tie.
Byleth and Cichol both looked to Cethleann, who thrust the device in her hand toward him. “I have the tickets on my phone. We four are together.”
The man — the plaque on his chest said his name was ‘Anri’ — raised another device and pointed it at the black and white pattern on Cethleann’s screen. After a few seconds, the color of the light on his device changed and he nodded.
“Identification?”
Cethleann produced the stiff little cards labeled with their aliases and likenesses, handing them over all at once. Anri accepted them, but he squinted suspiciously as he examined each card, looking from each one to their respective owner, although due to their costumes, the group looked nothing like their portraits. Eventually, however, he shook his head and handed them back. “Welcome to Garreg Mach, enjoy your evening.”
Cethleann tucked the cards and her phone back into her bag and turned to Cichol, grinning broadly. “I’m so happy I was able to convince you to come!”
Cichol fidgeted, his hand coming up toward his ear as if to cover it. His eyes regarded the humans around them uneasily. “You are certain this…costume…is convincing?”
Cethleann laughed. “You look great! Stop worrying, you’ll spoil the fun!”
“You wear it very well,” Ferdinand added.
Byleth patted her husband’s arm reassuringly. She shared some of his unease, and it wasn’t just from their Soulbond. She felt worse than naked with her ears out like this, a beacon of her race for all to see. Yet Cethleann had insisted that the humans would not suspect a thing, and Byleth had to trust her stepdaughter’s opinion. She and Ferdinand had been living among the humans for the last ten years.
They were standing in line for a costume party in celebration of St. Macuil Day. While it had once been a holy celebration of “Saint” Macuil, in the modern day this holiday had apparently taken on secular significance. It was now a celebration of magic and the supernatural. According to Cethleann’s explanation, children and adults would dress in costumes, with the children using them to extort sweets from adults, and adults using them to gain admission to themed parties such as this one. Despite having once been the archbishop of the Church of Sothis, this new twist on the holiday didn’t bother Byleth too much. Celebrating a “saint” felt strange when said saint was your brother-in-law, and Macuil himself cared nothing for the holiday.
Byleth shifted in her dress, disliking the way that the high collar of her cape prevented her from being able to see properly from either side. She wore a form-fitting dress with satiny black-red fabric, elbow-length gloves to match, and a long cape with a high, exaggerated collar that distinctly called to mind the “Enlightened One” regalia she once wore. It was accented with a faux-gemstone pendant that nestled in her cleavage. Cethleann had chosen their costumes, and had gone so far as to dye her hair black and apply makeup around her eyes and on her lips. She had even inserted bits of red-tinted film into her eyes to change their color, which Byleth was adjusting to, but still found that they subtly hampered her usual sharp eyesight.
All of this was designed to make her look like a mythological creature called a “vampire,” apparently, and Cichol had a costume of his own. Not for the first time that night, she glanced over at him appreciatively. His costume was similar to hers, with a matching cape and brooch, but he had a dark red brocaded vest, ruffled black shirt and cravat, black trousers, and leather gloves. His hair and beard had also been dyed black, and while it had been startling at first, it wasn’t the worst. Once, when one of their daughters had been practicing magic, his hair had turned cherry red. There was another occasion when he had temporarily turned blond — neither had been flattering. But this look…Byleth certainly liked it better than the other vampires she had seen.
Before taking this outing, Cethleann had insisted on familiarizing her parents with the creatures that they would be resembling. She claimed that it was part of preparing them for interacting with modern humans, but Byleth strongly suspected it had been mostly an excuse to get Cichol to partake in one of Cethleann’s favorite human inventions: movies. Describing them as long, self-reading picture books to her father, she succeeded in convincing them to sit through several such stories. From them, Byleth had gathered that exactly what made a vampire was somewhat loose, but points of agreement were that they were undead humanoid monsters said to be extremely pale, drink human blood, have superhuman strength and senses, and usually possess the ability to transform into bats. This description strongly reminded her strongly of the Agarthans, but due to the pointed ears and teeth, it apparently made an appropriate costume choice for Nabateans.
Byleth caught Cichol gazing at Cethleann, wistful nostalgia radiating through their bond. Nostalgic old man, she thought, smiling. Cethleann and Ferdinand were not dressed as vampires. Instead, they had opted to file their teeth, hide their ears, and dress in costume uniforms extremely similar to how they had looked as students at the Officers Academy. Cethleann was back in her frilly, childish dress decorated with too many bows, and Ferdinand had somehow managed to stuff his long, grass-green waves under an orange wig that was impressively close to his old style, but adjusted to hide the tips of his telltale ears.
At last the line moved, and Byleth stepped into Garreg Mach Monastery’s entrance hall for the first time in a century.
When Byleth served as queen and archbishop, Garreg Mach had served as the base of operations for both the reformed Church and the fledgling nation. The Officers Academy also re-opened, which made the campus crowded to say the least, but Byleth had loathed the thought of a monastery full of nothing but nuns and politicians. Around the time she and Cichol retired, a new structure had been erected to house the royal family and host government functions, and sometime after that, the Officers Academy was retired, eventually finding new life as Fódlan National University. Garreg Mach Monastery was still the headquarters of the Church of Sothis, but the building which housed the entrance hall, dining hall, and offices had become a museum to bring in some revenue.
As they entered, they passed glass case after glass case of artifacts from a bygone era. From the era that Byleth still recognized as home. Little about these displays had actually changed since her last visit, but Byleth still had to repress the urge to reach out and touch the familiar objects. Faded, tattered remains of uniforms and war banners, old textbooks, practice weapons, and suits of armor from the Knights of Seiros were among the items on display. She found herself getting misty-eyed as she recognized Alois’ distinctive armor.
But as her gaze fell upon a collection of replicas of the Heroes’ Relics, the dampness in her eyes dried immediately. They had been expertly constructed to resemble the original weapons, although they lacked the originals’ eerie movement. The informative plaque in front of this display speculated on the absence of the Sword of the Creator’s crest stone, and explained that the real weapons had been “lost to history.” And in a sense, they had been. Although Byleth was fairly certain that at least one transcript of her ordination had survived to the present day, the whereabouts of the Relics had been kept intentionally ambiguous. Of course, this did little to deter the treasure hunters who occasionally found their way to the island of New Nabatea, seeking their legendary power. Turning these people away with magical illusions and lies bothered Byleth and Cichol both, but the potential consequences of the alternative was far worse.
They continued past the displays and into the upper hall, which had apparently been rearranged as an entertainment space. At the head of the room was displayed an enormous painting of Byleth and Cichol in their royal regalia, one of the sadly few of Ignatz Victor’s pieces to survive.
With a practiced air, Cethleann and Ferdinand led them to an open table. “These are menus,” she explained, pointing to a small stack of papers in the center. “Choose what you want to eat, and someone will be by shortly to take your orders.”
“I do know how a restaurant works, Aoife,” said Cichol, using Cethleann’s chosen alias. In this decade, she had decided to take on the name of mother.
“Do you need help reading the menu?” she asked.
Cichol huffed. “I am certain I will be perfectly fine.”
Byleth smiled to herself, amused by Cethleann’s teasing, and scanned the menu. The modern Fódlanese was readable, although some of the spellings seemed to have changed. The options were limited, but seemed to be themed around Garreg Mach Monastery’s traditional recipes, as she recognized Garreg Mach meat pie, bourgeois pike, and pheasant roast with berry sauce from the list. Will they still taste the same? she wondered.
Would she remember well enough to even know the difference?
They placed their orders, and still feeling unease from Cichol, she rubbed her thumb over his hand, which he acknowledged with a small squeeze.
“Some of these costumes look familiar, do they not?” said Ferdinand, waving to the crowd of guests surrounding them.
Byleth followed his gesture, and found a pair of costumes that were very familiar indeed. She nudged Cichol. “Look, it’s us!”
He turned in the direction of her pointed chin and wrinkled his nose. “An exceedingly poor attempt at resembling us,” he corrected.
“It’s not so bad,” said Byleth, tilting her head. Certainly the materials were cheaper, and the faces and builds were all wrong, but there was something flattering about being memorialized in this way.
Cichol folded his arms. “My beard looked far better than that embarrassment. And I never walked with my nose in the air like that.”
Cethleann giggled. “Well, perhaps you should have looked happier in your paintings.”
“I may have been stern at times, but never arrogant.”
Byleth laughed at the genuine offense she felt through their bond. “You could be a little uptight sometimes, love.”
He made a hmph noise, proving her point.
She pecked him on the cheek. “Do try to enjoy this,” she murmured.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“I think I am,” she responded. “This is all very interesting. And it’s nostalgic to be back. Did you notice that the menu items are from the kitchen’s original recipe book? What do you suppose we should order?”
After making their orders, they entertained themselves by taking in the costumes of the other guests, occasionally pointing one out to each other. Although Cethleann had said that the holiday celebrated the supernatural, it seemed that most of the costumes were themed after historical figures in one way or another. There was a Saint Seiros and Emperor Wilhelm, of course (after two thousand years, one would think that story would have fallen out of popularity), a demonic beast, a falcon knight, a gremory and dark bishop, and…
“Is that…Edelgard and Hubert?” asked Ferdinand, looking a little sick.
Byleth looked toward where he was gesturing, and found an extremely evil-looking version of Emperor Edelgard and Hubert von Vestra. She frowned. The costume seemed to be based on some old piece of propaganda that had survived the Emperor’s short reign. Looking at the costumes, Byleth felt a familiar pit in her stomach. To her, Edelgard was more than a warlord who had almost destroyed Fódlan. She was a determined student who had just wanted to make the world a better place, and had made all the wrong decisions in trying to do so.
As her eyes flicked over to Ferdinand, she found a similar sadness echoed in his green eyes. Cethleann rubbed his arm sympathetically, and Cichol sent Byleth a wave of comfort through their bond. He did not understand the residual fondness she still held for her former student, but they had both learned it was best not to try to reason with those feelings.
But she found herself distracted from these thoughts by the sight of someone dressed as Sothis, their costume inspiration evidently having been taken from the fresco in the audience chamber. Although she had never seen Sothis in her adult form, nor truly worshipped her, she had still once been the archbishop of the Church of Sothis, and it made both she and Cichol uncomfortable.
Their food arrived. Byleth had ordered the meat pie, Cichol and Cethleann had ordered the fish, and Ferdinand had ordered the pheasant. Byleth broke through the crust of her pie with her fork and fished a piece of meat out of the gravy, bringing it steaming to her mouth. To her delight, she was met with a familiar savory flavor that sent a wash of nostalgia through her again. Memories of dining with Felix and Sylvain, trying to convince them to get along before realizing that conflict was just how Felix showed affection. Memories of their joint funeral and attending in disguise.
Byleth blinked the wetness out of her eyes. I’m getting as sentimental as Cichol… she chided herself. She turned her attention back to the humans for a distraction.
And find one she did.
“Wow,” she commented, eyebrows rising.
“What are you—” Cichol turned his head to follow her gaze, and then fell silent, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Eventually he found his words. “How dare they—!”
Byleth put a desperate hand over her mouth, shaking violently, unable to swallow the bite of turnip in her mouth. Across the room was a truly impressive sight. At first, she hadn’t understood exactly what she was looking at. She thought it was one of those modern costumes making a cultural reference. Cethleann had mentioned that those types of costumes were popular. But then she saw the wigs and the replicas of the Sword of the Creator and the Spear of Assal…and it all clicked into place.
It was another couple dressed as Queen Byleth and Prince Consort Seteth, but they had definitely taken certain…liberties with the theme. The costume portrayed Byleth in her Enlightened One cape and regalia, although with extremely revealing undergarments instead of Byleth’s true clothing, enormous high-heeled sandals that looked extremely uncomfortable to move and walk in, hair the wrong length, and far too much makeup.
But that wasn’t what had her shoulders shaking uncontrollably. This interpretation of her wartime attire was interesting, but their interpretation of Cichol’s preferred uniform from the time was far more creative. The man of the pair was excessively muscular, which only accentuated the sleeveless, mesh version of Cichol’s old blue cassock that he wore. The top split into a pair of shorts ended just past the buttock, and an image of his ornamental belt knife was conveniently placed over a suspiciously large bulge at the crotch. Most of the otherwise-bare legs were covered with thigh-high black leather boots, and there was what appeared to be a wyvern tattoo wrapped around one of his arms.
Byleth couldn’t breathe, she was laughing so hard. She could feel tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes.
“Good goddess…” Ferdinand muttered to himself.
“Is this how they see us now?” asked Cichol faintly, looking pale. “We save Fódlan from the grasp of a madwoman, and this is how we are represented?”
Cethleann didn’t answer, apparently also having a difficult time speaking.
“A thousand years is a very long time in the human memory,” Byleth said as soothingly as she could, while fighting to get her spasming diaphragm under control. She took a long sip of her wine, which helped somewhat.
“This was indeed a mistake,” Cichol insisted.
“Perhaps this is only proof that we must make the effort to check in with the humans more regularly.” Byleth made a mental note to talk to Luachmhar more frequently about recent developments in Fódlan. They had progressed impressively – frighteningly – fast in the last hundred years. Their youngest was currently disguised to serve as the archbishop of the Church of Sothis and advisor to the current queen. She was just as familiar with the human world as Cethleann, if not more, for the necessity of her position.
“I need you to give me three reasons why I should not drag both of them out of this room for a lecture on modesty and showing proper respect for the dead,” Cichol ground out.
Byleth chuckled. “Well, first, we are in their world right now, not they in ours,” she began, then trailed off. Oh, goddess… The strangely-dressed couple was walking toward them.
Cichol stiffened.
“Sorry to barge in, but we just had to come over and tell you how much we love your costumes!” the woman said in a bright, warm voice. “You are absolutely killing the vampire look. If this wasn’t a costume party, I might we worried for my life!” She laughed. “But seriously, your teeth and ears look so realistic! Where did you get them?”
Byleth made eye contact with Cethleann. What had she told her to say if this topic came up? Oh, right. “They’re just prosthetics, can’t remember where from.”
The woman wilted slightly. “Bummer! I’m always looking for good costume pieces.”
“Your costumes are also quite unique,” said Byleth, putting her diplomacy skills to use. “Did you make them yourselves?”
She laughed again, the motion causing her breasts to heave dangerously in their harness. “Hardly!” She dropped her voice confidingly. “Just a couple of Kandy.com outfits with a few tweaks, you know how it is. We don’t really have the time for all that work…”
Byleth nodded as if she understood. When the woman didn’t fill the silence, Byleth chose something hopefully safer. “What are your names?”
“Oh, where are our manners? Got too excited again!” She gestured between them. “I’m Katerina—”
“And I’m Dryas!” the man finished with a gesture. Was he trying to flex, or was he just that muscular?
“A pleasure to meet you,” Byleth responded. Beside her, she heard Cichol choke out a pained, “Indeed…”
“Our names are Ismaire and Frederick,” Byleth continued, using their faux names for the evening. She gestured to Cethleann and Ferdinand. “And this is Aoife and Cornelius.” She hadn’t seen someone so large since Raphael. It had been a thousand years, but she couldn’t help but wonder… Could they be related? She narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to compare Dryas’ face to her memory of Raphael’s rough-cut features.
“Is this your first Garreg Mach St. Macuil Ball?” asked Dryas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before — and we make a point of coming every year!”
“This is our first time,” said Cethleann. “But we’ve been dying to come for ages!”
“Oh, you’re in for such a treat,” Katerina gushed, flipping her hand and almost spilling her drink. “The music, the dancing…and of course, this location is just unbeatable. Plus they have a costume contest every year – I’m definitely casting my vote for you! So classy.”
“How generous of you,” said Cichol dryly.
“You deserve it!” returned Dryas.
The music changed, and Dryas straightened. “I love this song!” He grabbed Katerina, and they immediately made for the dance floor as Katerina called out, “It was lovely meeting you two!”
As soon as they were out of earshot, Cichol sighed in relief, visibly deflating as his attention drifted back to his food. “I believe the last time I was that uncomfortable, I was cornered by a drunken and extremely amorous Manuela.”
Byleth smiled fondly at the mention of her old friend as she finished her meat pie. The portions here were smaller than she would have preferred — the Garreg Mach kitchen of her day had been more generous. “She would have found this situation extremely funny. She probably would have loved something like this…”
“I have similar thoughts often,” said Ferdinand. “One would think that would not be so after so many years, and yet I still think of our friends almost daily.”
“As do I,” said Cethleann.
“It causes me to feel…guilty.” Ferdinand lowered his voice. “Why should I remain, when they have passed on?”
Cethleann frowned, but Cichol nodded knowingly.
“How do you think they’d react if they knew the truth? That the people represented in these statues and paintings are actually here among them?” mused Byleth. “We probably could have come as ourselves and everyone would have thought it a costume.”
“I do believe that would cause some chaos,” said Cethleann. “They have changed in many ways, but I do not think that is one of them.”
“Based on what I have been able to observe tonight, I do not think anyone would actually recognize us,” said Cichol.
“Certainly not,” agreed Cethleann, feeding Ferdinand a bit of her fish. Byleth received a prick of nausea from Cichol, and her mouth twitched upward.
They did have to be careful when they went into the world of the humans, though. In order to prevent another threat like the Agarthans, she made the difficult decision to keep the Nabatean people a secret. It was why she and Cichol had created an island for the restoration of New Nabatea, a land that could not be found on any map. But protecting her people and their secret was becoming more and more difficult in an age when people could take portraits and send them across the continent instantly. Yet she had seen firsthand how lust for Nabatean blood and parts could possess mankind.
“I am still just so pleased at the way your costumes turned out!” Cethleann gushed. “I told you it was a perfect idea, did I not?”
“You were indeed correct, as usual,” said Cichol fondly. “I appreciate your choice of costumes as well.”
“It turned out well, didn’t it?” Cethleann preened. “That was Ferdie’s idea.”
“Seeing you like this again, I’m reminded of how well your disguise worked,” said Byleth. “I thought you were younger than Cyril when I first saw you.”
“I certainly did not think her quite that young,” objected Ferdinand. “She always had a certain maturity, even from the beginning. At first I did not know why.”
“I’ve never been a good judge of age,” confessed Byleth. “But Ceth—Aoife’s apparent youth compared to Frederick’s alleged age was suspicious to me from the beginning.”
“You said you had no idea,” said Cichol, visibly affronted.
“I said what you wanted to hear,” replied Byleth soothingly. She brought a hand up to stroke his beard, which had also been dyed black for the occasion. “Had you gone clean-shaven, perhaps your story would have been believable.”
“Everyone else bought the story just fine,” he huffed.
“Among the nobility of the time, it was not uncommon for there to be wide age gaps between children,” said Ferdinand. “Given the differences in their appearances, it was my thought that perhaps Aoife and Frederick had different mothers.”
A familiar tune began to play, the change from the more modern sounds getting Byleth’s attention. It was an upbeat waltz. It got Cichol’s attention too, and when she looked at him, there was a small smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, Ferdinand!” gasped Cethleann. Byleth huffed a laugh at her slip. A thousand years had not changed the fact that she was terrible with secrets.
“Say no more, my angel.” Ferdinand stood up and offered a hand, which Cethleann took happily. Byleth watched them walk toward the dance floor.
“Would you honor me with a dance, my queen?”
Byleth raised her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn’t thought Cichol would be in the mood for dancing. “Always,” she replied. He stood and offered an elbow, and she hooked a hand inside to rest on his bicep, placing the other hand nearby.
He escorted her to the dance floor, and they fell into a waltz. Byleth’s tight-fitting dress restricted her from moving as freely as she would like, but upon noticing her shortened stride, Cichol accommodatingly shortened his as well.
“You were so busy giggling earlier, I never did hear your opinion on that man’s costume,” he eventually said.
“Why, are you worried I’m going to ask Aoife to bring one home for you?” Byleth teased.
He cleared his throat. “I beg of you, please refrain. There are many things I would happily do for you, and many other things I would do less happily. But that…”
Byleth chuckled. “Don’t worry, love, I prefer the real deal. I rather appreciated your cassock as it was.” She stroked a finger down his arm. “Prefer it, actually…” She locked eyes with him suggestively. “The better question is — should I get that woman’s costume for myself?”
“Cheap human novelties are unworthy of gracing your divinity,” he responded smoothly, deftly evading her bait.
Byleth raised an eyebrow. Cichol maintained a steady gaze, drawing her in the way only his eyes could do. His thumb stroked her waist, and she warmed.
“…As is this ‘party,’” he continued. “Now that we have viewed the museum, eaten, and finally danced, shall we call it a night?”
Byleth’s mouth twisted. As foreign and uncomfortable as this setting was, it was new, and she wasn’t about to give it up so readily. “So soon?”
“Is there more you wish to do?”
“The night is still young, and there’s plenty of museum left to see. Don’t you want to visit your old office?”
Cichol softened at the mention of his old den. There were many memories held in that place.
Byleth continued, using nostalgia to her advantage. “Dancing like this reminds me of the parties we used to attend. Do you remember the first time we danced?”
The hint of a smile finally bloomed, reaching his eyes as the memory came back to him. “I could never forget. It was your coronation.”
Byleth bobbed her head. “I barely had any time with you at all. There was so much politicking to be done and people to please… At least I more or less have you all to myself this time.”
Cichol guided her in a new direction with a gentle press of the hand. “It seemed those parties were always more work than leisure.”
“I miss our days of retirement on the Rhodos Coast…” she sighed.
“As do I.”
Byleth pushed into him playfully. “What, you? The man almost more married to work than to his own wife?”
Affront ran through their bond. “How can you say such a thing? You wound me.”
“It’s a joke, love.”
“All jokes have a hint of truth at their core.”
Byleth pressed into him as much as the dance would allow. “I would like to have more time with you like this…away from responsibility, just the two of us…”
“I believe there are more than just two of us here.”
“Strangers don’t count.”
He chuckled, a rumble rolling through his chest. He pulled her closer. “I see your point. As silly as they are…I must confess. These costumes are somewhat…liberating.”
“You look good as a vampire,” said Byleth, reaching up with her free hand to trace his exposed ear. Predictably, he shuddered at the touch. She lowered her voice. “Have you noticed the similarities between Nabateans and vampires? It’s uncanny.”
Cichol choked. “Hardly.”
Byleth cocked her head thoughtfully. “Well, maybe aside from the drinking blood bit,” she added. “I wonder how they entered the human mythos.”
Cichol looked away with the exact expression that he always used when he was on the cusp of saying something, but was holding himself back.
“You know something?” she prodded.
“I may have…” He coughed. “…been something of an…influence in that regard.”
She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
Cichol’s eyes darted around before lowering his voice. “Around the time of the War of Heroes, the few remaining Nabateans had already gone into hiding. But there were still stories of our existence, and considering how dangerous it was at the time, given the humans’ lust for their new abominations, it became necessary to create confusing propaganda. I took on this task, creating stories of human-like creatures with pointed teeth and ears, but their hair was black instead of green, with red eyes; rather than giving blood, they drained it from humans; rather than transforming into dragons, they transformed into bats.”
“Clever…” Byleth said. “Tell me more about these books of yours. I thought I’d read everything of yours, but apparently not.”
His grip tightened. “That was intentional on my part. Some of them were…somewhat graphic. I utilized the technique of florid imagery and carnal scenarios to capture the imagination and create a compelling distraction.”
Byleth grinned. “If that was intended to dissuade me, you just failed miserably.”
“They were hardly my finest works,” he said firmly. “Fortunately, while my propaganda was successful in affecting human lore, it is highly unlikely than any of them have survived to the current day.”
“And thus we have the ‘movies’ that Aoife showed us,” Byleth said.
Cichol snorted. While they had been interesting to Byleth, he had not enjoyed them. The Twilight Saga in particular had been extensively subjected to his critique. “Those are hardly accurate to my interpretation of the creatures.”
“Perhaps we should watch some more movies, then.”
Cichol’s gaze darkened, and he lowered his mouth to her ear, tickled by his short beard. “Or we could spare ourselves the mediocre storytelling, and I could simply show you.”
Byleth’s chest constricted. “Oh?” she teased, trying to play off the immediate reaction they could both feel. “Could the old man show me what a real vampire is supposed to be like?”
Cichol’s lips turned up and he brought her wrist up to his lips. “Well, they would seek out pulse points, where the blood flowed strongest.”
Byleth drew in a breath.
He released and placed his lips on her exposed neck, tantalizing her skin. “Or perhaps…would you prefer that I do it as demonstrated by the movies?”
“Love…may I remind you that we are in public?” squeaked Byleth.
Cichol smirked, victory glinting in his eyes. “Are you certain you want to stay?”
“…Perhaps we should cut our evening short,” she admitted.
He drew back. “I wonder if the goddess tower is accessible.”
Byleth’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps I would,” he said. “You wanted to reminisce, did you not? I doubt there will be flier patrols.” He grinned, and Byleth felt her resolve completely disintegrate.
“They probably have some kind of technological replacement…” she halfheartedly objected, even as they drifted off the dance floor.
“It would hardly be the first time we have found ourselves in such a situation. It has been some time since I have faced a worthy challenge.”
Byleth giggled, glancing backward to see Cethleann and Ferdinand still on the dance floor. They wouldn’t be too concerned about where she and Cichol disappeared to. And if she knew Cethleann, they would likely do some sneaking around of their own tonight.
This new way of celebrating St. Macuil Day was fun.